So far all is relatively calm in the UK. Nothing but the usual political shenanigans.

The Royals are settled in; Northern Ireland is bloodless; East Enders stagger about as usual; the rural class are busy trimming hedges and having a pint at the local pub; and the landed gentry are still the overlords of civil society. Merry Old England at it’s best!

…and everyone still despise The French!

Cheers!

Cool. Belgravia has its share of good pubs, and seven of them are under threat, and the Grosvenor Estate told the US Embassy to **** off to Nine Elms unless it gave back Virginia. I have been talking to a successful but unfulfilled antiques dealer, and conversely, I do know what to do, i.e right now learn more finite field theory, but I am otherwise constrained to make money. That isn't entirely true, of course. And another guy at the bar, a technical assistant in the university department I studied and worked in for about eleven years. I remember him but he doesn't remember me. That's good. How anti-social can I be in that case?

Interesting. Belgravia is a neighborhood in London. I always thought it was a country in Central Europe. I was having some trouble following the above post. I love Wikipedia.

I was misinformed. It was Florida, not Virginia.

https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-...069-story.html

I live near the Chelsea Flower Show, and consider it a civic duty to attend. Ferns are in, foxgloves are in, and gardens that lack the express purpose of improving one's mental health while simultaneously saving the planet, are out. Not that you can see much of the show gardens, at least not without first wading through the surrounding hordes drinking Pimm's at £14.50 a time. Happily, I know a good, obscure pub nearby, and have a bottle of pink champagne in my flat. Once a year of it is enough.

Fitzroy Square is top five. Undamaged on all four sides, with the Post Office Tower just off it, looming over it, and no traffic, and the aforementioned Indian YMCA just off it, a post-war building of quality, where you can get a good-value meal in non-commercial surroundings; and most of the old houses just off it, they’re apparently occupied, and no doubt insanely expensive to buy, but owing to archaic economic forces they’re at the same time grimy and run-down, as if London itself has dictated that’s the melancholy state they’re supposed to be in, and that you’re in. That’s the entrance fee for successfully scratching the surface of old, melancholy London.

The Exmouth Arms just up the road in Euston survives. Only just; it is now literally adjacent to the HS2 rail line, which, having driven up and down the Euston Road many times over the past months, I know takes priority over everything. I had many drinks in there with my brother, who died two years ago yesterday, in 2005 when we both lived near there and he worked at Euston station; and it’s not the same pub, it’s now some backpacker’s hostel, but it’s okay. The beer is good, the jukebox has gone, but instead they play stuff that’s loud enough and almost tolerable, like Three Dog Night; and with the Euston Tower (see the Clash song) looming over it, it's pleasant drinking beer there on a sunny, Saturday afternoon when you're not an alcoholic. Why is is pale green the perfect colour for iconic, 60’s London buildings? Check out Marathon House for that one too.

It’s never sunny in London. But that’s OK, the great pubs and draft beers make up for the perpetual fog and gloom. And you can always place a bet on just about anything.

Cheers!

Trooping the Colour yesterday, Zeno. More road chaos. I like Les Hugenouts.

Working is like leading a double-life, Nothing is happening mathematically. Two weeks’ summer holiday now. Some pints in my excellent, local bar, and ten days’ pilgrimage up north. That’s if the train drivers aren’t working overtime. I like the psychological readjustment involved.

Road chaos checks your ability at survival instincts. If you fail you are removed from the gene pool. As it should be.

Should be? According to God??

I am a God. So, yeah.

Aren’t taxis drivers God’s? They are in London and New Orleans for certain. I know this from first-hand experience.

Knights of the road.

I am going to Holy Island as part of my holiday. I have been there once before. Looking forward to it, it is a special place.

psychological readjustment?

The North is different to the South. Not even the Romans went as far as Northumberland. There is a different culture, mentality, and even a slightly different language. I can't understand what they're saying some of the time.

Some stylish lady in the pub has an East End accent, or maybe it’s Bermondsey because she’s a Millwall fan and their women’s team is called the Lionesses and it isn’t right that’s what the England women’s team are calling themselves. “No one likes you”, I tell her, which receives the standard “we don’t care” reply. “Sit up straight, young man”, she’s right, I’m a slouch, “it’s gonna catch up with ya.” Her voice is earworm familiar. The conversation with her posh friends resumes, everyone buying her drinks, and what do you know but it turns out she’s this lady:

Stylish Ladies do not frequent Pubs. Especially East End ones.

So what If she is uppity. Be American for once and be dismissive of the posh set. Tell rude jokes; spill your beer on her expensive clothes, and make a clumsy attempt to feel her upper thigh.

Opportunities like this do not happen that often; take the best advantage of them that you can.

Remember it well.

Pub in Chelsea?

She's in her 70s. Might be in your range but not sure it's charlie's.

The Fox and Hounds. It's the Belgravia rather than the Chelsea side of Sloane Square, but let's not quibble about it. Expensive, but they have to keep the riff raff out, I suppose. I like the theatre of it.

Ah, I used to work in Ebury St decades ago. I'm sure I've been in it. Maybe we were the riff raff they tried but failed to keep out.

Can't beat a character pub for the people watching, and there are plenty of characters around that area.

There’s a farmers’ market on Saturday mornings at the triangle where Ebury Street meets Pimlico Road, where Mozart lived. I got tomatoes, runner beans and gooseberries. Embrace the seasonality. Did an extra hour just so I could have a drink in the pub without feeling bad about it. Harrods is extra intense on a Saturday evening, even in August, and instantly we’re going to Her Majesty’s theatre for the long-running Phantom of the Opera. Piccadilly is okay, even though part of it is down to one lane, because it’s August. People paying in cash. Pub is nearly empty, because half of Chelsea has gone to St. Tropez, or wherever it is that’s fashionable these days. Some reg is still buying large vodkas for the barmaids. I wish it could always be August.

Runner beans send me a little. If there is one bar, anywhere, where smoking should still be permitted, I nominate the Edgar Wallace, just down from the Royal Courts of Justice, festooned as it is with adverts for Grandee cigars and Skol lager. I have somehow only been in there in summer, and what an unusual summer it has been: the hottest June and one of the wettest Julys on record. But for the pervasive, late-nite, summer in the city heat, I think today was the day.