It would appear I’m suffering from blogger’s block. A few people linked to that post I did about the Foundry last week, and suddenly people other than my dad are reading this, among them Real Live Couriers, who will actually notice if I get something wrong, or say something stupid, or try and make the job sound more glamourous/dangerous/pathetic than it really is.
So let’s make a few things clear.
This is a hopelessly inaccurate and inauthentic representation of what it’s like being a courier in London. I’m not a tall muscly bloke. I don’t have dreadlocks or a tattoo. I still have all my teeth. I don’t ride brakeless, I don’t smoke roll-ups, and I’ve never lived in a squat. I ride a bike I didn’t build myself, I don’t jump red lights, and I sometimes get overtaken by commuters. (And I take the back route home so that I can ride slowly without anyone seeing.) I’ve only ever done one alleycat, and that was in another city. I deliberately remember receptionists’ names, and ask if I’m spelling them correctly, because I want people to like me. At the weekend I wear skirts, and take the bus.
I’ve only been on the road a couple of years, so I have no clue what I’m doing most of the time. I still can’t remember where Southampton Street is. (I have to look it up in the A-Z every time.) Whenever something legendary happened, I was somewhere else.
Anything I could possibly say in this blog will already have been said several years ago by Buffalo Bill or House of Pistard, with more wit, humour and accuracy, and without making things up, or forgetting the names of major London landmarks. Or including unrelated photos of cake.
Any resemblance to the real lives of London couriers is purely accidental. Sorry about that. Here’s an unrelated photo of some cake.