Mon, 01 Dec 2025 23:38:15

we need to be deconstructing our identities

sorry i am texting like a slav

what do you mean

i did until you asked which kind of gave it away

was it worth it

and the fake qualifier

lol yea

bro i read nothing in my life

feel you

no i haven't really read anything

i was tempted to lie about my name

barren land

have you read


I Write Goodbye Letter

Actual born-Londoners aren't LARPing like this, they sold their shite family home for a million pounds and moved to Malaga years ago. They have their culture and they've taken it elsewhere.

He was cast as the guy who gets picked up and thrown out of the poker game to set the scene before the main characters arrive. Out of Real London and into real London, a discarded prop, at this party, chatting to me.

confused - is it the tide or its absense? I still like where I was going with it. anyway, real reader know this site is the note.
this will be about a slug

He went in there with a camera to film it before he moved out of the building. He didn't think anyone would believe the story if he didn't have proof.


i hadn't considered this pedagogically or as a kind of personal knowledge management system (puke) at all but i suppose it is both of those things

The Hatton geezer (fuck off) reminds me of this old failed actor who I'd met at a party a few years ago, another man out of time and out of place. This actor had scored a minor role in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and never really let go of it, had gone on to build his whole identity around it. I can't really blame him.

The only real Londoner remaining is old, bitter, kept around for entertainment, defined by tropes from 30+ years ago. They play gangsters in films, or they work in a pie and mash shop, or they go on Business Insider's YouTube channel to tell you about their crimes. And they somehow still find the time to spend all day hanging about cafes and pubs for you to bump into, to remind you of Real London.

The slug lives in my bathroom. I only see it in the early hours of the morning, when I'm not quite right.