The b-boys of grime wear baseball hats and quilted jackets, sometimes in the version of baseball jackets, but none of it ever looks hip-hop. And why? Because they stand straight and conserve motion and the pants never sag completely. They should love this, and themselves, and stay the course. They are on to something.
A girl threw up in Leicester Square, attended by two City Guardians and a friend who rubbed her arms hopefully. Many people here throw up. It feels generically rowdy, like a positive consensus around voluble carousing has grown up and it is not only AWOL fratpoles who wiggle around sozzled and impudent. Also, Busaba Eathai is fabulous low-priced Thai. But, like you, all I could hear through dinner was "A Bomb In Wardour Street." A P O C A L Y P S E, apocalypse, but only wine is served.
God, I love my second city here, my dream home deferred, my lock box.Posted by Sasha at October 9, 2004 11:44 PM | TrackBack