London is great.
After the launch nothing happens. I switch my mobile back on. There’s a text from my old pal from uni who hasn’t turned up.
V v sorry, hd 2 don dog collar n go hold hand of dying patient. Nex time yr down DEFFO meet xxx
The publisher has rushed off to get the last train back to Wales.
So I go to Friday night ‘Late At The Tate’ and turn round with my glass of wine and peanuts to find myself dwarfed below the thunderous hulk of Gordale Scar. Like actually being there, but darker. I’ve never stood in front of the real Gordale Scar in the dark. I feel proud but also defensive: my landscape, my heritage, my spiritual home being ignored by these tinselly London yuppies and clueless foreigners; this live jazz band making lazy sexy light of it. I AM A NORTHERNER you bunch of elitist bastards who won’t let me into your world.
Then I am in Paolo and Nathan’s designer friend Gary’s Barbican shag-pad in my sleeping bag and he is through the wall shagging this little oriental guy and I have my vibrator in my sleeping bag with me and the prospect of a really good designer-shag-pad espresso for breakfast before I get the coach home. It’s been great. Well, quite good.
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