London. There’s always someone more messed up, more outrageous, more boring, just… more… than you, whatever the measure, whatever the time of day or night. You can stare down any street at any time and be average, normal, inconspicuous, as the chaos of the city passes you by. Except – every once in a while – along comes the day when it’s your turn to let your freak flag fly. The day when everyone looks to you and says “ah, London, you beautiful fucking lunatic”.
Skip to content
Writing. Just like everyone else