I know I’m always banging on about the weather, but really, what’s going on at the moment is fucking ridiculous. Is really is. Toilet needs aside, this is only the second or third time time I’ve left the ledge in days there’s been that much rain. Blew out the weekender. Not enough cover down there, unless you’re happy with a bush. Bushes don’t cut it for me, apart from the low ones with massive leaves. Probably not many of those along the A316.
So we spent the weekend in the West End, ledge-bound for most of it. Bumped into a load of pigeons on Leicester Square who had just moved down from Scotland. Frankly all a bit rank after the long flight, and definitely half cut.
Couldn’t understand a word they were saying at first. Not a word. :
Then I asked one of them why they’d moved here in the first place? The wettest place on earth. Surprise, surprise, turns out to be the weather. Douglas, the fat one on the right, reckons all it does in Glasgow is rain. Literally. No sunshine. Just rain. Rains all summer, and then rains or snows in the winter.
“Och, think you’ve got it bad, Jimmy. Nothing but rain up there. Big wet rain.” Said Douglas, or I think that’s what he said. That wasn’t the last time he called me Jimmy either. Not sure why. Come to think of it, quite a few of them seemed to be called Jimmy…
This was funny. Here’s Douglas daring one of the Jimmies to sit on a spike. It’s was most out of towners do when they get here. Go sit on a spike. Believe me, they only do it once:
Stays with you for fucking days.
Tried to talk to another one of them called Angus, the one in the middle. Total nutter. Absolute mentalist:
He stood like that for ages. Check out the dude on his left desperately looking for an escape.
I asked him what he thought of London so far, but all I got was “Och.. Och.. Naw. Och. Naw.”
Then it started to piss it down, not that it seemed to bother Angus. Me and Mart couldn’t be arsed with it though, so we headed back to Beak Street, hit the ledge for the rest of the afternoon and haven’t moved much since.
So we spent the weekend in the West End, ledge-bound for most of it. Bumped into a load of pigeons on Leicester Square who had just moved down from Scotland. Frankly all a bit rank after the long flight, and definitely half cut.
Couldn’t understand a word they were saying at first. Not a word. :
Then I asked one of them why they’d moved here in the first place? The wettest place on earth. Surprise, surprise, turns out to be the weather. Douglas, the fat one on the right, reckons all it does in Glasgow is rain. Literally. No sunshine. Just rain. Rains all summer, and then rains or snows in the winter.
“Och, think you’ve got it bad, Jimmy. Nothing but rain up there. Big wet rain.” Said Douglas, or I think that’s what he said. That wasn’t the last time he called me Jimmy either. Not sure why. Come to think of it, quite a few of them seemed to be called Jimmy…
This was funny. Here’s Douglas daring one of the Jimmies to sit on a spike. It’s was most out of towners do when they get here. Go sit on a spike. Believe me, they only do it once:
Stays with you for fucking days.
Tried to talk to another one of them called Angus, the one in the middle. Total nutter. Absolute mentalist:
He stood like that for ages. Check out the dude on his left desperately looking for an escape.
I asked him what he thought of London so far, but all I got was “Och.. Och.. Naw. Och. Naw.”
Then it started to piss it down, not that it seemed to bother Angus. Me and Mart couldn’t be arsed with it though, so we headed back to Beak Street, hit the ledge for the rest of the afternoon and haven’t moved much since.
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