Pizza Pleeze Tufnell Park

Modern London happens to be a massively overpriced shithole with a loony, power crazed deluded mayor, an underclass composed of feral packs of uneducated wankers roaming the streets with guns and knives shitting children they can ill afford, stinking dirty streets littered with factory bred chicken bones, local authorities run by a bunch of sleazy PC crooks, hell bent on accommodating every bleeding heart who tramps their way.



Still, at least you can get a pizza after midnight in the company of a piss ridden hobo.

Boston Arms and an old school Egging

A quiet pint on a Saturday afternoon, last rays of Autumn sun. Sounds nice. But we're sat on a picnic table chained to a wall on a 5 way junction where buses, wagons and irritating charvas whiz past on their mechanical wasps with manky grey jogging pants flapping furiously. The junction's busy, really busy.

Then, I feel something fly past my ear and crack then splat against the ceramic tiles of the pub.

My Vibrating Flat in Tufnell Park

My flat has started vibrating.

My TV jigs from side to side, my wardrobe rocks, the windows rattle, and the bed shakes. I'm vibrating because of trains, big long heavy trains carrying cement hauled by imported American loco's. Apparently said vibrations from trains are very unlikely to cause structural damage to houses & buildings near the railway.

Dirty flowers for dead people

Something really wrenching about dirty flowers. The petal colours are fading like memories as they take on the filth and grime of the choking traffic and slowly blend into their final surroundings.

She used to drink in the Boston, a touch of colour in an otherwise grey pub. Hit by a 25 tonne truck after her G&T, zimmer frame no protection. No chance.

Here's a glass to you Sheila. Cheers