A Collective Image of London

A pub, two pints on the table. The man opposite asks a question. How is life here, really.

Looking at the big picture, London is a massive dumpster wrapped in an expensive designer package. On top, the shop windows of Knightsbridge shine, the towers of the City rise, and billions change hands. Underground, you are met with the stubborn smell of cheap shawarma on the outskirts, sticky handrails in the tube, and endless drizzling rain.

The youth burn through their weekdays with a kind of doomed despair. Friday bars, liters of cheap cider, cigarette smoke on freezing terraces. Quick sex in a club toilet. Then in the morning, completely vacant, glassy eyes in a subway car. It smells of stale booze and wet wool coats.

Local women get married closer to forty. Only after calculating all the risks with a lawyer. A man’s bank balance here is traditionally valued much higher than any feelings. An ordinary guy from the provinces in this setting either quickly turns into a submissive cog or becomes resentful of the whole world.

In London, people smile at you mechanically. As if following an instruction manual. Behind every polite grimace hides a cold calculator. The enforced political correctness long ago turned into a noose. It slowly chokes out any sincerity.

London has become the perfect space for Middle Eastern sheikhs, runaway oligarchs, and restless tourists. For everyone else, it is just a prolonged, comfortable depression. The beauty remains strictly on promotional brochures. In reality, you face a huge, stuffy, damp mess. A place that still pretends to be a great empire.