Friday, October 7, 2005


Thomas, the IRA seems to be keeping quiet. Of course, I have nothing to worry about -- Lucy informed me today that there is a Cope Street in Dublin*.

See, I'm kind of a big deal in Wales and Ireland. I am internationally loved, much like Colgate Total toothpaste.

Or, you know, perhaps not.

Jenny and I went to lunch today in Greenwich. This is where time begins. I don't know if anyone ever says that about Greenwich, but they should. Like a good American tourist, I had fish and chips. And like a good American tourist, I ignored the fact that said fish and chips cost me £7 (about $14).

This whole not going to see the usual touristy things that I always see in London is quite nice. This massive organic city suddenly seems more real to me. People actually live here and ride the tube and the bus and the train and it doesn't feel like Disneyland to them. Weird.

As we rode back to Jenny's flat on the bus I was listening to the various languages being spoken around me. I counted four (I think) and numerous accents. On one random bus in one random part of London. If you want to travel the world without putting a lot of effort into it, come to London -- the world will come to meet you.

Don't give me any of your "We have the same thing in New York" nonsense. No we don't. I'm not very good at describing it because I am standing so far on the periphery. But there is something so wholly unique about London. It is organic and each little person flows through like blood vessels.

I'm not sure I could ever live here, though, I think London would consume me -- flesh bones and all, it would take everything that I have and no one would notice.

You should hear Jenny and Chris talk to each other. "Fuck" is the pillar of their conversation. Last night, Jenny made us dinner -- 50s housewife stylee -- and Chris went over to do that thing of wanting to help but actually just sort of annoying his wife:

JENNY: "What the fuck are you doing?"
CHRIS: "I'm just..."
"Well fuck off."
"Fuck. If you... Oh, fuck."
"For fuck's sake, you've fucked the thing up."
"No, fuck, it's just... here."
"Fuck! What the fuck have you done? The fucking thing is all -- look, fuck off."

Yet strangely it was very loving. It would be a challenge, I think, for actors to recreate the scene of extreme profanity but cutesy playing/arguing.

Tonight we are going out for drinks at a place called the Texas Embassy. Chris remarked that there are strangely a lot of Texans who go there. As a Texan, it is not hard for me to understand why -- it's got "Texas" in the name. What Texan wouldn't go there?

*She sent me a picture as proof, which I will put up as soon as I get back home and have access to various photo software.


Curly said...

I find it hilarious when almost entire sentences can be constructed using the work 'Fuck'.

This happened recently:-

A local farmer bought a car from another farmer which broke the same day. Farmer no.1 went round to Farmer 2's house, only to find Farmer 2's wife.

"He's not here, do you want me to give him a message"

"Yes, tell the fucking fucker the fucking fuckers fucked"

Huw said...

There's a Cope Street and Cope Place in London: the former being a tiny street sort of close to Millwall's ground, and the second being in the rather plush surroundings of Kensington High Street.

I'm not going to take a photo for you though: if you're over here you can do it yourself. So there.

Cheryl said...

You got ripped at the chippy - that was a couple of quid over the odds I think.
London, dear London, where 'Dirty little fucker' is a term of endearment. I miss it.

Jenny said...

Ha! Thank you for putting a positive spin on our limited vocabulary.

Look, I'm commenting on the blog of someone who is in my house. Crazy!

Curly said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Curly said...

There's a 'Cope Opticians' in Caridiff?