How To Be a London It Boy

Over this summer an average, middle class girl was graced with the company
of many ‘it’ boys around London. God knows how I stumbled into this. Rather than lapping up in all the ‘wild’ antics I designated myself the role of an ‘observer’, often comparing myself to Nick Carraway. Instead of writing a book I have written an insightful guide. Lol.

on balcony, doobie nicely rolled listenin to some ska xx
                         

1.PM Wake up. Wake up and find empty Jack Daniels bottles and baggies of coke sprinkled around your room. Fuck. You’ll look longingly at your Bob Marley poster, placed next to the Eton Leavers photo Mummy left in your room and wish you were black. #jahbless.  The ‘help’ (Philipina nanny) shouts it’s time for breakfast. You're horrified that the bread isn’t gluten free so settle instead on a kale juice with a shot of whisky because you are in a band after all. Whilst getting wavy on this Petit Dejeuner you flick through ‘Just Kids’ by Patti Smith and think ‘Damn, I look like a young Maplethorpe’. 

dis aint cranberry juice and dis aint a ciggy ;)
                              

3PM. Time for a chaotic day. Must dress to impress or rather, dress down the impress. Throw on a shirt that you found in a car boot sale but make sure it’s buttoned nearly all the way down. Keeping it zen perhaps put on one or two crystal necklaces that help keep your life balanced and shit. With a quick tousle of your chin length hair, you’re good to go. Get your phone out and order an Uber pronto; must not be late for band practice !!!!!
mum's out tonite so gunna play her records!! #retro
                         
6PM. Late for band practice again due to a run in with a tramp who felt like your kindred spirit. Both of you haven’t washed in days, have lead tortured lives and both listen to Muddy Waters. Walking through the urban jungle of Soho, smiling fondly as you pass Ronnie Scott’s, the world feels like your oyster. The other dudes in your band laugh at your encounter with a fellow brother and start to write a blues song about it. You describe it as a mish mash of Jimi Hendrix, Gil Scott Heron and John Lennon. Some pictures are taken of all the revelry; smoking indoors, pretending to fuck the drum kit and rolling of ‘maaaaaad doobies’. 
get da fiji in!!!! come DWN XXX
                       

 11PM. You’re drunk and stoned from band practice but no where near drunk and stoned enough. I mean, what would Mick do, am I right? Bell up some ‘mandem’ for some chronic sh****T!!!!! You’re hungry but don’t dare eat; a moment on the lips is a lifetime on the hips, babe. As you walk down the dark steps of the place, you bump into your pals who have all been featured in I-D magazine as ‘the next big thing’. Talk of gap year travels, shamans and boarding school memories are thrown in the air. After this head straight to the toilets and wrack up some lines to help you limber up on the dance floor. #duttywine. You feel defeated by  the other guys who come in;more well endowed than you but another line of coke will sort that out for sure.
                         
2AM: You stumble back at your shack, aka six bedroom apartment where you slyly convince some cool cats (totally mod girls on acid) to spend the rest of the evening with you. This will consist of : regularly insulting the girls and if you’re lucky, maybe get a blowy and tab of acid out of it. To end the night you up the charm by hinting to your guests to leave by awkwardly booking them an Addison Lee back out of the Royal Borough.




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