The Land Where I Belong Part 2

It was night time in the big city, wet taxi cabs flew by, hot red buses full of crack pots and junkies went by, we jumped on one, made some jokes then dropped ourselves off at the Canteen restaurant, Spitalfields.
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It's a nice enough area now, but back in Victorian Britain it saw many of Jack the Ripper's victims draw their last breaths. It's quite trendy now; quite arty with famous residents Tracey Emin and even Damien Hurst a few years back. Jeremy Bentham of 'greatest good for the greatest number Utilitarian' fame was born there too.

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So after a rather drunken meal, well drunken for me anyway...culminating in a nice drop of brandy, ended then we stumbled out, across white paving, under funky lighting reflecting off smooth shiny new walls of glass and steel.

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After a few drinks in a glorified factory, and cashing in on it too, we went to a place called Tabernacle, a weird if none-event which boasted big crowds and bigger prices upstairs, but a quite quaint yet smart club downstairs, with a lit up disco floor, and small star lights in the wall. Not that I paid much attention of course; I was too busy getting pissed on sambuca, tequila, beer, vodka, gin, wine and whatever else took my fancy. Twas like Tom Brown in an alcoholic sweet shop!

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So after an expensive night then I was well out of reddies. I went to the Sudanese corner shop at the top of the road and scraped enough for some juice and a crap pizza. Fell from rich to poor in a matter of minutes. At least I had my Oyster card...oh shit where has that gone?

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So I enjoyed it, LONDON, but it wasn't me. You can't look at people on the bus, can't talk to people at the bus stop, exchange a familiar glance with communters on the train home, can't moan about the weather or the shit running times of the trains. You leave your place in a morning and go all focussed in getting to work. I still do it; I will bump into someone and still say sorry. You do that and they treat you with the same level of contempt if you were to bump into someone then walk away in Nottingham...lots of words there for a very small point. London is my capital city, I feel proud to walk past the statues of Cromwell and Churchill...tourist points for the Japs and Americans, my heritage, MY HISTORY. London is my capital city but I don't belong...I don't belong anymore than anyone else down there.
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Get back home, or jump up and down Briggate in Leeds...I feel welcome there. I still feel welcome in Headingley, or in the Dolphin or Leeds Market, or Upper Parliament Street.
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London; theres shit loads of people there, all different nationalities, all faiths, a mixture, DIVERSITY, the buzz words we're all shouting out for...a diverse city! That's good though; I welcome it, but it's not my capital, not like Nottingham or, dare I say it, Ilkeston, or Leeds. I'd rather be a Midlander, or Northerner than a Londoner. Notice I didn't say Southerner? I like some parts of the south...queen of the south, not THE Queen. Give us back our houses, sell your jewels and give the money to the poor.

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