So Long, London

Today I quit the job I’ve been in for the last 9 years. I wandered from the Air B’n’B on Hackney Road to Exchange Square.

Strange times in East London. Nostalgic, I suppose. I took in all the sights and memories …

The place I first ever played in London.

The plethora of flats and bedsits I lived in throughout the years.


Jaguar Shoes.

The Old Blue Last.

What used to be The Legion, but now is Be @ One. We played there with The Presets and did the worst gig of our lives. Still, as I tend to say – I’d probably be dead by now if my career in music had more longevity.


Putting that Days app on my phone.

Those endless half-price lunches at Hoxton Grill (we had a key fob).

The Mecca bingo hall outside which I used to jump in and out of Johnny’s Silver Audi.

Staggering toward Mare Street, vomiting this orange stuff because I ingested an unknown substance (remarkably ended up getting laid that night – such is the allure of a sickly white boy in skinny jeans).

Breaking up with the worst ex in her posh flat on Ada Street that overlooked Regent’s Canal. We were both naked at the time. Didn’t do anything for my dignity.

Resetting that Days app.

The 149.

Tube rage.

The Joiners Arms.

That time I got punched in the face.

That other time I got punched in the face.

Those riots. I watched from my balcony as the hordes marched up Kingsland Road. I had a litre of Glen’s vodka and a baseball bat. I didn’t think I’d make it through the night. Still, I thought, at least I’d take a few of the fuckers with me. And failing that, at least I’d be drunk enough not to care.

The 333.

That time my girlfriend’s Chihuahua ate her flatmate’s joint and had to get its stomach pumped.

Being on the bus behind the #30 on 7/7.

Sleeping on a moth-eaten sofa in a dank recording studio.

Thinking that splashing out £2.50 on a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel in Brick Lane was the height of decadence.


That’s just scraped the surface, but there are memories aplenty. However, it was telling that when walking into my office building this morning, a guy didn’t hold the door open for me and I called him a ‘Cunt.’

I was right, of course. Nevertheless, it’s probably time for a change.

I should feel sad, but I just feel tired.



  1. Be careful not to get TOO lost in nostalgia. Feel the quiet wash of its melancholia and then hit the road looking ahead … although “quiet wash” is maybe not the right word in your case, considering your reaction to the guy at the door this morning 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

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