I’m writing this on a northbound train with a sky outside the colour of wet paper. Every time I open my bag to take out my laptop, or my mp3 player, or a cable or some other mortifyingly urbane item I cause the obese woman opposite me to put on a scowl as if I’d just belched and punched the air in satisfaction. For the last three hours and forty two minutes she’s done nothing but look around the carraige with her arms crossed over her fleshy brests.

I kind of want to know what’s going on in head, and I kind of want to slip off my ridiculously expensive All Saints boots and start playing footsy with her. You know, just to freak her out.

Anyway! I’m coming back from London because four days ago two Polish friends of mine boarded a plane and flew there, so I went down to pick them up from Stansted and play tour guide for a bit. It was amazing and fearsome. Basically I’d completely forgotten how these two girls rolled. After a first night spent drinking till late I was gently woken up by a soothing voice saying my name. That was nice. The voice then stated that it was already 9am and we had to get up and see the city. That was less nice, but with the reputation of my city at stake the energy required to leap out of bed and get to work came easily.

The next night we stayed up even later and this time I was still drunk when we woke up at 9am again. Shit, when we arrived at St. Pauls I probably had at least one or two beers in me. That’s got to be blasphemy, or heresy. Maybe just plain rude? I don’t know.

I gave as good as I got though. At the end of our time together one of the girls was literally bleeding into her shoes from walking so much and one of my eyes was frighteningly bloodshot, presumably from looking at too much. But lord knows it was worth it. We drank The Best Stout In The World and we drank mulled wine, and we wrapped ourselves in a bar’s free blankets as the sun set over the Thames. At one point we were in disused Tube tunnels and stumbled across a trapeze performance, a Danish documentary and a gig by a Spanish rock band all within a couple of hours of each other. No word of a lie. We even saw the crown motherfucking jewels!

I honestly gave these girls everything I had, knowledge and energy, just as they’d done for me last year when I met them in China. I loved every minute of our time in London, of course. It’s strange how happy it made me hearing them talk excitedly about my hometown. It was exactly the same feeling as playing one of your friends an album and them ‘getting’ it to the point of you wanting to put your hands on their shoulders and jump up and down.

I guess just as music has that unknowable, magical aspect to it that makes it so exciting, cities are often too big and too old for me to wrap my head around either. The mess of architecture, the smells in the air, the noise, the marks, the people, the secrets, the shortcuts, what was, what is. I gawp at it all like a starving man presented with a piece of salty bacon in a plexiglass box. And the mix of Stuff Around Me is so much headier because I’ve lived in the city for so long now. So many of the streets there are saturated with ghosts.

We did visit one area of London I hadn’t seen before though.

One of the girls had booked us all dorm rooms at a hostel near King’s Cross called The Generator. I was totally up for this since I thought it would be weird seeing the insides of a hostel in the place where I grew up. And it sure was weird, but only because it turns out The Generator has the capacity to hold 800 PEOPLE.

It was just bizarre. The building dominated an entire city block and featured bouncers out front, a huge attached bar and promotional souveniers. The male toilets in the basement were actually substantially bigger than my new flat.

But the sad thing is that operating on that scale the place abandoned the relaxed atmosphere hostels are usually known for; the aura of security and friendliness that develops when people from all over the world are trying to find refuge in a place that’s home to none of them. But The Generator felt heartless. It had became nothing more than lone backpackers and herds of students lugging their personal effects through korridors of Kool korrugated iron and steel flooring, all of these people with the same expression on their face. Sad, jetlagged, homesick.

It was fascinating. Honestly, stay there if you get the chance. It’s like nowhere else I’ve been, for sure.

There’s a nice ebb and flow with magazines. It’s cathartic.

When you first start working on an issue, all is at peace. The editor, art team and journalists all know their jobs, and you all get on with what your own work at your own pace. Then the issue deadline creeps up like a hungry animal, and soon you have a week to finish the issue, then a day, then an hour, and before you know it you’re shouting during all your phone calls, eating your meals in the shower and standing on your desk while you type, ass in the air and your face pressed up against your monitor. Then the issue gets shipped, and suddenly the deadline’s far away again. Once more, all is at peace.

Until next month.

Only five days now till I disappear up to Edinburgh and start writing on this site properly again. Get that date in your calendar, ladies and gentlemen! Not that any actual gentlemen read this site, but nevermind that. On October the 11th Quintin embarks on a new adventure, this time into the frigid Northlands where frost is king and darkness is queen and the Scottish are everywhere.

My dad understands the danger I face. He might not understand what the fuck a video game is, but he understands the darkness and has bought me two heavy blankets to take up to Edinburgh with me. I think they’re from Ikea. They’ll be put to the test soon enough.

THE BOYS ARE BACK IN TOWN!

This particular boy is, anyway. Not sure about all the other boys. But then, why would you need any of them while you’ve got me?

Being back in England is weird. It’s like someone toggled my life onto easy mode. I can talk to anyone I want to, I can buy a mobile phone, I can join gyms. I even already have friends and family and, y’know, human rights.

As to my plans, I’ll be staying in London for a month (give or take a weekend) and then I’m shipping off to Edinburgh to live with a Northerner who’s as dark and fruity as a chocolate orange. Except I guess that analogy doesn’t work since he’s also about as sweet as an espresso full of salt. The entire situation is guaranteed to be so, so dumb. As he pointed out, it only takes two people of a deep and unshakable immaturity for both of their poorly thought out ideas and schemes to come to life.

I’m just gonna throw out one of the ideas that we haven’t even written off yet. We’ve given it the tentative title of the Polish Corner. In honour of our new friends who have invaded the urban centres of the UK with such vigor, we’re going to put a bunch of Polish liquor and Polish snacks on a table in the corner. These consumables will be accompanied by a pair of suspenders, one or two cheap hats, and other accessories which come from the totally baseless perception of UK Poles that we both seem to share. Thanks to the Polish Corner, we’ll be able to tap into our inner Poles at any time of the day or night.

On a larger scale I’d say it’s currently fifty fifty whether me and this guy are going to create a beautiful online community built on a foundation of passion and justice, or whether we’re just going to forget to pay the energy bill and die frozen and locked in a pose of us wrestling for the last, frost-covered bag of Haribo Tangfastics. Other probabilities include me developing an alcohol dependency (85% chance), me growing to hate this guy more than I’ve ever hated anything in my life (60%), me cultivating a perfect Scottish accent (45%) and me succumbing to curiosity and responding to the advertisements on the Edinburgh Gumtree for casual sex (6%).

I’m sure I’ll be making frequent trips back south though, funds permitting. It’s good to be back with you guys.