London is fucked again. At St. Pancras, the underground arch is cordoned off because of the TFL strikes. Which sounds like something one might want when playing a deathmatch on Call of Duty, but in fact it’s a bunch of people –whose job is simply to sit down on their own pulling a lever or two for a few hours for 70k a year — deciding not to come to work but to sit in their million dollar London apartments instead, wanking and watching The Walking Dead. Who do these people think they are? It’s all- oh look at me, I’m part of a union! They want clubbing, the lot of them. 

We go to get a bus, and I’m about in the middle of the queue. My sister, who will be coming on this holiday with me, is further up and gets on. After a couple of more people climb aboard, the doors shut on me and I wave her off with a big smile. I wait for forty minutes for the next one and it doesn’t come, so I decide to retreat to a backstreet and book an Uber. It says on my phone, 14 minutes, for another 40 minutes. 

I message my friend Lovely Liza who lives in London, saying, so what about these tube drivers then? Am I missing something? Should I have any sympathy? She said no, not at all, “I walked past them protesting in the street and I wanted to spit at them!”. The fact she is a timid and lovely girl captures the extent of the problem. 

After a few hours I am reunited with my sister and the Bakerloo line is still on, so we get the train to the hotel at Heathrow. Over dinner an American woman gives us a coupon for four free drinks, and then takes the opportunity to yammer ceaselessly about how Donald Trump is a fascist and all kinds of conspiracies about how they’re all secretly part of the KKK. Get over it love, he’s not even president anymore. Thanks for the drinks though! I take the Elux Legend out for a big break and when I get back she’s still bang at it. It is now time for bed.