Londoners Life 6 – by Phil Ryan

I see the London spirit of Christmas is unrolling now. Which brings me to the real growing spirit of Christmas. Spirit. You suddenly can’t move at the moment in London for drunks. It’s not just me. Even the local paper round here commented on it. Maybe it’s the coming second recession? Getting on the tube on a Friday night after eleven nowadays is like getting inside a can of Fosters with seats. You just breathe in and you’re intoxicated. And take a look at Leicester Square at 12.00ish on a Saturday. It looks like a rehearsal for a Zombie movie. Shuffling shambling weirdos staggering down every side street. Like children’s puppets on Calpol. Admittedly some are the Hare Krishnas but you can usually spot them by the drummer. And as far as I know they don’t drink. Well not when on duty. I often try to imagine the nightly parade up at Krishna Head quarters. Right lads were going out now. Keep a good formation. Plenty of Hare hare’s. Flog those CDs like your life depends on it. Vishnu you were off time last night. Get it together lad! It’s up on the first syllable and down on the next. The rest of you try and look blissed out of your faces. You know the enlightened look. And keep that constant shuffle going. But I digress.

Seriously the drink issue in London is not hard to see. It’s like the 11.30 guy. You see him every weekend. Unconscious on the Circle Line. A line of drool slowly escaping from one side of his mouth. He’s slumped in his usual I’ve got no idea who or where I am position. His snores barely audible. He’s always in a crumpled grey suit. His tie way off at an angle. He’s probably missed his stop four times. But he gets home. Eventually. Somehow. A bit like pigeons I suppose. Some instinct. A navigation device provided by nature. But as a drunk he has to overcome one huge and deadly hurdle. A true London hazard. The hot dog guys.

These charming creatures are usually shifty looking murderer lookalikes and dress in the oddest uniform. Beanie woolly hat. Leather jacket. Jogging Bottoms. And nameless training shoes. They all smoke. Furtively. Most are unshaven and have that curious blue stubble face like a cartoon. Presumably it all comes as part of their training package. Just part of The Hot Dog University of London’s student body elite. Make no mistake. This is food for drunks. But woe betide the innocent tourist they entrap. Their next view of London will be gazing down one of our finest toilet bowls. A view of their hotel they really weren’t expecting. But as I say it’s the drunks who must be their main prey. You’d have to be drunk to be lured into buying one. The noisy sizzling. The heady aroma of onions and rat urine drifting like an unheavenly cloud on the breeze. The hot dogs or unidentified waste product as they’re better known in Environmental Health circles all soaking in the year old grease (as they cook for the ninetieth time). Only the completely inebriated cannot resist. Wily Londoners know this. Drunken ones flock like wasps round a jam jar. And you can often see where after consuming one they have charmingly decided to eject it! I believe the vernacular has it as pavement pizza. Still it beats an enema.
But with the sudden explosion in health food shop/cafes in London that’s often taken care of for you. London seems to have suddenly stealthily filled up with little trendy looking delicatessens on every off high street location. All boasting a small café area inside. You can’t miss them. Everything’s wholemeal. Staff included. And they all smell like an old stable. The shops and cafes I mean not the staff. Usually a cute little bell tinkles when you warily step inside. Like an old fashioned shop. Nice touch. But beware. Smiley young staff in forest green looking aprons stand about trying not to burst out laughing when you ask the price of a titchy jar of Andulisian honey. Trust me. Don’t ask. It’s all pricey beyond belief. But kind of nice in a trendy sort of I have too much money sort of way. I’m sure it all tastes very nice. I’m thinking of applying for a loan this week to buy some Cornish artisan otter cheese and two loaves of Kentish granary and grit bread. Don’t get me wrong I hate supermarkets. It’s just this lot are the other extreme. Food as fashion and a statement about you. Honestly. They don’t seem to sell normal food. Even when you sit down for a cup of tea to get over the shock it’s always Burmese green tea or burlap, wood and dandelion infusions whilst the cakes look like Buffalo excretions dusted with Bear excretions. It’s all about grains. Apparently. Nuts. Seeds. Earth. Natural roughage. Hence the free enema point from earlier. This stuff passes through you quicker than the time a Camden traffic warden takes to ticket a disabled person’s car. But it’s healthy I’m told. Smaller independent shops (which I’m all for) selling locally sourced produce. Look around. They’re everywhere now. And do we buy it. Yes of course we do. It’s a London thing.