As seen on Al Jazeera
I was on the telly last night. Al chuffin' Jazeera, no less.
So, last night to That There London in my capacity as cardboard-and-string flavoured boy journalist, where I was to cover a press event on the subject of a leaked British Government memo, in which the President of the United States reveals plans to attack a civilian television station on the sovereign territory of a friendly government.
He is, of course, utterly bonkers.
The whole report over here.
I love London. I hate London.
I love the Tube. I hate the Tube.
I love the streets, the bustle, the shops, the flow of the people like a tide.
But I also hate the streets, (some of) the people, brutal elbowing, no-time-of-day, the fight-fight-fight, I don't want your sodding leaflet, your golf sale, your all-you-can-eat botulism buffet o' doom, and I am both a sinner and a winner. No, take that back, I love Sinner-or-winner Man.
I love the Thames, the glance of the river of sanity between the madness of the concrete buildings, people on boats getting there faster than on buses, but knowing full well you've got to get out and walk soon.
I hate it, but I was born there, and still I go back.
On the official Duckworth-Lewis scale of rating stuff, yesterday's London trip scored 9/20 - Cherie Blair with a strap-on. The free half-way decent umbrella given away with the immediately-binned Evening Standard, and the fact that no public transport was involved was offset rather cruelly by having to eat at Garfunkel's. Again.
On second thoughts, better make that 6/20 - The Princess Anne unnamed many-tentacled woe.
God, I hate London.