The Tourists

Every day I walk home from work from Oxford Street to Elephant and Castle, the route takes me through soho, across Trafalgar Square, down Whitehall and across Westminster Bridge. And as you would expect, in Summer, my journey is lengthened fairly considerably by the presence of tourists.

Normally I can deal with the little fuckers dawdling about and getting in my fucking way while i’m trying to get home, it’s just a slight downside to living in this fine City, but just recently I have had two serious tourism incidents which have almost taken me to breaking point, and so begins our story….

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of these Londoners who huff and puff and fucking sigh pointedly when they’re prevented from walking at absolute top speed for a microsecond due to a wheelchair crossing their path, but I do like a little bit of consideration and common sense from my fellow human. I get pissed off when a group of shit haired French students with their matching luminous rucksacks all gather in a massive group blocking the entire pavement, or some fucking dumbshit stops dead at the top of an underground escalator and peers about, blinking through his fucking coke bottle specs oblivious to the pile up that’s going on behind him, where the fuck are you from not to have been on a fucking escalator before mate? You complete buffoon…

Anyway, as I was saying, twice recently have been riled up to a dangerous level by these damn foreigners. The first was a few days ago at the Tottenham Court Road crossroads, basically one of the busiest crossroads in London. I was rolling East down Oxford Street and had to cross the crossroads to catch the 55 bus to Old Street from the other side. I braced myself for the worst, the corner outside Zavvi is always fraught with tourism (a situation not helped by those repugnant little cunts scrabbling about the place trying to force their fucking free papers into your mitts, more on that another day). Little did I expect though, when I got through the bottle neck and strode across to the crossing, to find a group of about ten middle aged mediteranean types, standing right between the crossing posts, IN A FUCKING CIRCLE!

Oh yeah, really fucking good one, I know, there’s ten of us, in a really really really busy street, in fucking rush hour,  what could the best possible formation be for us to get into? A FUCKING CIRCLE????? Couldn’t believe my eyes.

I managed to negotiate my way around their little meeting and leg it across the road before the lights changed and I got mowed down, but it was a close one, fuck off you shit sunglasses wearing, white jeaned bastards.

The second incident was on my little walk home yesterday night. There are roadworks going on down Whitehall at the moment, which I initially welcomed because the horse gaurds can’t come out anymore and attract their usual splattering of enthralled camera wielding twats. Day after sodding day they’re there, clamping their calloused paws over their fat mouths to stifle the hilarity while their wag of a partner pulls an idiotic face, because, you see, the guards aren’t allowed to move, and, and, and…

The downside of the roadworks is that the workmen have fenced off parts of the pavement and created these kind of caged off allyways where you can walk no wider than single file each way, i can cope with rolling off a bit of speed down these allyways, it’s only to be expected, but yesterday I got caught behind profusely sweating sunburnt whale of a man and his waddling bucktoothed wife. Now honestly, I swear to God that I could not have been travelling any slower behind these two. I don’t think that even if I were given one chance to see the most beautiful sight known to man, under the condition that i were not allowed to stop walking at any point could I have dropped a gear. Fucking insane. We were travelling so slowly that even the people coming the other way were taking a second look and I was glad to receive, knowing and pitying looks from what I assume to have been a few fellow londoners. I steeled myself against this torment for as long as i could, biting my tongue and keeping my eyes on the end of the ally, but, just a few short steps from freedom, sunburn man ordered his wife in some strange tongue to pose for him in front of one of the statues of our ancient war heroes that line the sides of Whitehall. Fuck you mate. As his walrus of a wife struck her best pose and bared those snaggle teeth I barged through forcing wifey against the fence and husband into the flow of people walking against us.

It was as I left the ally I realised, gasping for breath and trying to calm the pounding fury in my heart, that it’s not actually tourists I hate at all. It’s wankers.



2 thoughts on “The Tourists

  1. Such a racist.

    At least they gave you something to write about though, eh?

    Try bloggin about sitting in an empty shop for two weeks.

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