The Musicals Lied To Us

I'm sure you're all familiar with a little musical called 'The Boyfriend'. If you're not, check out the link first.

In the show is a little love song sung by the lead protaganists. They sing about escaping thier lives and living in a room in Bloomsbury. So did I, until I actually spent an evening in Bloomsbury (which is situated near Russell Square tube station).
Bloomsbury is NOT the bohemian british Montmatre as made out in the song. Home to musicians, artists and philosphers with dirt cheap rent. Well, not anymore. It is now home to a mall that rivals Menlyn Park Mall, a big ass Holiday Inn, a few pubs, overpriced apartments and the worst scrounge oon the face of the planet - the psuedo-indie art school student with more of dad's money than sense, trooping around in thier 'lord of the countryside manor' gear from Selfridges Polo lifestyle section, and sporting awful haircuts.
These are not the type of people I want as neighbours. They came into the pub last night (I was helping out at the Marquis Cornwallis) and threw a right hissy fit when I told them we were out of Westons Cider. Just for the record, this cider has an alcohol content of 7.3%, hence the appeal. They then ordered the next strongest brew and shuffled off into a corner to sulk and look cool. Add two birds in stretch micro minis with a weak spot for Pinot Grigio (its the new Chardonnay, dahling) and we have a recipe for debauchery on a London Student Level.

Were there discussions of the deep and meaningful kind? Well, unless you take deep as in 'tongue deeply down other's throat' and his comment to call 'meaningful', then yes.

After we closed, and kicked the lot of them out, they went down to the off license and procured cheap vodka and proceeded to hang out on a freezing street corner acting like a bunch of chavs! Quite disgusting, really.

So I've given up on Bloomsbury. Rather give me Camden anyday. With the punks, rockers, occasional celebs crashing a party and the drug dealers hanging out at the canal trying to sell you dodgy dutch skunk. At least I know I won't feel the need to punch them in the face for trying to put on a cockney accent to kill the Eton undertones. BLEH!