I was crossing a bitterly cold and dark London sometime just before or around 5am, sitting in the back seat of a bus, wondering about the much-vaunted 24-hour drinking licences. We're pulling into the West End, so yeah, where I go?
I would go for a drink now to some bar I never been before, would do me good. Because despite the residual endorphin-imbalance cold in my bones I really feeling okay, feeling adventurous. So I thought I can check on the internet - Google "24-hour bar London" or something - but the fucking easyInternet on Tottenham Court Rd closes fucking 2am. This is the fucking West End. So what sort of fucking metropolis is this, when you can't go out to dine at 11pm and then have comfortably many hours left to go and drink and dance?
Where if you feel the need to go for one drink alone somewhere at 5am and you maybe run into a beautiful stranger or anyone to mesh minds with, it's some sort of a fucking impossibility? Fuck them.
(A note, though: I had not been out dining, drinking and dancing or any such. I had spent half of that night sleepless in M__'s crumbling church on L__ B__ Rd, stranded east of Clapton in bitter cold and rain... It was an epic mystical quest across the wastelands of north and east London, in weather as bitterly cold as any I remember in this city... A mystical quest to reclaim my brain chemistry... Be ye mystic...)