...still in London

6/20/09

Just got back from our walking tour, and I still can’t believe we’ve only been here for four days. It reminds me of summer camp, when everything seems so long and short at the same time. Except this time there’s a lot more alcohol and British people, and the kids aren’t emo, they’re scene.

I had no idea that our apartment is right next to where Winston Churchill, the original baller, used to live. We walked a couple more feet and ended up at Prince Albert Music Hall, with a ton of monuments dedicated to him and the Music School right in front of us. I felt like a complete idiot because the place was right around the corner, and somehow I missed a few huge monuments and buildings. Our adorable tour guide began to tell us how besotted Victoria and Albert were with one another, and how he supported her in all her affairs and was a driving force behind the monarchy. I just remembered he was the guy who got his dong pierced. I mentioned this and was shh’ed by a group member. We then walked across the street to the gardens and our tour guide told us how the story of Peter Pan was originally not a happy one. J.M Barrie’s older brother drowned at the age of eight, and he spent most of his childhood dressing up in his brother’s clothes and acting like him in order to make his mother happy again. His mother took comfort in the fact that her dead son would remain a boy forever, and she never tried to stop Barrie’s charade. This may have helped lead to Barrie’s asexuality, and never truly becoming a normal adult. He met the “Lost Boys” in Kensington Gardens, and was friends with their parents. He ended up unofficially adopting them after their parents died in quick succession right after one another, leaving them orphans. I don’t want to make any assumptions about Barrie’s parenting, but two of the boys ending up committing suicide. However, the youngest child denies that he and his brothers were ever sexually abused, and that Barrie was a very innocent and child-like man. Barrie married Mary Ansell whom played Wendy in the first production of Peter Pan, and many believe that she was deceived and only married him because she was thought he was on his deathbed. Today she would have such labels as “gold digger” and “gold-digging ho.” They had a sexless, childless marriage and Ansell ended up having an affair with Gilbert Canaan. Barrie ordered her to stop the affair but she refused, because she was not an idiot. They divorced, and Barrie continued to be weird and Ansell continued to get laid. I consider J.M Barrie the literary Michael Jackson of the 19th century.
Earlier that day, we took a bus tour of London and saw the big attractions such as the London eye, the Tower of London, The river Thames, Big Ben, and random statues of Nelson Mandela and Abraham Lincoln. Our tour guide explained to us how the decapitated bodies of well over a thousand nobles and commoners were found buried in the churchyard by the tower, and their heads were stuck on spikes so everyone else would know not to fuck around with the monarchy. Apparently beheading was one of the more humane means of execution, because the English were a sick and twisted people who enjoyed football. We also learned that Big Ben is not the name of the clock, but actually the bell that rings inside the tower. Having been to London twice before, I realized I should have known this by now, and that my memory along with my sanity is going to shit. There were a lot of monuments of the Duke of Wellington, who kicked Napoleon’s ass at Waterloo. Apparently when you tour the Duke’s house there is a naked statue of Napoleon on display. There is also a naked statue of the Duke in the middle of the park. I can’t blame the Brits; there was no internet and no guyswithiphones.com. They had to do something to spice up their bleak and shallow existence. Clearly the highlight of the tour was seeing a group of men dressed as Ghostbusters, casually walking down the street.

Two nights ago we ended up going to a pub called the Gloucester Arms. The food wasn’t too pricey, and I ended up splitting fish and chips. It was quite good, but it tasted like fish and chips I could have gotten in the states. But then again, what was I expecting? It to be delivered in a twist of newspaper and by someone in a newsboy cap? The beer was kind of expensive, and we ended up splitting a pitcher of what we thought was going to be Bacardi and pineapple but after three glasses I realized there was nothing in there, and then I was told they put one shot in it. Limey Bastards. It’s strange because no one tips the bartenders here, and the waitresses only get a 10% tip. It’s because everything is pre-measured and tipping will get you nowhere, metaphorically and literally. We left and walked a block to a hookah bar, but the drinks were astronomical so after the belly dancer shook her tits at us a couple of times we left and went back to the pub until it closed. We then walked back to the boys place and started playing King’s but we got kicked out after fifteen minutes because it was well past eleven and there is a no noise policy because the rich neighbors will call the coppers.

Last night half of us went to a wine bar, and the other half went to a club called TigerTiger. We pre-gamed for way too long because the guys took forever with their touchy-feely spaghetti dinner, and ended up in Piccadilly Circus around midnight when we should have left hours earlier. It cost ten pounds to get in, and the place was mobbed. We got split up because the bouncer thought J had drugs on him, because he is clearly the poster boy for depravity. He and L ended up in a casino, where they won money and then ended up in the suburbs 40 minutes outside of London because they took the wrong bus. She claims there were chickens.
The rest of us wandered around the six or so rooms in the two-story club, and got hit on by the various Londoners and Euro-trash that frequent such places. I’ve decided that there is not much difference between Euro trash and Drexel trash, except I don’t know what fraternity the Euro trash belong to, or why the forty year old is attempting to talk to me, as opposed to the freshman who feels like they know me because I work-study at their dorm. Live the dream slugger, live the dream. We left the club around 3:30, and found a bus but got off way too early. Luckily, it is South Kensington, and the only horrible thing that could happen is stepping in front of a BMW or a Mercedes. If I’m going to go, it better not be by a German car. Give me a good old American Ford or Chevrolet. We continued walking for what seemed like hours, and then we lost some of the girls because we’re human and heels start to hurt after a few miles. Some went back for them, until we spotted the girls in the car of some guy we met at the previous club. All the girls and D who was crushed beneath us were driven back to the flat, as the sky began to become lighter and lighter. Then we woke up four hours later for the bus tour. In other news, I ate an entire quarter of a watermelon today.