by Andrew Pogany
Having suffered a long and turbulent flight, I was happy to finally land at Heathrow Airport and-for the first time in my life-to breathe British air. It was Boxing Day (Dec. 26), and nearly every storefront in London was closed. Jet lagged and with time on my hands, I stopped in at a Greenwich Village pub called The Green Fox. The heat was blasting, Virgin Radio played over the stereo, and football (we Americans call it “soccer”) was on the telly. I ordered a pint of Grolsch and a double shot of Glen Morangie. Maybe I pronounced it incorrectly, because the barback snickered and asked me where I was from. “Los Angeles,” I answered. “Ohhh,” she said, “Well then maybe I can forgive you.” Later that night I found myself supremely drunk and in a theater watching King Kong. In need of immediate relief, I leapt to the exit to find a bathroom, only to get lost and somehow end up in a service closet. I pissed all over the place, hoping the English could forgive me of that as well.
I took a short drive to Old Windsor one night, riding through the countryside past Windsor Castle and Sir Elton John’s estate, and ending up at the only pub open: The Red Rose Inn. Once inside-and after my second Stella-I began talking with a group of well-off, older gentlemen. Obviously locals, they were transfixed on the topic of Tookie Williams. Apparently, the story received a good deal of coverage in the UK. For two reasons, my new friends explained. Firstly, England has banned the death penalty. Secondly, they said with a laugh and a cackle, “We just can’t understand how California has an Austrian-born, Republican, bodybuilding, Hollywood celebrity as its governor!”
Stars poked through the clouds as friends and I looked forward to a night of drugs and dancing at the Mother Bar in Hoxton & Shoreditch. Looking to fill our bellies first, we quickly walked to Brick Lane for some tasty Indian food. While waiting in the restaurant for my chicken tikka masala, four shaggy-headed, clean-shaven dudes sitting at an adjacent table began talking shit my way. I caught their eye, and, naturally, they asked me where I came from. They continually sneered in my direction, and-referring to my beard-asked, “Are you a superstar? Are you Jesus?” I told them I’d come to London to spread the love. One of the bunch-a rather self-satisfied twat-said, “We’d rather you not. We English have very bad Gaydar.”
I returned to East London not long after that to have drinks at Dream Bags Jaguar Shoes, a retail store converted into a grubby bar with elementary sketches etched on its white walls. The patrons had asymmetrical haircuts, wore skinny jeans, and drank lots of Corona. At the bar I was introduced to a loud-mouthed, good-humored guy named Alfie. Realizing I was American, he said, “Oh, please, lets not talk about sororities!” I asked, “Fraternities, then?” He laughed and bought the next round.
Drinks were being had on the curb outside a friend’s flat in Lewisham as people in the neighborhood prepared for New Year’s Eve. We visited a garage across the street where three guys in a local band called Bacardiac Arrest prepared to perform at a costume party. Everyone in the room took turns describing their outfit. One guy was dressing as Al Pacino in Scarface, which was applauded. One couple was going as David Bowie and Iman, which was also applauded. Another guy was going as Jack the Ripper, and was wildly applauded. When it was my turn, I joked, “I’ll be dressed as Chevy Chase in European Vacation.” This was greeted by utter silence.
Breaking the oppressive ride out to Gatwick Airport, my friend asked the most impossible question: “So, what do you think of London?” But what, besides surface impressions of particular places and people, can one possibly take away from such a short trip to a foreign city? Even though I’d visited the British Library, the Tate Modern and the British Museum-though I had walked along the Thames from the Saatchi Gallery to St. Paul’s Cathedral-for me to make any grand statements about the city would be just as amazingly stupid as those tourists who stay at the Roosevelt Hotel, party on the Sunset Strip and then summarize Los Angeles as being “too Hollywood.” Despite my efforts to develop a real sense of the city, what was most impressive was the hospitality, and sometimes lack thereof, of its patrons. Which only serves to emphasize, in my mind, how much each of us individually is a true ambassador for our locale. So, wishing to extend a diplomatic hand before leaving, I invited everyone to visit Los Angeles (anytime!), noting sadly, “We’re suckers for an English accent.”
The Fugitive Hours is a bi-weekly column written by Andrew Pogany, who also serves as senior editor for Flaunt magazine. You can tell him to piss off at www.myspace.com/animaltongue.