Читать книгу The World According to Vice - Vice Magazine - Страница 26

Somehow I had neglected to secure appropriate lodging. After surveying my humble residence, I decided my windfall of make-believe success allowed for a viewing of an obscenely expensive apartment near Canary Wharf. I felt a bit guilty about leading the estate agent on, so I lied and said I was waiting for my fiancée (who worked in a renowned Spanish art gallery) to accept my marriage proposal before I could really consider buying the place. Shaking my low-class scruples was proving more difficult than I’d thought—and it was getting embarrassing. I left in shame with some paperwork.

But soon a reliable source informed me that after a hard day of wiping their bottoms with £50 notes atop platinum-plated shitters, many city boys retire to vast, vapid bars on the edges of the Square Mile, London’s old financial hub, to watch sport. So off I went to watch football at the Barracuda Bar on Houndsditch.

As I strolled purposefully, some bike couriers near Aldgate looked at me like I was off to sell shares of a company that makes tainted baby food to rich, trusting widows. And I soon learned that the Barracuda is a South African bar. By halftime it was too much to bear.