READING about London is like watching a good horror movie for many Northerners. Here Roy Hobbs gives an account of what he firmly believes an average day in the capital is like.
8.00am. Wake up in my tiny studio flat costing £1,750 a day. It’s so small I have to keep my food in the toilet bowl and take it out whenever I need a shit.
8.30am. Accosted by beggars as I leave for work. They’re the aggressive type who threaten to cut off my ears. Forced to give them £20.
8.45am. Pushed under a Tube train by a loony. Manage to scramble back onto the platform with seconds to spare. That’s the fourth time this week.
8.53am. Say ‘Hello’ to a fellow passenger. They tell me to f**k off and spit in my face. Londoners are so unfriendly.
9.25am. Arrive at work. The only jobs in London are stockbroker and ad agency creative, which is what I do. I hate it because I have to take lots of cocaine in the toilets and I’m against drugs.
12.30pm. Go and get a sandwich. It takes ages because of all the Hezbollah members screaming ‘Death to Israel!’ in the queue at Pret.
12.50pm. Stabbed by a gang.
12.51pm. My phone is snatched.
12.52pm. Stabbed by another gang. They make me buy a new phone at knifepoint then snatch it.
2.30pm. Check my bank balance. £4,800 has been taken out of my account to pay the Congestion Charge. I don’t even have a car. Bloody Sadiq Khan.
3.30pm. Sophie, my London girlfriend, calls. She’s dumping me because the cost of living in the capital means we can’t afford to have children. She’s marrying a forklift driver in Sunderland instead. He’s a moron and she hates him, but because property prices are lower she’ll be able to afford a pushchair.
3.55pm. Try to kill myself by hurling myself off Waterloo Bridge but I land on a shitty party boat. It’s £45 a ticket with no exceptions, so I have to pay up.
4.10pm. Caught up in an Islamist terror attack. It’s not my day.
6.00pm. Go to pub after work. Four beers set me back £365.20. It’s ridiculous when a pint up North is -£2.50 and you get home from the pub with a modest profit.
6.45pm. Pushed under a Tube train by a loony again. Sigh wearily as I scramble back onto the platform with only seconds to spare.
7.15pm. Time for tea, or ‘dinner’ as Southerners confusingly call an evening meal that doesn’t involve tea. The only places to eat in London are Michelin-starred restaurants, so I have to pay £129 for a wagyu rump steak at Michel Roux’s Le Gavroche. It’s not right when you can get a bag of beef Monster Munch for 80p in Wigan Asda.
8.30pm. In London everyone goes to the theatre, so I go and see The Lion King. It’s alright, but £94 is a bit steep when the film had more animals in it.
11.30pm. Bedtime. Wish I was dead rather than having to live in London.
11.45pm. Dead from the cumulative effects of air pollution. At least something good happened today.
