DEAR STRANGER DIARY: LONDON

The first time I hit London was in the peak of winter. When the rain blasted down from the high heavens of hell and the surfaces were covered with frost. I had to wipe every surface with a throwaway scarf since sellotape doesn’t stick on wet surfaces. I brought my friend/cameraman. Josh. He agreed to follow me around Europe and London with a camera to film a documentary that one day we would (hopefully) sell to Netflix. Our mission. London. Paris. Amsterdam. Rotterdam. Brussels. We booked ourselves into a cheap hostel in Camden not far from Camden town. Josh made me laugh when he showed me the innards of his backpack. Two shirts, trousers, underwear, socks, to last him two weeks. The rest was filled with camera gear. It was clear, he meant business. I can’t say we encountered much positivity on this city visit. It was if the city had collectively stabbed strangers in the brain with a serum that caused everybody to be rude and aggressive. And to top off the uphill struggle to post hope on its walls, one of the people in our hostel room was a middle aged man that smelled of expired vinegar and snored like a tortured hyena. I couldn’t get more than two hours sleep per night. After the third night I wanted to drown him in a tub of vinegar. 

Months passed until I tried London again. This time I came alone with 1000 letters. Since I hadn’t received a call by the police for posting my letters I thought fuck it, it must be ok, so I upped my game and printed three times as many letters. Since London is an expensive city, I set myself a mission that would make the city-visit worth the cash. I will post 1000 letters in three days. A near impossible task but fuck it, why not try. Since I went through insomniac hell last time, I paid a little more to secure a private room for three days. I was confused how I scored a private room for only $40 a night in the city centre, but when I arrived I soon realised why it was so cheap. It turned out to be a hotel for sex workers off the street. It must have been a painful fuck for them, the springs in the bed dug into your back whenever you lay down, I couldn’t imagine bouncing on them. Regardless, the hotel was one million times better than sharing a room with a dying animal soaked in vinegar. The pimps loitering in the hallways were always pleasant.

Day one: I woke up at 7am and didn’t return to my room until 4am. I jammed my headphones into my ear holes and blasted Jim Morrison on repeat. People are Strange. Break on through to the other side. All the good stuff. I didn’t meet anybody that day. I was a laser-focused-machine solely programmed to post letters. Post, BAM! run, post, BAM! run. I moved so fast, I remember nothing from that day. Ironically, most of my letters were about taking a moment to stop to smell the roses growing in-between the concrete. Thankfully the next day I received a message from a young man called George who hot-wired my programming and inspired me to slow down. I met him in Manchester a few months back when I was out posting letters. He asked if he could follow me around London with a camera. I said yes, so we met outside Kensington station. It turned out his best friend passed away a week prior and he was going through hell in his head, so he needed something to get him out of the fire. Something to channel that dark energy outside of himself into something creative. George was a sweet sweet boy with a gentle naive temperament, but at the same time I knew he wasn’t as naive as he appeared to be. He grew up in London after all, accustomed to some of the cruelest shit going. And his friends death visibly subdued the light in his eyes. A lovely lad. So with him by my side, we hit the streets together. I asked him where some of the rougher parts of London was. Where the letters would hit the hardest. He told me about the time he got mugged in a place called the Worlds End Estate. A notorious council estate near the Thames. I asked him if he was willing to hit the estate again with me, falsely promising him I could protect him. Looking back I should have had some pepper spray on me. He reluctantly agreed to my offer and we hit the estate. On our way to the estate George told me the World End Estate used to be a plague pit back when the plague was at its peak. As soon as we entered the estates belly, the heaviness of the place sunk its teeth into us, its skyrise brown stone buildings surrounded us from every angle, blocking the sun, trapping us in its stone stomach. It didn’t take long for drama to unfold. A huge man froffing at the mouth came out of nowhere and stood blocking our path. His yellow eyes locked onto George and his camera, upper lip twitching, dribble dropping. I gave the man a letter and told him we were out here spreading positivity and that anything negative going on was uncalled for. He forced me to read the letter out loud to him and by the end of it, he walked away talking to himself. When you spend a lot of the time on the street, you learn how to navigate notorious characters. 90% of the time, danger can be subdued with water. For the 10% times … well unfortunately you have to bring out the fire if you can’t run away. George was a little shaken up. I felt bad dragging him in there.

Regardless, it was nice having George by my side. There was something beautifully young about him, as if the world was still an endless book of opportunity, and it was waiting for him to finish university before it was ready to open up. That’s what I love about university students, the promise and hope they have inside of them. Innocence untouched by realities cruel cruel fist. I never went to university so I missed out on that feeling, so the second best thing I can do is absorb it from others.

George followed me for two days. He walked everywhere with me, filming anything he could. He never complained under rain or sun, he just kept on walking with me, beaming that polite tired smile of his even though you could see the exhaustion seeping from his eyes. I’m pretty sure he was bed-ridden for the next few days after our escapades. George truly gave me faith in Londoners. He was my first true glimpse into the heart of the city. Before him, I can’t say I had really seen London. I’d been there, spent time there, but I never actually properly met people living there, so I had no validity to judge it. Up North we are programmed to think London is the portal to hell and the people living there are the spawn of all evil. Serpents disguised as humans. In reality, nobody gives a fuck where you come from because the majority of the people in London come from some place else and those who are actually from there are usually very genuine.

It was 3am when I posted my 1000th letter on a red telephone box in Belgravia. We must have walked at least sixty miles over the course of our days together. George recorded the moment under a street lamp. I wanted to cry because we had achieved a near impossible task. And the reward that came with it soon followed … hundreds and hundreds of hopeful messages from strangers, responses to my letters, many windows into the city through the peoples eyes. It was on this trip, after meeting George, and receiving all these beautiful messages, that I knew Dear Stranger belonged here.

I have been back four times since meeting George. And the more I come, the more confident I feel walking its streets. The letters injected confidence into my stride, they made me believe that I belong here just as much as everybody else. Even after fighting off a robber or after getting spat on at a bus stop, the responses to my letters make me believe I still belong here. I see London like a series of grey days. You might meet eight dickheads in a row but that one person you meet who is genuinely lovely makes everyone else feel like a distant fever dream. London reminds me of a week of rain because when the sun finally comes out, it comes out in all its majestic glory like no other and you truly truly appreciate it. Just like when you meet a lovely person in London. You truly truly appreciate them.

Many things have happened since meeting George. Too many to fit into one sub-stack thing. Thankfully I’ve found a hostel that is somewhat ok. Befriended street artists, punks, painters, bankers, barristers, everyday people doing what they have to do to get by. I broke into the publishing industry. Stormed the gates of Penguin random house. But I think that story is for next time. But before I go, I would like to give one piece of advice for surviving London’s talons.

Don’t be shy, stand strong, and fuck the lion before it fucks you. Ride that untameable bull, dig your claws into its neck, and hold on for dear life while you still have the energy. 

Rock and roll wild child. I hope the story made you laugh and I hope it injected fire into your eyes to take your dream and ram it through whichever door is blocking your way. No doesn’t mean no. It just means there’s another way. Fire speed.

If you like how I write, you will probably like my novel that is available in the shop. With each order you will receive a signed book and a signed limited edition Dear Stranger letter. Keep rocking.