web analytics

Practicing invective, part 1: London

Hate the damn stupid telephone alarm clocks that don’t wake you up. They’re supposed to ring histerically at 7 am but somehow they don’t. You open your eyes at half past eight and realise you should be checking in at Fiumicino terminal C in half an hour. Only you live at 50 km. You end up there somehow almost on time, you queue up for 25 minutes at passport control (ain’t this the EU WTF?), right next to an ageing dwarfish rockstar with long dirty hair, leather trousers and leather jacket, speaking in Milanese and stinking. The whole thing is so insulting that you’re forced to put on your AKG headphones (love them) and listen to New Born by Muse for at least 2 times, noisily blowing your nose in disgust.

Hate the people without fantasy sitting next to you on a plane. You crack a couple of your best jokes on them and smile, hoping to see a glimpse of intellect stirring beyond their cowish glances. No way. Next thing you do is try to help them out when they’re trying to explain to the English speaking stewardess that they want a coke. Even worse. They guy is offended, the woman is jealous and looks meanly at you. The cow! Hate standard Italian women, hate their stupid tendency to straightening their hair and of tucking their jeans into their boots: somebody full of love and patience should tell them that this is the worst way to enwrap their fat asses. Hate them mostly because they instinctively loathe and despise Eastern European women, even when they don’t know they’re dealing with one. What a fine piece of nose they have, able to smell immigration so well.

Hate the stupid 8-member families from Benevento, sitting in the row in front of you on the plane. They embarass you. They shout and eat homemade sandwiches, handing them over to all their relatives. Usually, the mother is in charge of provisions, so she orders 5 cokes, three cups of coffee, two bottles of water to the bewildered stewardess as if she were in a trattoria, without knowing a single English word. What a fucking parade! When she’s not eating, she’s explaining in a loud voice to all those around her what’s going on on the plane, as if they weren’t there too, as if we all were at a fucking soccer match, and she were our speaker. Slow the fuck down! Oh, and I hate British stewards and their air of superiority, when they’re staring at poor ignorant southern-Italian families who have never travelled on a plane.

Hate it when you land at Gatwick freezing cold, and discover you’re about to die from hemorrhage – that’s nine days too early, holy fuck! Must this happen each time I catch a damn plane? Hate myself when I don’t take this into account, and find myself wondering whether: a) I have sanitary towels (no); b) I have pain relievers (no); c) I have any kind of underwear that is suitable for this situation (no). What a fucking idiot! I feel like fainting.

So now: it’s damn cold; coffee sucks as usual (but I’ve brought a Moka Bialetti with me, not kidding); a 25 g packet of Golden Virginia costs 11 £; I’m utterly enraged, feel sick and hate myself for a number of reasons, and mainly: I’ve forgotten my London map; I’ve forgotten my Oyster card (again); I’m a total crap.

The only thing is – it’s so damn beautiful that I will soon forget all this.


In London, people walk as fast as me – I don’t feel a fucking alien as I usually do.
In London, people don’t drive as fast as me.
In London, people protect their wireless networks with WPA2 / fuck them!
In London, the sky has no colour.

OK, how was my first invective?

London colourless sky
No colour


0 comments on “Practicing invective, part 1: London

Leave a Reply