Swedes in Soho

Last Friday was a brilliant and spontaneous night; full of fun and full of excitment.

I met my friend Paul after work, and we had a couple of pints in the Sherlock Holmes pub, just off Trafalgar Square. Somehow we got talking to some Swedish students – 3 girls and 1 bloke – and from there an exciting chain of events occurred. They were all bright young things – attractive, funny and charming – and they reminded me what it was like to be young and care-free again.

They lived in Brighton and had to stay out all night, before catching their train home in the morning. We were lucky enough to be chosen to be their tour guides for the night. Sadly, we know bugger all about where to find a fun time in London, despite living here.

We had a walk around Soho, before ending up at Zoo Bar at Leicester Square, officially the shittiest bar/club in all of London. I’m a firm believer, however, that if you’re with the right company and have enough alcohol, and you’re provided with a dance floor – good times will ensue. And so it turned out.

Somewhere along the way we ended up scrawling messages and Nazi tattoos (in biro) on each others’ arms (Please note – I am not an actual Nazi).

The club closed at 3am so after that we walked to Westminster Bridge (aka “Big Ben Bridge”) and drank a couple of bottles of wine and sat by the river.

After that we all went back to mine – not in a sexy times way – but just because it was warm and we could get some sleep. I didn’t actually get any sleep incidentally, as Paul snores like a fucking elephant. I also slept on the floor because I’m a perfect gentleman. Such a gentleman in fact, that I didn’t attempt anything dodgy; I didn’t even try to wank over their faces as they slept or anything. I actually felt protective of my new Swedish friends in sleazy London.

It was quite embarrassing that I had no clean mugs and an unmade bed, but no one’s totally perfect.

In the morning we looked through my Russian Criminal Enclyclopedia books, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, before sending them off into the bad streets of Camberwell (complete with biro swastikas on their foreheads). I’d love to meet them again. Happy days…

Since then, I keep finding their long hairs in the sink and it makes me feel a little bit wistful. I’m going to get the hairs, just in case one day I decide to clone them. I would genetically modify the stem cells though, so that they all have massive, over-sized breasts – as these things are very important.


Funny, London Life


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