Photos and words by James Adams
I understand why stereotypes exist, but I’ve been reminded recently why there’s not always truth to them.
I’d always imagined London to have grey skies and warm beer. I’d visualised a pasty chap with baked bean teeth in a bad mood doing his darnedest to hold his pork pie hat on while brooming rats out of his shop front. He’s got mashed potato on his chin and HP sauce spilled down his fresh button up and he gets a slight rise as a few young boys run past trying to play football with a cardboard box. His mood returns to normal, but then the phone rings and he completely flys off the handle—who the hell could be calling him at this hour? The rain outside returns for the eighth time that day, as people seek refuge in their homes or nearby pubs. A two-storey bus drives past Big Ben and Jack the Ripper hides in the shadows the next street over.
My 10 days of English summer, however, revealed a brighter truth. It’s light until 10pm, it’s t-shirt weather, every band is in town, Jack the Ripper is nowhere to be seen, people are happy and social, and there’s Australians fucking everywhere to make you feel at home. (I presume that’s why they’re there.) You don’t need to take my word for it though, just check the photos. They might be black and white, but I swear the sky was blue.
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