London is where it's at baby, as James Coburn may well have said (probably did at one time). I haven't met a cockney for years, but it doesn't hurt if you speak Russian these days. But I have to admit that what's left of my family moved out to the south east coast (Dorset) a few years back, & say they're never coming back.
No offence to the cockney Earl of Poncey - London's a shithole.
I was away for a few days, and I spent a few nights in London. One of my conquests after a night's rave was a certain young dark-skinned beauty who seduced me in her rooftop apartment. It was little more than a loft, but it turned out that she'd bought it (BOUGHT it!) for 48 million pounds! For a loft! She didn't even live there! She told me that she was waiting for the price to go up so she could sell it for a profit! Then she said that she came over from Qatar EVERY WEEEKEND in a plane, just to go to the raves and meet people like me!!! And that she drove around in a gold-plated Rolls-Royce (one of eighteen) which she BROUGHT OVER EVERY FRIDAY ON THE PLANE!!!!!!!!
Being polite, in that "morning after" way, I asked her name. "Vanessa von Shufty-Mufty, great-granddaughter of the current Emir." I nodded of course, saying I had heard of him, but I had no idea.
Then, looking around, I muttered, "Jeez, London's a shit-hole isn't it?", and I could see a little teardrop beginning to form in the corner of her good eye. "Yes", she sniffed. "Yes my darling, I suppose you're right." And she looked meaningfully off into nothingness.
It was the only moment of true humanity she ever showed, and in its own small way, deeply touching.
I really did enjoy London, honest. Great food, museums, and even the weather was pretty swell that August of 2010.
The only two mildly-irritating things involved the Underground. The first being the daft Martha Jones wannabe bitch who rammed her shoulder into my wife's shoulder as the former was rushing down the steps.
The second was some junior exec jerkoff who missed a train by thismuch and reacted to this slightest of slights by angrily slamming his briefcase against the doors. C'mon Old Stick, there'll be another train in what, five minutes?!? Sheesh.
Other than those moments of merriment and mirth, I had a swell time. Except when London's FSMers scattered like completist rats on the Sinking Ship of Horner when I arrived at Heathrow.
Thank you all for letting this old man reminisce; all I have are my memories...
Jim Phelps, a true English exec would have trumped his umbrella point into the concrete and said "Dash It". Modern execs do think they have to over-emphasise their agony at not being crushed up like sardines and complain about it.
I attended a boys finishing school in the 1960s. More on proper courtesy later.
Thackeray was a satirist, and he's writing from the viewpoint of the CHARACTER, who wants the fun and social culture scene of Paris rather than the 'nice but dim' husband she's bored with.
I was going to say that it's a "shitter hole" (making a comparative with London), but then I realised that it sounds like a dirty joke. A very dirty, dirt-box hole joke.
So I'll just say that it's all great and sunny! Cheers!
You've been drunk driving since the thirteenth century?
In Re Gilbert Colt Assize Court of Northumberland County Northumberland Assize Rolls, 40 Henry III (1256)
Anonymous, Judge Gilbert colt, a Servant of the parton of Brombury, while driving a certain wagon with a large container of wine, as a result of excessive intocication fell beneath this same wageon and was crushed under the wheel of this same wagon. No one is suspected in this incident. Verdit: misadventure. Value of the wine, oxen and wagon: 8 marks, 2 shillings, for which the sheriff will be answerable. *
I'm thinking though we Americans are better at it, though. We sure do it a lot.
And you've been meting out justice, Charles Bronson-style, since the same period??
In Re Gilbert Colt Assize Court of Northumberland County Northumberland Assize Rolls, 40 Henry III (1256)
Anonymous, Judge The jurors report that a certain Gilbert of Niddesdale, a stranger, struck up an acquaintance with a certain hermit, whose name is Semannus of Bottlesham, and they were walking together in a certain moor, when this same Gilbert laid hold of that hermit and beat him, wounded him, and left him for dead, and stole from him his clothes and one penny, and fled.
As he was fleeing, he ran into Randolph of Beleford, a sergeant of our lord the King, who laid hold of him and charged him with being a criminal, and took him to Alnwick. The aforesaid hermit came to Alnwick, and said that that other had robbed him and beat him as was state above. This same Gilbert confessed to same in the presence of the aforesaid bailiff and the people of the village of Alnwick.
So the aforesaid sergeant had the aforesaid hermit cut Gilbert's head off. When the sheriff and coroner are asked by what warrant they had had Gilbert decapitate, they say that such is the custom of the county, that as soon as anyone is caught red-handed he is to be decapitated forthwith, and the plaintiff will receive the property of the one who is to be decapitate in place of what had been stolen from him.*
A little downriver of Alnwick is Alnmouth, home to some of the best beaches in Europe on the three days of the year that the sun shines. To get to the beach car park, you have to drive over a golf course on a track that has a sign warning you to look out for flying golf balls. You certainly risk decapitation if you drive over it in a convertible.
A little downriver of Alnwick is Alnmouth, home to some of the best beaches in Europe on the three days of the year that the sun shines. To get to the beach car park, you have to drive over a golf course on a track that has a sign warning you to look out for flying golf balls. You certainly risk decapitation if you drive over it in a convertible.
The earl of Poncey and Lord Castlemouldy would have him thrown in the stocks when he docked in port. Tried within days and a warrant issued for his sentence of death. For high treason. And mocking from abroad.
from "Party of Twenty", edited by Clifton Fadiman (I think the essay was "The triumph of rudeness" by Romain Gary)
The yearning to be a good fellow has so corrupted American business life as to attract the unfavorable attention of Englishmen and other foreigners whose business affairs are conducted with reserve and propriety.
"American men yearn to be friendly," ]writes William Connor, "Cassandra" of the London Daily Mirror. "Watch them greeting each other with a false heartiness matched nowhere else in the world. Cliches of transparent falsity fall from their lips like scented putty: 'Great to see you!' 'Happy to know you!' 'It's been a real pleasure!' 'Gee! You're such a lovely people!'
"Nobody can really be taken in by such verbal extravagances but the alarming thing in the United States, when seen from the foreign standpoint, is that the men, although they may not be happy to see you obviously long to be happy to see you. The strained pursuit of friendship at all costs is a grave flaw in the national character [of the United States]...."
Great food, museums, and even the weather was pretty swell that August of 2010.
