One of my favourite New York City news-blogs, Gothamist has expanded to include the London-based version, Londonist. While this doesn’t mean much to most of my readers, *laugh*, this is news for me because I signed up to join the Londonist team as a contributing writer. Perhaps we will see a return to my journalistic roots, as when I was writing for The Triangle while at Drexel.
I am officially coining the term “Londonistas” to describe ourselves.
Guy Fawkes Day and all the madness that goes with it.
Of course, me being a fool, I forgot to charge my battery for the picture taking. Let me describe it using….words.
First, we assembled in the center of town and watched as the Bag and Drum corp from Reading marched noisily in front of the town populous. Everyone was carrying torches as we marched up Castle Street, it was quite a site in fact. Then we proceeded to Farnham Park and put out our torches before the fireworks. We’ve all seen fireworks before, but its a bit different when you’re standing up and its vaguely raining and its November. Things we take for granted: July. After the fireworks, a huge bonfire was set alight burning stuffed models of Guy Fawkes, Harry Potter and two other dummies (perhaps Blair and Bush, or Bush and Chaney).
Wednesday was a depressing day. After retiring to bed at 6:20 am, I awoke to learn that we did not in fact have a President, so basically I wasted an entire night’s sleep for nothing. I don’t want to say anything more about the election except, “I won’t live in George Bush’s America”.
So we set off to play rugby with 13 men. Pretty pathetic, in fact, and we arrived and were given only 5 minutes to warm up, again. After playing a decent but still sub-par match, I dislocated my finger making a shitty tackle.
I felt a little hit on my hand, so I looked at my finger and saw it was shaped like a Z, obviously the wrong shape. Without causing a big fuss, I walked off the field where Rob was nice enough to drive me to hospital. And to make a long story short, the NHS comes through and with little drama, I got my finger put back together by a South African doctor.
What’s funny is that when I was all gassed up, I was talking with an impeccable British Accent, no trace of North Jersey at all. It was bizarre.
Karaoke was shit as well. And the day ended the way it began, with me being tired as hell. Thank you Wednesday.
Yesterday I spent £5 on Laundry. WTF.
And the US election is getting more press here than any other story. BBC, ITV, and CH4 have been flooding the airways with documentaries, interviews, and other press coverage, alongside the candidates as they wrap things up.
I left my nails a bit long so that I can bite them as I stay up all night and watch the fate of my home country, and the world, unfold. Tomorrow morning, you will either find me strangely relieved, as if I am finally able to breathe, having walked through a room of poisonous gas – or else you will see a defeated man, in mourning, rather than rage. And be certain of tears.
O the suspense…