Seventy-two hours in London

Cavanman's Diary with Paul Fitzpatrick.

There was a Cavanman in Harrod’s – it sounds like the start of a joke, but bear with me. I was in the Sheikh Shop the week before last and what surprised me was the crowds and the maze-like lay-out, which was not unlike a casino – once you’re in, you almost have to buy your way out.

We’d spent the morning in Camden Market and Harrod’s was so different that it was almost similar. There were women aggressively hawking various fragrances, young people swanning about with the strut of pure wealth. There seemed to be a thousand rooms. My head was spinning.

I was in London – I know, that sounds like the opening line of a Louis Theroux documentary – for 72 hours. Given that the rest of my waking life has been taken up with club football of late and that nobody wants to read another piece about why Cavan should change its championship structure – and, at the risk of this column turning into some kind of travelogue - I said I would tell you about it.

Anyway, true to my roots, I managed to escape the Knightsbridge mart – albeit one where the sales ring is gilded - without spending any money, falling out the back door, breathless. I was now on Basil Street, a sign told me. I looked up to get my bearings and there was a row of luxury cars – a dozen, maybe - and, directly in front of me, a magnificent Rolls Royce SUV.

Now, I’m not into cars but this thing looked like something from a James Bond movie; the personalised number plate included, in small letters, the words “Rolls Royce Company of Doha”. Under the windscreen wiper, I spotted a parking ticket; it was only then I copped that all of these swanky Porsches, Jags and BMWs were abandoned on a double-yellow line. The fine, clearly, was no deterrent for these motorists.

Directly opposite the front door of Al Fayed Convenience Stores sits an enormous, opulent hotel called the Mandarin Oriental; it may be, I thought, the only world-class hotel on the planet, which could feasibly share its name with a pokey Chinese take-away in a midlands Irish town.

We left there and made our way to Borough Market, a food market with 1,000 years of history behind it. It’s a trendy spot with prices to match and very nice, fresh food. The sausage rolls are famous. I ate one just outside the door. Across from me, a wino shared his can of cider, carefully filling a plastic bottle and tenderly handing it over to his comrade.

It brought to mind John Healy’s masterful autobiographical work about the down-and-out, alcoholic scene in London, The Grass Arena. In an interview once, Healy brought up something interesting; the philosophy, by necessity, was to take each day as it comes, to stay in the moment until, through drink, you can leave it.

“One thing that impressed me,” he said, “was that they did not care what anyone had done in drink or otherwise the day before."

I looked at the guy across from me and wondered where his day would lead “in drink”, what he did yesterday, how he ended up in this mess, doling out cider to his mate... I think the sad and pathetic image of the hobo on the street in England, particularly London, resonates with the Irish because it was the fate of many. Most Irish people have links in this city, in fact; we lived there, when I was a small boy, and when I hear the names of the places – Dalston, Park Lane, Edmonton, Finsbury Park – on the TV, usually to do with a stabbing or some such, it triggers a sort of melancholy.

The winos are still prevalent, of course, but in certain hip neighbourhoods, they’ve sadly become almost ironically cool. In Camden, I saw a man sitting on the ground, beer in hand, sporting a neon pink mohawk and so many piercings as to resemble chainmail, with a small notice saying 'Help a punk get drunk'. Business seemed brisk, too.

Anyway, we went on towards Westminster. Outside the tube station was a preacher with a megaphone, wearing a t-shirt, which simply stated, “3,000,000,000 idolators will be burned to death in one minute”. Whether he meant in one minute's time, or a random minute at some point in the future, was not clear.

There is a phone box near Big Ben which caught my eye. It’s a typical example of the old-style red phone boxes, themselves an iconic, very English image, and it is situated perfectly to allow a photo showing the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben in the background. Tourists have obviously copped on to this – there was a queue about 50 deep when we passed, making it surely the busiest and most sought-after kiosk in Europe.

We were billeted in Kensington; disappointingly, we spotted no celebrities - the last time I was there, riding shotgun with a famous Cavan sportsman, I bumped into Piers Morgan on Kensington High Street. This time, the celebrities eluded us.

After an extended stay in the Prince of Wales pub on one of the evenings - £6.70 a pint since you ask – my travelling companion, an avowed Swifty, suggested we visit a joint called The Black Dog in Vauxhall, mentioned in passing in an obscure track by Tay Tay herself.

There, a scene played out reminiscent of one Shane Connaughton recounted about his father. On a visit to New York, Connaughton Sr accidentally, and to the amazement of his family, dropped a $100 bill in the plate at Mass. Made aware of it, he promptly called around to the priest afterwards, explained the mix-up and replaced it with a tenner.

Back in the Black Dog, I enquired if they sold any Taylor Swift merch. They did, the bar man said, pointing to a branded pint glass. Thinking this would be a most wonderful surprise for the Swifty, I bought it along with the drinks, returning to the table like a triumphant warrior with the spoils of war.

It was only on sitting down and, unusually for me, inspecting the receipt, that I realised I had been over-charged. I returned to the bar, glass in hand. “I think that’s wrong,” I protested, “£39 for two drinks and that Taylor Swift glass.”

“The glass is £25,” the bar man responded flatly, offering to process a refund. I sensed his offer may have been slightly sarcastic but, sarcasm or not, I wasn’t paying 25 quid for a glass. He awaited my reaction. There followed a moment of tension. Would I have the neck to ask for my money back? Was I that shameless?

The lessons of the winos flashed across my mind; it’ll all be forgotten about tomorrow.

“Yeah, refund please,” I announced victoriously. I knew he wasn’t impressed as I resisted the urge to add “me old China” and do a little Cockney dance.

I sensed it was time to move on. Soon enough, we drank up and headed home, glassless, like Del Boy, a pony in my pocket and a hangover in the post. In the words of Taylor herself, songstress and inspiration for over-priced tat, so long London...