Fresh new job, months in, fresh outta Thailand, month before, #godmode, I had a plan to travel twelve times a year, once per month, and March was London. When you’re a kid, and haven’t earned a dime your whole life, and then you start a real gig, a solid job, stable, and cushy, and money comes in, not a lot, in hindsight, but enough, enough to fund your passions, you’re feeling like a rockstar, ready to play hundred dollar hands in Vegas. Or in my case. Down vodka shots in London.
I’ve been there once before, with my parents, and it was a classic fam trip, no boozing, no debauchery, and no Fury solo outing, you must know which flavor this is gonna get by now.
And there was Darren Till, now UFC middleweight contender, back then welterweight champion contender. He’d just lost the championship bout against Woodley, by submission, d’arce choke, and he was coming back in swing, and there was no one willing to fight the big fight in England, Till’s home turf, but that’s when Masvidal, now BMF, and champion contender, back then underdog, stepped in.
I’d never been to a UFC bout, and the country is close by. So with the new dough I thought I’d just book a weekend trip and it’d be fun.
Friday, off from work, packed my bag the day before, just a carry on, and straight to the airport, Easyjet, and a short flight to London.
Grey Goose on the flight. Getting me into gear.
Friends didn’t even know I was coming, until I was there. I tend to lone wolf, on my bad days, and the good. The godly ones. Fresh off Thailand, my head was brimming with delusions of grandeur, spending time in four, five star hotels, with pools, and gyms and shit.
I booked the Paddington, near Kensington I think, a five star hotel, in the centre of London, with a sauna, a spa, cuz I deserved pampering.
I arrived at the airport. Luton. Took the train to the city center. Took a tube, and then walked to the hotel.
Snapped a pic from the outside it was fancy as hell. It was already dark, and late, and the hotel lights were flooding the outside tarmac, and the cool cars parked there. Not lambos, but fancy cars.
The golden hue of the lights made for a nice entryway, the doorway beckoned, come in Fury, and enjoy your time here.
I stepped in, and the lobby was small. The hotel was compact. The floor was shiny, and all the service people were dressed to the tee.
The manager had a calm, mature, patient smile. Tired eyes, but frivolous. Full of patter and banter, and ready to get that tip. I wasn’t that G.
I walked to the desk, and I had to pay a fee, or do the check in stuff, and whatever, and got the hotel card, and the lobby boy walked me to my room. We took the elevator, up, and then upstairs, the hallways were narrow as fuck, this was London after all, shortage of space, and he opened the door, and turned on the lights of my room.
He smiled, left. The room was small and not worth the five star shit. But it was nice and the bed was well made, I had a shower, there was music, and there was a shoe kit, and I had a roof over my head, and I slept in a bed, and I was safe. Not gonna lie, the shit I’ve been through. This sounds heaven.
It was late but Friday and I had to get shit poppin, it was a going out night. I was a bit tired, but wired, cuz of the potentiality for furyous stuff to do. I didn’t even shower I think, knowing me, and I just changed into my going out outfit, and went to the street.
Now I come from a metropolitan city, big and more than half a mil people living there. Lots of crime, and shady spots during the dead of night. It doesn’t feel that safe when walking home. I’ve been to so called dangerous parts of the world but my hometown always felt a tad worse. The same vibe is to be said for London night time, night life. There are shady people, not gonna lie, mostly foreigners, and it’s fuck dark, and the stories on the web and news don’t make your brain feel that at ease.
So I’m at the bus stop, waiting for the bus to go to down town, to this bar or club or whatever I wanted to hit. I wait. Nothing comes. I check the sign, with all the buses. I can’t read fuck all what it’s about. I wait. It’s getting late, and time was burning. I ask around, the people at the bus stop. Buses aren’t running anymore?
The fuck. First sign of a failed society. For flying fuckity fuck’s sake.
It wasn’t even that late. It was nine or ten or something. Geez. How the fuck do you go to the fucking party zone then?
I got in one of those London cabs. The guy was foreigner, too. He looked bit shady, but was prolly on guard for some shady ass shit, too, but he drove and I gave him the address, Liverpool street, big outgoing scene, ok, we down to get poppin.
The drive was short, and the sightings were city like, and not that special, but the place looked modern, and it didn’t feel alive, or brimming with special energy, like Euro cities tend to have. The drive was also expensive. Fucking pounds. Fucking overrated expensive shit.
I stood on Liverpool street. People were already puking, left and right. People were dragging people home, to fuck, or to safety, and to fuck, and it was clear I was late to the party. People were having dem sitting afterparties on the curb, with their drinks in hand, and near vomit, or against the walls, or behind walls, or in the shade. It had been raining I feel, the street was shiny, from the drizzle, and Liverpool station looked familiar, from photos, or online, and it looked big.
I looked left. The street was long, and I saw people leaving. Not going there. I looked right, and I saw people going there, and I walked and walked. Searching for my first Vodka Red Bull. In London.
Now, that was hard to find. For fuck’s sake.
All the joints were closing, fuck my life, and then I found one. Big bouncer in front. Bald. Huge as fuck. Typical bouncer look. Black clothing, mic in his ear. He said, Food or drink?
Drink, I said.
He talked in his mic. One guy. Drink.
He made brisk, blunt pointy movements, with his fat fingers, signaling me in.
I went in, and upstairs. The place was small, the kitchen was still open, junk food, hot dogs, or other garbage, smelt good tho, pizza’s and shit, you know late nite food, the sneks.
The place had a wooden feel. Brown bar style. But it looked dirty, but there were people on a date kinda thing, and it looked safe enough. I could have my fucking drink in peace and quiet, and get buzzed up, and wreck town.
Upstairs I sat down and the service was shit, prolly busy, not, since they were just shooting the shit with eachother, playing eachother or some shit, trying to fuck eachother, don’t know, but they weren’t serving me, that was for sure.
I sat, and waited, and after a while a girl came, and I ordered vodka red bull, and she looked she had to calculate the fucking SpaceX mission to Mars or some shit, but finally came to her senses, that they had that drink, and I waited some more, and she brought it. Snapped a pic, and I drank.
The place was dull, but cozy, and I could imagine my friend who lives in London, he could take his fiancé here. It was nice. But not for solo Fury, and I drank my shit fast, and walked about town.
And it was draining. Not energy wise. People wise. It was emptying. Like a fucking GHOSTTOWN. It was getting darker and darker, and streets were shady, and cop cars here and there.
Places were closing up, and I walked up and down streets, didn’t know where to go.
Like a typical chode chasing highs and hoes I’d fired up the dating apps to secure meetings, and this one chick said she’d meet me at Ducks and Waffles. Why I came to Liverpool Street, at all.
I walked down the rainy street, to this skyscraper. Bouncer there had that bro vibe, sup gov, sup mate, and gave me the runover, and said have fun, and he send me up the elevator.
There were lots of floors, lots of buttons, but one had a duck on it. I pressed it. The inside of the elevator was shiny, and modern, and neon. Red lights. I felt like I was in Blade Runner 2049, and I snapped a pic of my reflection, as I ascended. London nightlife, through the glass, looked like diamonds. Lots of modern skyscrapers, lights on, dazzling in the dark.
On the top floor, I found another place, I pressed the wrong button or something. This place was closing down, like all, but I walked outside to have a smoke.
A Thai cigarillo, bamboo like, plant tasting, not that tasty, in hindsight, but I brought it with me, all the way from the main street of Bangkok. I took it outside, and walked past this tree that was illuminated with red and orange lights. It was huge. It was serene and beautiful in the night. No one was outside, just me.
I lit the thing, but there was this annoying guard standing watch and pressuring me to finish up, as I overlooked London. The buildings. Such as the Gherkin. And other big monumental modern monstrosities which claim to be architecture. Not my thing, from an artsy point of view, but nicely built, from an engineering point of view.
I smoked up, and left, and made my way to the Duck and Waffles, and ofcourse the chick wasn’t there. This ain’t one of those stories, or it is, depending on which stories of mine you’ve read.
The place was overcrowded and the service was appalingly bad ofcourse and I thought I’d score a vodka martini, Bond like, but ofcourse this wasn’t on the fucking drink list. They place was fancy tho, the floor shiny, the people dressed up, ready to fuck, or enjoy themselves, and spend shitloads of money on expensive shit. London style, love.
I left the place after a piss, and down the elevator, and then I roamed the dark streets again, until I found a hotdog stand on the corner of some closed pubs.
I just stood there, I don’t know if I was smoking or not, but I wasn’t doing much at all when a pudgy guy, tousled hair, shit eating grin on his face started chatting me up.
He was a Scouser. You could hear it thousand miles away. From Liverpool. I said I came to see Darren Till fight, tomorrow, who was also from Liverpool. That got the guy riled up, and smiling, and chatting, and we bonded in that sense that I tend to have when travelling and meeting random dudes on an abandoned street.
He was funny, he made me laugh, and now looking back, I’m smiling.
He said I sound like the football player, soccer if you’re yank, Wijnaldum. Who played for FC Liverpool. I said I was from the same town as him, that explained the very particular accent I have when speaking English.
He gathered up two of his mates. And I swear one of them he had just met outside, prolly at that stand.
We had the same conundrum. Why in the hell was everything closing this early?
It wasn’t even twelve yet.
He said Liverpool is banging with parties and clubs and hoes and booze and fun. But London is utter shite.
So we made a pact.
We weren’t going to have a good time, and find a nice club to let off some steam.
The quest began.
We were drunk, and I think I smoked a Romeo y Julieta no.3 from a tube, while walking with them, as we looked for this one club. The kid from Liverpool was looking for it on his phone, and we strolled through the night.
It was dark and there was no one but us. We took a break to take a piss, the three of us, and I took a picture. Memories are memories.
The kid asked people on the street were this thing was and off we went.
Eventually we came to this big street, it was a main street, lots of cars zooming by, and there were two clubs here.
There was a kebab store across from them, and people were hooking up or something, but the club was open and we were in for a good time. I thought.
The entryway had some skull logo, don’t know what the fucking thing was called, but the fee was expensive, but we had no place to go, so we went in.
This place was crap. With respect, people gonna call me racist, but this is what I would categorize in my hometown as a monkey fest. Why? Cuz 99% was dark skinned people, ok not my crowd. The music was urban or hiphop or smth like that. And all the women had big booties and this was definitely not our scene. It was sweaty and small and everybody was jumping and humping and it was distasteful. I don’t mind, but I wasn’t drunk enough for that shit.
The women were dancing like they were from Jamaica, you must have seen the vids online, you know what I mean. The guys grinding them and shit.
We fueled up quick. I ordered shots for the boys, and they ordered drinks for me. The thing I like about London. They have a fucking sign above the bar that says, All shots are double.
Also, there was a couple, who didn’t want their shots, and gave them to me, and this was absolutely fine, cuz shit was expensive and I was burning through the budget I had set like a mad man.
A small story of Fury on the dance floor. So there was this big black chick grinding on me after a while. And I smacked her ass fucking hard. I had just come back from Thailand, and this was a reflex. This was absolutely normal there. You have to believe me on this one. But this chick was stunned. She gave me the face like what the fuck did you just do? She even called her chick, music booming in the air, it was loud, I couldn’t hear them, so I just read body language, and she pointed at me, and the girlfriend looked at me, and I just shrugged or didn’t do anything.
There was this ugly cute white chick, prolly the only one in the whole damn joint, who came up to grind me too, I groped her or something, and smacked her ass, too, she left too.
We just walked the place, and the guy didn’t talk to girls or anything and at one point I got so fucking drunk I passed out on the couch, or was almost, and was falling asleep or something. And like fucking clockwork, or like magic, or ninja, there was a fucking guard there, and he pointed at me, and threw me out of the club.
When I was young I thought it’d be interesting to share the times I’ve been thrown out of a club, as I’m older now, I can’t count the times this shit has happened.
So I lost the Scouser, but outside I met this Romanian dude I had met inside, and we had chatted, and he was pretty drunk AF right now, and wanted to go home. I said I’d take him if he had a phone with data, I didn’t. We looked for the tube.
We walked the midnight streets together and found the tube, and I had to shove this guy in the right direction, give him directions, to which tube he had to take and we parted ways. It was already morning cuz the tube was running, cuz when it’s not morning they don’t this was a lesson I’d learn the next day.
But I took my tube home, and went to my fancy hotel and fell asleep.
The second day was the day. It was all about the UFC bout, Darren Till v Masvidal. But like I told you my friends lived there and knowing them, if they knew I came, and left, without telling them I’d came, they’d think I was an asshole, never calling me that in my face, ofcourse, but perhaps in the group chats on Whatsapp I’m not part of anymore, after constantly leaving it, after they want to pull me back in.
But old friends give you memories, new ones, and access to the old ones, so I went and met up with them near Camden Market, I think, and we had a drink first. At this place called Parliament. Oh, wow, just rememberd the frikkin name, because I’ll always remember it, it’s one of these dodgey spots in Slovenia. Where people get punched and KO’ed, and thrown out by the guards, and they dust off their hands and never look back, as the kid got cold alone on the concrete. Good times.
But this British Parliament had a nice courtyard, and they served this ginger lime jameson drink. A nice fresh cocktail for a sunny spring or winter ish day. Back then we were allowed to socialize, no distance, and bro hugs were given, and snaps made, and I smoked a Romeo y Julieta no.3 cuban but forgot my cutter, so I bit off the end, and I was noob then, under 50 cigars, so I fucked it up, and lit it poorly, so it drew horribly, fuck my life, but it was a memory and I still remember it to this day. Always do, with stogs, and booze, and bros.
The inside was nice, and busy, and brown, with lots of tables, and people meeting up for the weekend, girls and guys, dates, and friends, and fam, the establishment was long, too. I knew because I went looking for the bathroom.
Outside we stood around this table, which was at chest height, for our drinks, and there were these fires in a lantern, close to keep your hands warm. Or to lit cigs, or stogs, didn’t have more tho.
After, we went to the actual market, and got some food, quite cheap, for frikkin London prices, and with was really good, and filling. There we got some more booze, the same cocktails. There I talked to this ex boxer, who eyed me and had the look, and I had too, because he signaled me over with his look and vibe, like they always do. We started chatting, he about his heyday, and me about the time I got the shit kicked out me in Thailand, literally. Quite bondening, and I was feeling the booze. I snapped a pic with the ex boxer and I had to leave the guys already because the UFC fight was beginning.
I left them, and never saw them again, in London, and this has been two three years since. Down the tube, and then some stops later, you could see the crowds amassing and moving, and eager for the fight.
The destination was the O2 Arena. It was gigantic from the outside, and gorgeous on the inside. Lots of shiny marble floor, and chandeliers with light blue and purple lights. Diamonds, prolly fake, shimmering here and there, giving it a very luxurious feel, and a mini shopping mall, adjacent to the arena. Boutique stores. I bought nothing, and went inside, no beverages or sneks. I was here for the fucking fight.
I found my seat, which was super high up the arena, and the octagon was quite small, and you could see the fighters like little puppets fighting. Quite unreal, if you think about it.
Since this was my first fight I had to sit thru all the frikkin prelims, most of them were boring but some were good. There was a local English kid, a rising star, whose name I forgot, and this scouse girl who was good. Crowd was rooting for her, too. Gunny Nelson, from The coach Kavanagh and Mjolnir Gym, and friend of Conor, fought too. Unfortunately he lost. Again.
There was guy who sat in front of me who knew his UFC shit. The whole time he was engaging me, or I him. Or he sat next to me, well that’d be more logical. But I was back then in a severe fuck off mode, similar to the god mode, but I kept super to myself. The guy was fun to talk to, tho, and was there with his girl, who found the whole spectacle boring, really. Waste of money, really.
Now Darren Till came. The crowd rooting for him. Home court. And he played his signature Sweet Carolyn. Now that was a fucking treat and just thinking about it, now, typing it up, sends shivers and electricy through my whole system. Because it’s the ultimate sing along song. Which is why Till chose it, and to this day, I have that on vid, where he walks in, does the crowd cheering thing, one arm up, and focused, and relaxed, and tense and nervous underneath. But the crowd is singing and roaring and I break out of my shell and think fuck it, aint never gonna have this moment again. Which I haven’t. The whole arena was vibrating, humming, and the lights turned white and red. The colors of England. And some gold mixed in between.
The song was memorable, and after it was done, Till was in the Octagon and Masvidal entered. Don’t know what walk in song he played.
Now the fight. Some of you might already know how it ended, but it was cool to see a real UFC ranked bout, LIVE. That was a nice treat, even tho they were so small, and far away. First round was for Till, by a a hair. They were teasing each other, touching up, and near missed. Till clipped Masvidal with his left, barely, but never caught him flush. Masvidal got in his savage mode after Till touched up on him, and that’s when he warmed up, and his boxing went into overdrive. Dangerous caged animal that guy. The second round was very similar to the first, but Masvidal got a read on Till. And then surprised him with a shuffle step, stance switch, disrupting Till’s distance and timing, and got in close with an overhand left, and it caught till flush on his chin. Tung. An extremely dull sound echoed through the arena. The whole crowd went insanely quiet. Where they were mass producing insane decibels just give or take 5-10 minutes before, now they were silent after a hurricane has swept through a village. Hurricane BMF Masvidal. Till went lights out, and people in the crowd were so disrespectful and straight up left, before the doctors were even out, to check if Till was OK, and alive. He was OK, tho, but so weird how people are just the descendants of the gladiator games back in the day in Ancient Rome. They just want blood.
Well, Masvidal then went on his journey to shoot for the title, against Usman, and Till switched to middleweight, with bouts against Wittaker and Gastelum.
And for me that night, it was around six, and my phone battery was dying already, I knew the guys wouldn’t come out to party they had said so, so I went solo. First to Leicester Square I think and then after there was nothing there. All the clubs were already full and sweaty and insane long waiting lines, fuck that. I just left. They square was shady asf, so I went to King’s Cross, to transfer actually, to get home. But I thought fuck it, I need to party, and then I walked out the tube, and then texting my friend on my dying phone. Losing signal, too. I stood outside a closed Starbucks in the dark, siphoning off some wifi-signal, it was free, and the last thing I said to my friend:
“I’m going to party.”
“Fury, don’t. It’s dangerous. This is not like other countries.”
My phone died. I had no back up, like always, you must know the drill by now, and it was dark, and I had zero friends, and I had money, and the tube was closed, so I had to get fucking drunk, to outlive the night, and party it out.
Shit thing was. There was nothing open. I was in the extremely WRONG spot. I just started walking up this street. Talking to bouncers, they didn’t let me in, but they kept referring me to this place. Next guy he did the exact same thing.
Now it was cold, and it was dark, and it was London. This is the shittiest place to party if you don’t know the people, and the places. I kept walking and was pissed like always and met two guys, Belgians I think. I pretended not to understand what they were saying and we spoke English. Finally, company. They were my party gang for the night. We kept looking for that joint and fought it on a corner. It was the only thing open and it was more a bar than a club but it was open and you could score, the ample chicks that were there.
We went in and ordered some drinks. And I decided to blast through cash fast and ordered shots of vodka and got fucked fast. It was already extremely late and it always loosens me up extremely fast. Now the Belgians were a bore and I kinda ditched them talked to random people, and chicks, and trying to dance with them. I just remember this one set, and this one girl. She was aight, Max a six, tbh, but when there’s nothing and you’re drunk you just go with the flow. But she was super annoying or liberal or left Idk wtf she was. But I triggered her by opening my mouth. Since then I’d gotten better at it, more in trouble, really you don’t know the half of it. Partly to blame is that immense scowl on my face. Oh well. The Belgians were upstairs dancing.
But now in the stairway I got the fastest kiss close to this date. A PR. It was lightning fast. A nice slim tanned girl with curls. She looked at me. Bedroom eyes. Shit, I remember it to this day, shit almost forgot about it, tho, not THAT important but it came to me as I chronicle this, and it was quite magical and degenerate at the same time if you think about it.
I make eye contact, she smiles, I smirk, and I don’t even say hey. She looks in my eyes, and then down, and then I just grab her and I kiss. Her lips were soft and sweet. I thought, Yup I’m gonna fuck.
She played me. She said Imma meet my friends, which she did, upstairs, and she said, meet me upstairs, which she did, we talked, but she blew me off. Which was ok, really, but really not, but for logistical reasons. She lived fucking across the street. She either worked here. or was a barfly hoe here, but she lived across .. the fucking … street. Why does that matter? Well I lived 50 million god knows miles away, my sweet soft cushy 5 star hotel. And nothing was running and my phone was dead, so no uber. Fuck me.
I just wanted to fuck her, to sleep. So much for being a player. Belgians had a shot with some girls, but it was late, late, like 4-5 am or something and they were just cock teasing, maybe one got a kiss, but no one was fucking, you could just feel it in the air.
I spent outside bumming some smokes, and chatting people up, and there was this yuppy kinda dude who characterized my whole trip by characterizing London.
He said, “London is three O’s. Overpriced, overrrated…”
I always forget what that last O was.
But that’s what it was. Overpriced. But most of all OVERRATED. Now if I was a fucking rich lambo baller and I knew one spot and got fly finnish models then Londong would be fine. But then again, any country or city would be.
London was just dark and annoying and no vibes and too expensive.
Now the place was fucking closing up and I had no bed, and I was playing this Italian chick, who got swooped by this taller dweeb, who was a fucking nerd, but he knew her already, and his argument was “You gonna go home with this GUY?!” Well lo IQ gonna lo IQ, he convinced her and I was left all alone on the corner of the street, with no buses driving and zero taxis in the neighborhood. Or there was, but I was broke I think, or I thought fuck it lemme drill this, sear this annoying memory into my brain.
The time Fury walked home in the tomb black darkness of London.
It’s dangerous, Fury. London is not like other places.
Yeah, that’d make the story better. Fuck, I always do it, and prolly will, in some form or another but I just enjoy it, punishing myself. It callouses my mind, and stress inoculates me, and so I just become unpussified by these long dark walkabouts.
The streets were dark and repetitive and so silent and deadly. I was half expecting people to jump out with knives. Or machetes, or sabers, like I’d seen on videos on the internet.
Or I’d expect acid attacks by women who hated toxic masculinity.
Nothing like that happened.
I just chilled and killed the time and McDonalds’ and other fast food joints, which was public space and seemed safe, but there were annoying junkies harrassing pretty women who were already up, to go to work. I didn’t know wtf I was doing there myself but somehow I felt I belonged.
What’s funny I kept walking in between these two tube stations that I forgot what they were called until it opened. Because my hotel was so goddamn far it was already morning again and the tubes opened up. Wow, for fuck’s sake.
So I caught the tube and I was pissed, furyous and my face was flushed and this guy on the tube was scared for his life. Well, I was brimming with rage, shaking almost.
I got out, and kept walking, and as soon as I entered the rich posh Paddington area, I saw the beautiful white mansions, with their fences and their fancy cars. I knew it was safe and the sun was rising and it was the sign I survived yet another dumb as fuck ordeal, which I liked and made me proud. But which I hated because I always do these dumb kinda shit, but live to tell the tale. London was not dangerous, well not that night, and not for me, but it did leave me with this story, that’s what I thought back then as I fell on my soft bed, and plugged the phone in the charger.
The screen came alive. The friend had messaged me, the same dude, he had said:
“Yo bro, you ok?”
“Yup. In my hotel.”
“Hahah, wtf, just now, what were you doing all night?”
I fell asleep on my bed, tired and safe.