Paperjam

paper-jam does London

Travel // Jim // 14th September 2003

We (myself and two companions, who for the sake of anonymity I will call “Simon” and “Keith”) finally arrive in London after 10pm following a pleasant and uneventful train journey from the Midlands.

From Marylebone its a quick jump on the tube and across to Russell Square where one of those terrifying elevators brings us up to the rather nice bit of London where the Generator hostel we are staying at is situated.

Despite having managed to get lost on the 2 minute journey from the station to the hostel the year previously (“Honestly lads, I’m sure it was down here before”), this time we dash there in no time ready to get in the bar, which we are well aware will be open ‘til 2am.

After reaching the Stalinist edifice that is the Generator we are accosted by the bored looking South African bloke on reception. “Passports” he barks like some kind of Nazi commandant, except that he doesn’t. What he actually says is “Pissports”, which starts us giggling a little bit.
I explain that I don’t happen to have my passport with me as I wasn’t planning on leaving the country - he doesn’t take this too well, “Vere are you frim thin?” he enquires. Simon is starting to openly laugh, Keith keeps it together to answer loudly, “Cheshire”.

“ Cheesehear?”, the commandant replies. Now I start to laugh too and the commandant is starting to look a little pissed-off.

Having established that the only ID I have is a blockbuster video card and a gym membership with a photo that can only be described as “humourous”, we are not going to be able to take up our booking. Fortunately Keith saves the day with a dodgy looking National Insurance numbercard and we are able to book in while making further jokes about “Cheesehear” and pissing ourselves, the commandant is tapping away on a computer, presumably making a note to have us shot at dawn.

Up to the room, which could be described at best as “Functional” and at worst as “Fucking Minging”. Two bunk beds and a sink with the pubes of a thousand backpackers in it. Still the beds are OK and it only costs £20 a night. Would have been nice if they had taken the tissues left by the previous guest(s), who would appear to have been serial masturbators, out of the bin.

We aren’t dispirited though as the Generator does have a good bar - only it is now shut for refurbishments and a temporary bar is set up selling bottles of lager for £3 a pop. Never mind, a few beers while we laugh at the backpackers and take the piss out of each other go down well and then it is time for something to eat. Only it isn’t because after venturing out on an hour-long sortie for some grub we find that London has shut:

Me: “Look there's a KFC, I told you there was one round here”
Keith: “Jim, that is a travel inn”

Back to the hostel and crisps out of the vending machine, then off to bed pausing only to laugh at Simon who has failed to work out that the toasted sandwich machine requires you to push a button to make it work.

Get a decent sleep, only interrupted by farting, Keith's immense snoring, the world championship of door slamming at 4 in the morning and some Australian geezer banging on the door asking if there were any “Sexy girls” who wanted to “party” with him. He was disappointed, let me tell you.

Getting up at a reasonable hour, its off to the Generator’s shower room, not one of the nicest places I’ve ever had to get naked before. The showers are push button affairs which stay on for about 3 seconds unless you keep the button held down. This makes any two-handed shower operations (easy ladies) a bit challenging to say the least. Judging from the swearing coming from the other cubicles, I am not alone in struggling in the contortion act required to wash your arse whilst holding down a button on the wall behind you.

Breakfast is a fry up in a small cafe round the corner, where I unwittingly steal someone's paper and he asks for it back in a bit of a huff. All the while “My old mans a dustman” types call the girl behind the counter “Treacle” in an attempt to get an extra slice of toast.

Keith finishes my breakfast and we head to Kings Cross to jump on the tube and after a bit of a debate I persuade the others that we should head down to the South Bank and pop into the Tate Modern. One body-odour filled journey later we are strolling past the National Theatre and NFT before going into he Tate to find that the generator hall is shut (I am on a roll) and have a dash round a couple of floors while S&K act like a pair of bored kids on a school visit - “I have never been less interested in looking at naked pictures of women than I am at this moment”. Alright you cultureless bastards lets go to the pub.

Take the tube to the worlds largest student union or Camden, as the council insist on calling it. The place is fucking heaving, resisting the temptation to buy a mod t-shirt or a bottle of poppers we head to the pub near Camden Lock where you can sit out the back recovering from the fact that three pints of beer have just cost you £11. Sarah joins us a little later and regales us with tales of temping, we are restless though - the England game is on shortly and we need to eat.

As luck would have it Sarah knows the perfect place, but we don’t go there, we go to a pub we spot on the way after walking past a bloke who appears to have died in the street. “This is the place I meant”, says Sarah, we don’t believe her at all.

A quick enquiry confirms that the game will be shown in a couple of hours and we settle down in front of the tv with various drinks and snacks provided by Miss B who summons her flatmate so that she will have someone to talk to while the football is on. More drinks, we are onto bottles as the pumps are broken.

The Macedonia game is notable for two reasons:
- Heskey comes on and changes the game setting up Rooney to become England's youngest ever goal scorer.
- It is shit, but we win.
The whole thing vindicates Keith who slates Owen through the entire game as a greedy bastard - and he’s not wrong, cries of “pass it you scouse twat” and “Owen, you donkey” are heard more than once as the diminutive striker falls over his own feet endlessly, great goal against Argentina though.

After the game I switch to Gin and am therefore immediately derided as homosexual (taking them to an art gallery earlier didn’t help either). Post-match half-drunk discussions ramble through various classic pub territory:
- Who was at fault for that Casualty actress falling out of a window?
- The resemblance of a certain person to Ricky Gervais (“in a good way though”)
- What is it like being an extra on TV?
- Why Rugby players are more gay than footballers
- Doctor Strangelove is the best film ever
- Just how much of a sad twat was Jim at university? (went on a bit long for my liking)

There is only so much humiliation a man can take before he needs Chinese food so we head to Soho, Sarah sportingly, yet unwittingly taking the opportunity to advertise paper-jam the whole way. The restaurant at Gerards Corner is fantastic as always and we are soon full of top quality chinese nosh.

Back to Das Generator where I check the web and then manage the heroic effort of half a bottle of beer before retiring our cell tired and emotional. S&K have a few and then go on the prowl around Russell Square before returning looking a bit fucking worried after a close encounter with some local “gang” or other. Simon locks himself out of the room and can’t remember the number to get back in, helpfully we laugh at him and finally let him back in. I drift into a fitful sleep and dream of Walruses (Walri?) thanks to the nocturnal gruntings of Keith.

Morning brings a mild hangover, followed by another fun-filled trip to the showers where I notice some dodgy looking wiring in the cubicle while reaching for the gel.

We are all sad to say good-bye to the hostel in the same way that people are sad to say good-bye to an ingrown toenail. There is no sign of the commandant, probably off forcing someone to dig their own grave or something.

Sarah joins us for breakfast at the least well-run cafe in the world. About 82 people appear to work there but no-one can work out what we ordered. Twelve hours later, Keith finishes my breakfast and we get to Marylebone, where after a quick sprint we jump on the train and read the paper. A borderline senile woman asks everyone whether they have got her coat. The whole carriage breathes a sigh of relief when it is eventually located.

We arrive back in Leamington a bit tired and weary but generally feeling quite happy, particularly that we didn’t bother going to see David Blaine in his box.

What have we learnt?
- London - There is plenty to do but it is a bit fucking pricey (put that on a postcard Ken Livingstone).
- Drinking always leaves you with your own body weight in change in your pockets the following morning.
- Going on the underground makes me sick as a dog.
- Staying at the Generator isn’t that bad really.