Stuff I Love Not So Much
Following on from yesterday’s entry about chemists and nursery rhymes and Welsh people, today I will offer my list of things that drive me crazy-go-nuts about living here.
Once again, the obvious is almost too easy: the weather, the fact that English people moan all the time, the fact that London is so freaking expensive. I’ll take all that as read, although I don’t find the weather to be THAT bad, you know, and some English people are refreshingly unmoany, and London is okay once you’re earning pounds, but none of that is news to any of you.
Here is what’s left:
1. Dirt and Filth
I am unsure why, if I’m trying to avoid London clichés here, I’m choosing to include a mention of the dirt and not the weather. I suspect it is because rain bothers me less than black snot.
Apologies for being so (uncharacteristically) unladylike, but it freaks me out every time I blow my nose. Never in my young life have I had even the slightest hint of germaphobia: seriously, you don’t want to know where my hands have been. In London, neither do I.
Every time I hold a rail on the Tube I wonder at the filth of a million sweaty palms that is oozing onto my skin.
In some ways, I’m being unfair. There are few rubbish bins here, thanks to the both historical and current frolics of those pesky terrorist types. Most councils employ street sweepers – once I even saw a guy trying in vain to sandblast decades-old chewing gum from the footpaths. Try as they might, this remains a pretty dirty place.
2. Bad coffee
As I have complained elsewhere, it is far too difficult to get a decent coffee in this town.
There are approximately one million different coffee chains operating in the city, and their homogenous facades litter every street corner. They smell good, as coffee shops tend to do, but are hideously overpriced and the quality is almost universally disappointing.
I’m not after anything fancy: no flavourings or toppings, no fancy Christmas promotional drinks. All I want is a strong, hot latte* that tastes as good as the shop smells. I cannot see that this is too much to ask.
I know that I should abandon my morning fix in protest, however so far I have been unable to do so. I have taken to paying an extra 35p to have an additional shot of espresso, just so that it tastes of something. Grr.
* What I actually want is a flat white, but alas, they are not to be found in these parts.
3. WHOWTAHs
I hesitate to write about this, because there’s no way of expressing it without sounding like an arrogant snob. It’s inescapable, however, and so here I go: one of the worst things about living in London is other Australians.
I’m not ashamed of my country. Quite the opposite, in fact. However, there is a certain type of Strine in London that makes me want to flee in terror every time I hear their strident twang on the Tube. You know, those for whom Steve Irwin is a patron saint.
I’m sure they’re nice people. RVW and I have christened them WHOWTAHs, on the basis that we wouldn’t hang out with them at home, so why should we here?
I’m a terrible person, I know. However, I cannot help but shudder every time I stroll past a Walkabout pub. The fact that I’m probably going to have to attend one to watch the Test this weekend is an indication of the magnitude of my commitment to cricket. I’m bracing myself.
4. 1p and 2p pieces.
If I had to pick a single indicator of how the UK is not, in fact, superior to we colonial types (despite what they might think), it is currency. As much as I love the pound, I hate the penny with a fierce and unbridled passion.
There is no need for copper coins.
No good or service needs to be priced any more precisely than in multiples of 5. I have a tendency to overfill the straining, cracking leather of my wallet anyway, the last thing I need is 362kg of useless copper to carry around as well.
Drives me crazy.
5. Plugged-In Buskers
I quite like buskers, normally, enjoying the cheerful soundtrack as I saunter down a busy street. Covent Garden, in particular, is a delightfully buzz-inducing maelstrom of street entertainment that I love to wander about and soak up whenever I get the chance.
Of course, it would seem that the buskers provide an ideal opportunity to rid myself of those copper coins I profess to hate so much. However. There are a specific group of buskers in this city that have become the bane of my existence.
The Tube, you see, is made up of a series of tunnels. Hence the name, you see. There are tunnels for the trains and tunnels for the people to flood through in surly clumps on a weekday morning. The tunnels are made of concrete, a highly amplifying acoustic material.
Buskers in the Tube tunnels are allowed to have amplifiers. They are plugged in. They are LOUD. As the sound bounces off the concrete walls it makes my ears bleed. It makes me MAD.
The musical merit is not even an issue: I care not if this is the greatest version of the Four Seasons on kazoo I will ever hear, or if this boy’s novel interpretation of Deep Purple is of enduring artistic significance. I don’t care. There is no need for it to be so loud.
The busking spots are sponsored by a local beer, which I refuse to drink on principle.
And that's about enough ranting for today.
Once again, the obvious is almost too easy: the weather, the fact that English people moan all the time, the fact that London is so freaking expensive. I’ll take all that as read, although I don’t find the weather to be THAT bad, you know, and some English people are refreshingly unmoany, and London is okay once you’re earning pounds, but none of that is news to any of you.
Here is what’s left:
1. Dirt and Filth
I am unsure why, if I’m trying to avoid London clichés here, I’m choosing to include a mention of the dirt and not the weather. I suspect it is because rain bothers me less than black snot.
Apologies for being so (uncharacteristically) unladylike, but it freaks me out every time I blow my nose. Never in my young life have I had even the slightest hint of germaphobia: seriously, you don’t want to know where my hands have been. In London, neither do I.
Every time I hold a rail on the Tube I wonder at the filth of a million sweaty palms that is oozing onto my skin.
In some ways, I’m being unfair. There are few rubbish bins here, thanks to the both historical and current frolics of those pesky terrorist types. Most councils employ street sweepers – once I even saw a guy trying in vain to sandblast decades-old chewing gum from the footpaths. Try as they might, this remains a pretty dirty place.
2. Bad coffee
As I have complained elsewhere, it is far too difficult to get a decent coffee in this town.
There are approximately one million different coffee chains operating in the city, and their homogenous facades litter every street corner. They smell good, as coffee shops tend to do, but are hideously overpriced and the quality is almost universally disappointing.
I’m not after anything fancy: no flavourings or toppings, no fancy Christmas promotional drinks. All I want is a strong, hot latte* that tastes as good as the shop smells. I cannot see that this is too much to ask.
I know that I should abandon my morning fix in protest, however so far I have been unable to do so. I have taken to paying an extra 35p to have an additional shot of espresso, just so that it tastes of something. Grr.
* What I actually want is a flat white, but alas, they are not to be found in these parts.
3. WHOWTAHs
I hesitate to write about this, because there’s no way of expressing it without sounding like an arrogant snob. It’s inescapable, however, and so here I go: one of the worst things about living in London is other Australians.
I’m not ashamed of my country. Quite the opposite, in fact. However, there is a certain type of Strine in London that makes me want to flee in terror every time I hear their strident twang on the Tube. You know, those for whom Steve Irwin is a patron saint.
I’m sure they’re nice people. RVW and I have christened them WHOWTAHs, on the basis that we wouldn’t hang out with them at home, so why should we here?
I’m a terrible person, I know. However, I cannot help but shudder every time I stroll past a Walkabout pub. The fact that I’m probably going to have to attend one to watch the Test this weekend is an indication of the magnitude of my commitment to cricket. I’m bracing myself.
4. 1p and 2p pieces.
If I had to pick a single indicator of how the UK is not, in fact, superior to we colonial types (despite what they might think), it is currency. As much as I love the pound, I hate the penny with a fierce and unbridled passion.
There is no need for copper coins.
No good or service needs to be priced any more precisely than in multiples of 5. I have a tendency to overfill the straining, cracking leather of my wallet anyway, the last thing I need is 362kg of useless copper to carry around as well.
Drives me crazy.
5. Plugged-In Buskers
I quite like buskers, normally, enjoying the cheerful soundtrack as I saunter down a busy street. Covent Garden, in particular, is a delightfully buzz-inducing maelstrom of street entertainment that I love to wander about and soak up whenever I get the chance.
Of course, it would seem that the buskers provide an ideal opportunity to rid myself of those copper coins I profess to hate so much. However. There are a specific group of buskers in this city that have become the bane of my existence.
The Tube, you see, is made up of a series of tunnels. Hence the name, you see. There are tunnels for the trains and tunnels for the people to flood through in surly clumps on a weekday morning. The tunnels are made of concrete, a highly amplifying acoustic material.
Buskers in the Tube tunnels are allowed to have amplifiers. They are plugged in. They are LOUD. As the sound bounces off the concrete walls it makes my ears bleed. It makes me MAD.
The musical merit is not even an issue: I care not if this is the greatest version of the Four Seasons on kazoo I will ever hear, or if this boy’s novel interpretation of Deep Purple is of enduring artistic significance. I don’t care. There is no need for it to be so loud.
The busking spots are sponsored by a local beer, which I refuse to drink on principle.
And that's about enough ranting for today.
posted by jLo at 10:41 PM
2 Comments:
If you don't pick up your game, jLo, I might vote with my feet and stop reading your hole-riddled blog.
Heh, sorry Ed. I realise that the fact that I've now come back and finished that post probably breaches some sacred law of blogging of which I am blissfully unaware.
I think it'll be a good thing for everyone when November is over, just quietly.
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