Faux jollity. Over-drinking. Unwanted kisses. What's so great about New Year's Eve?
Yanks don't do Boxing Day. Innit shame.
I love Christmas in London. The crowded, neurotic shops of Kensington High Street, the old, familiar bells of St Matthew's in Bayswater calling "come" to Midnight Mass, the sober tone of the Queen's Speech and the cold comfort of a James Bond flick. Not only do I love Christmas in the U.K., I miss it in mind, body and soul just like any other expat.
You buy a Fraser Fir Christmas tree from Home Depot. You dress it up with baubles; you untangle the string lights; hey presto, it's Crimbo in an instant.
Eggnog. No plum pottage. Ditto mince pies or brawn (alas). Which church in the hood does midnight mass again? Welcome to the festive vulgarity of Christmas in Trump's America.
To be or not to be a Scrodder. That was the question at Holland Park School during the 1980's and 1990's.
Hellraiser. A man who causes trouble by drinking, being violent, or otherwise behaving outrageously.
Is Lake Lanier haunted, cursed or both? Many Georgians think so, some beg to differ.
Some suck, some fawn, some scream and die to get a dose of it but in Notting Hill fame drops down like rain, incessant as smart bombs on a shithole country and long nouns in a Will Self article.
The pavements ran dry with tears the day Chris Evans, the Ginger Pimpernel of showbiz London, moved on from the cobbled terraces of Notting Hill and Ladbroke Grove.
Power. Fear. Violence. Revenge. What leads people to the martial path and the so-called Way of the Warrior?
A stately, plump man in a shabby grey suit is sprinting down the loose paving stones of Notting Hill Gate.
I've been experimenting with booze like substances.
