"Next to all this sparkling, new, wonderful landscape-architecture and soaring office buildings, there is the dirt and the sleaze." - Sue McGregor (("Start The Week", 2006-11-30))

We're back from London. Finally? Hell no. I already wish I could go back and even live there for a long while. Stockholm is snowy as hell. Did London get rain, as I guessed? Hell no again! Two days ago, walking down Oxford Street, I had my parkas under one arm and was wearing a t-shirt.

So, how did things go? The dog's bollocks, that's how.

First, I've written this diary by hand as I went along, but mind you, it is in Swedish. Hey mom, read it! Anyway, to the start.

We were driven to Skavsta airport by Sebastian, who overtook our apartment during our lengthy weekend in England (with his girlfriend Evelina); at the very end of the drive to the airport, the engine of the BWM started to cough. The something's-wrong-with-the-engine-lamp started flashing and the car started to jerk; oh yeah, the gas was out. I'm not kidding you when I say the car died 40 meters from the gas station. Thank Bog! Sebastian and I pushed it and Mikaela drove along. Damn! Well at the tiny airport, we ate overpriced food (which the cooks entirely forgot and lied to me about), exchanged our Crowns for Pounds and got ready for...Ryanair.

Well, the plane ride was fair: considering the cost, it was...nearly worth it. Well at Stansted we took a short in-terminal train ride and queued for ten minutes to be met by stone-faced personnel who check the passport. "Thank you," followed by The Search For The Baggage. Smooth! We were covered by a few Sirs and Miss', then pulled our bags out and took a very you're-cattle-go-forth bus courtesy of Terravision, one of many coaching services, that brought us and a load of others to Victoria Station, from where we caught a taxi to The Blakemore Hotel, where we spent four nights. We well asleep quite soon, at more than 02:00.

First bad thing about London, and, I would say, one of the extremely few bad things: the air. I've never produced as much snot in a country as in England; it was black, by the way. Sure, the air is better than the last time I went, and one cannot compare a relatively little town as Stockholm with London, but it's also perfumed by a lot of smoke from people as well (yes, tobacco).

Mikaela went on a mission early in the morning, so I woke up with Sky News (hello, Rupert Murdoch) and found I had to get something to eat. I showered, got put on a ton of clobber and left for Bayswater Road, which merged into Oxford Road. Hyde Park to my right. Things dawned on me. The delapidated houses that have been standing for centuries, houses first built during the industrial revolution, enormous statues of fallen heroes ((I later read the line "The Glorious Dead", engraved in the wall of a gigantic, white building on our way to Stansted Airport)), waking past Albion Street, Wardour Street, seeing the tube station sign, riding past Sloan Square on the tube, Sainsbury's, kebab shops, street adverts for fish and chips, hand-drawn news bills, heavy exhausts from big trucks, loads and loads of people quite politely roaming one of the biggest London City streets: I felt at home. I also felt I had to eat immediately, and searched for a good somewhere to have some local food; believe me, don't go looking for that on Oxford Street. A tad under-researched by me, of course, so I headed for my first fall. I'll blame the air: Starbucks. Yes, I bowed down to the American devil and had a caffਠlatte with a tuna sandwich. The coffee tasted normal, the sandwich was fair, but nothing more. Yes, Starbucks is for coffee what Wal-Mart McDonalds mean for almost all other products: quick commercial exploitation and blandness.

Having "calmed down" to the massive volume of bad, bad American jazz, I hit the street again. HMV. I found a few singles by The Libertines and calmed down for real, then hit Books etc, Border's...had a thought...lost it...went to Muji, Next, H&M, Topman where I found a few interesting items but really lost my mind (and later, my wallet) at Urban Outfitters, where I found all types of materialistic shit that make my mind go zphggff as the clobber at that place really blew my mind. They whored wonderful ish by J. Lindeberg ((Don't you laugh! The latest collection is brilliant, and yes, even I loathe their horrid logo - which is not apparent on their suits, which are great - you don't believe me? Check style.com for proof.)), Acne, Full Circle and a lot of other brands were in place, for boys as well as for girls, even a bunch of vintage stuff. More on that very soon.

Mikaela and I met up, got around a bit at H&M (their biggest store in Europe, methinks, even though there are (I think) two more H&M's on the same street), Topshop and basically ran around somewhat before...heading back to Urban Outfitters where I bought a stunning jacket from Full Circle. That jacket was fucking made for me. Fuck! A brilliant-looking vintage shirt? "I want that one." I got it. A leather tie? Oh, why not. Bought! A fortune later, I quickly checked my account and found enough money left to buy little more than two slabs of cheese for. Crisis. Panic! After consorting with my consort, we figured out that a wad of monies had probably been reserved for the hotel as we checked in; that must have been it...mustn't it? The Fear. The Grip. I left it gnawing at the forefront of my head for a while. Back to materialistic me again: I've heard that Urban Outfitters are coming to Stockholm, but...when? Will they go the same way as American Apparel, who are to open in Stockholm but most probably never ever will? Blast. Mikaela peered for stuff, and went wild at Topshop.

On the way to the hotel we bought organic foods at Sainsbury's coupled with a bottle of cava (mind you, in Sweden one cannot purchase beverages of a high alcohol level in supermarkets) and politely queued with polite Englishpeople, conversed quickly with the polite service person at the desk and then flopped on our beds (two singles, not very nice, especially considering the frayed bedspreads and falling wallpaper) where we ate our little dinner and fell asleep for a few hours.

We woke up at 21:30, ate some and got ready for action. As I've written, I booked tickets for Together at Turnmills, where a multitude of DJ's were getting started and loads of people were going. The tube system in London is noisy and highly effective; every station has signs everywhere, ensuring even the truly stupid to swiftly find their way ((Yes, I did find my way, K!)).

Outside the place people were dressed up. Those who weren't wearing club gear were dressed as...vampires, mummies, bloodied nurses...even Guy Fawkes turned up in two incarnations. People in the queue were nice but the staff who guarded the door...brilliant. Professional. Funny. Nothing like their Stockholmian counterparts who think their job is making people regret their visit or stay. No sign of racism. Nothing but utter professionalism. I'd estimate there were 300 people queuing and it was a lark from queue to dancefloor. I mean, the people in charge were actually in charge, and being nice at the same time. If you're from Stockholm, you won't believe these words: people working the doors in clubs should be professional and nice. If you're from London, reading this, believe the following: in Stockholm, people working the doors are aggressive and not into giving service. Of course, there are exceptions, but I've seldom come across a single door guard who's even welcomed me to the club he/she guards, and I'm not joking. Fuck that, back to the happy night!

As we entered, we heard 80's dance tunes. Wonderstuff, the old English one hit wonders, were DJ'ing in the entrance and the entire floor was decked out with cobwebs, spiders, bloodied personnel, and...leading a path straight to the best night out I've had in years, if ever, actually, combined.

The first floor was beset with Dimitri From Paris, playing a three-hour-long disco-house set. Apart from that, Funk D'Void was also playing, a techy house set. And the best was yet to come. In the room the furthest bit in, Full Cycle were on. Roni Size was playing with an MC in the background, and the bass was so loud and the drums so shattering, only the full participation and love from the crowd matched it. Everybody was into the music. They were there for the music and their mates. Not an either there. People weren't drunk of off their tits on E or whatever The Sun would like everybody to think, but merely having a great time. Into the music. I can't remember the last time I actually witnessed that happen, and I'm not a recluse, far from it. Stockholm, why art thou crap? Fuck that, I'm happy with London, mate.

So what really went down? Roni Size played a massive set, throwing in "Brown Paper Bag" which turned people upside their head. Mikaela, who actually thought she didn't like drum 'n' bass, danced like crazy. People screamed, threw limbs everywhere and danced like mad. A couple of guys must have been off something psychedelic, as they danced like people I've seldom seen, doing some elusive sort of duck-and-sway-routine foreign to my senses. Either way, everybody had a good time, until Die showed up and upped the level appx. fifty steps. Harder. Faster. Breakbeatdrumselectrosadismbasssssss! That bass threatened to consume every note below your average bass-player's spectrum and barf it all out continously - and did. We left after a while, both furiously out of it from all that dancing. Mikaela wore the wrong shoes for it, but we collapsed happily. On the way home we directed a couple of not-really-English-speaking Italians, who'd lost their way. The blind leading the blind a little, thanks to the simple ways of the London public transport system, it was easy getting on track to home via the nightly buses. A few drunken (yet very silent) types roamed the streets of Farringdon, but there were people (not quite as drunken) avast at Oxford Circus. Our bus was full so we actually hopped on a rickshaw and paid 20 quid for it. Phwoarr, crazy tourists! Thing was, a second bus just pulled up, but our driver for the night surpassed it, ha. Anyway, a bumpy ride through a chilly and most definitely windy Bayswater later, we came home and fell to pieces.

The day after: Sunday. Rest. We decided to checking for more clothes. To be exact, Mikaela had found a vintage clothes so we went, but as it had ceased to exist we had organic lunch and tea (lapsang) and then moved on for more clothes. While Mikaela went on at Topshop, I read a book on suggestions. Apparently, an Englishman had gone to the USA with a big suggestion box. Loads of people wrote suggestions and filled the box, and the book is made from their contributions. Yes, "Ban suggestion boxes" was one of the suggestions, but apart from that, one was "Please make the seats that mostly men use while waiting for their better halves in clothes shops comfortable. Thank you."

We had lunch at a little place just on the way from Bayswater to Portobello, which meant we were in Notting Hill. I love the streets, the houses, but unfortunately, since that bloody film came out (which actually was the last (and first) time I visited London, the posters were plastered all over the effing houses) prices have soared infinitely, making it a place for the rich - as if London could be inhabited by others. We trotted down streets and saw an excellent butcher's place, an American Apparel store ((Please, come to Sweden soon! Your services through the web suck!)), and - oh my - Rough Trade Shop. I must say, it is grossly overestimated. Well, to be frank, I've never heard anybody say anything about it, but I've heard almost all their compilations, love loads of the bands on their label and so I assumed their shop would be very interesting - but no, actually not. Pet Sounds in Stockholm beats this by a lot of miles. True, RTS has a lot of vinyl, which is something PS doesn't care much for, but that's their sole advantage. Having sorted that out we looked around a bit more. The houses themselves make the trip worth the while. I've never seen as many pastel-coloured ones, and I actually nearly ((Meaning the very biggest difference was to be seen on the bus to the airport later on; a homeless person lying on the street next to a gigantic church.)) didn't see a difference as huge between the very rich and the very poor as here: an old, severely delapidated brick house barely able to stand straight, next to a newly renovated, posh and lavishly furnished noveau riche shithole. Oh, almost forgot: on the way to Portobello we came across the tail of an old Ford which stuck out from a garage. People had written stuff on it, using the grime as an etch-a-sketch. Mikaela and I laughed as we read the text "I WISH MY WIFE WAS THIS DIRTY" at the same time.

In the evening we went to Waterloo, in search for Fishcotheque, dubbed as one of the best fish 'n' chip places in London. Sure enough, it was brilliant, even though neither Mikaela or I could finish our plates. We both had cod, which had been traditionally cooked: dipped in batter and then deep-fried, it was joined by chips (which were not fried enough) and side-orders of gherkins and pickled onions, respectively. The place is literally a hole in the wall, with quite loud music playing; the furniture and lights are hideous, but still, we knew what we were in for. The food was grand, just what I was hoping for, save for the chips, but all in all, tasty and priceworthy. I think one dish cost 6 pounds.

After that we went home and fell asleep, safe in the knowledge that the next night would bring even more fancies. Oh yes, so it did.

On Monday morning, however, central London city was severely calm. Until lunch, that is. We breakfasted at the same place as the day before, which was nice. After that, I scoured more through the shops. It's nice to see that loads of places are getting sorted with wi-fi, especially cafés. Interestingly enough, I didn't feel the need to find a computer for the entire trip. Yeah, I've become less and less MSN/ICQ/mail/web dependent. I think the paradigm is shifting, not just for me; sure, mobile phones are becoming computers, true that, with GPS navigating systems becoming the next big thing. People already have several GB's of music in their phones. Another good thing about this is that people will become more prone to backup their stuff as they'll undoubtedly lose their phone, break it or have it stolen, which means they'll find out their life - as they knew it, and if that's the case, I'll laugh even more psychopathically at them - is over and they'll really take heed to backing up frequently in the future. Carrying all in one place is nice, but see to it that you take care! Anyway...

Saturday evening. Mikaela and I ate lightly after the fatfest the evening before, with all the fried stuffs. We carried on to Hammersmith station and followed a huge posse to Hammersmith Apollo, where Little Britain Live was playing. ((Mind you, it's coming on DVD on 2006-11-13.)) We queued for ages to get a beer and water, then went into the hall to wait for all hell to break loose. I actually managed to guess the start of the show. If you're not big into spoilers, skip the next paragraph and continue under that one. By the way, getting your beer into a theatre is not allowed in Sweden. Last time I managed to do something like that was during the Swedish premiere of "Plan 9 From Outer Space" - if you don't count the time a mate snuck a bottle of vodka in during "Mars Attacks!" which ended up giving the film a particular sheen and us laughing ourselves nearly deaf every fucking time an alien appeared. Yeah, a drinking game. Yeah, we finished the bottle. Yeah, I nearly puked. Anyway, yet again...

Tom Baker's voice made people shriek, carrying on as "normal", but that's nothing against what happened when Lou popped up with Andy, searching for their seats. The crowd roared. We roared. It felt like coming home. British humor is number one for me, always has been. In front of us were two guys who basically brings British comedy to the next level, at the same time as Ricky Gervais, Sasha Baron Cohen and their likes did the same; American humor basically hasn't moved much since Bill Hicks heart stopped pumping. So, what happened? I can't and won't give all up, but I will say this: it wasn't all hit, even though Walliams' and Lucas' improvisational skills are top, and one always loves men dressing up as women, to name but one of the treats. And fucking finally, Dennis Waterman turned funny! And my fave, the inn-keeper came back! YES! Vicky Pollard has turned into a bit of a parody of herself, but counting that this was live, you bet they did more than they could on TV. I mean, swearing is one thing, but they did even harder racist/sexist/nationalist/weightist (erhm) jokes than ever, which was great. Also, Walliams' Des Kaye pulling up a couple of lads from the audience to join him in his game of hide the sausage brought the house down. I laughed so hard tears formed and I had trouble breathing. The exit, where Kaye pulled the pants down on a guy just enough for everybody to see his crack...killed. Love. In the intermission I bought a mug, a pack of pictures and a tour book. Had to. Oh, this mouse mat was included; usually I think those things are just cheap shots, but I love that character and as I work in IT, it's perfect.

Afterwards, we just went home and had something to eat, made sure most of our stuff was packed and fell asleep. The day after we checked out of the hotel, went to another breakfast place which we instantly regretted as their stuff was extremely boring: I prefer home-made hash brown any day over readymade shite being the equivalent of English McDonalds. Blah! We then went to Victoria station where Mikaela got hold of a couple of Krispy Kreme doughnuts which we devoured, had a bit of time left, then departed for the airport with Terravision, spent a little dosh at the huge airport at Stansted and then pissed off to Sweden.

edit: on the way from Skavsta airport to Stockholm city on the bus, an English lady asked the busdriver how to fasten her seatbelt. This is how the last line of their conversation went, courtesy of the busdriver:

Yes, you just press the button when you want to get off. I can help you if you want.

Oh, the false friends. The Frenchman next to me and I just looked at each-other and just laughed away, quietly.

We're home. We're anglophiled-out and longing for more. I need more London. Sigh. The only two things to comfort me ((Apart from Mikaela, the memories, and oh, the knowledge that I'll be back!)) are Lady Sovereign's new LP and Babyshambles' playing Stockholm on Monday. We love you, London, and we'll be back soon. I'll let Lady Sovereign end this post with a quote from her track "My England", and you know slums are about mixing it all up and doing the best you can while living in a fucked-up environment:

London ain't all crumpets and trumpets/It's one big slum pit

Love it.