The Duffer's Guide To London

Considering the portrait of him painted by some sections of the English and Irish press, you could be forgiven for assuming that Damien Duff’s first words upon arriving in London were “Whoah boy!” as he pulled his ass and cart up outside Stamford Bridge having made the long journey from the sleepy agricultural backwater that is, eh, Lancashire.

Due in no small part to his reluctance to big himself up anywhere other than on the football field, little is known about the personal life of the man known to all and sundry as Duffer. Little apart from the fact that he hails originally from Ballyboden but spent a goodly portion of his formative years slumbering in a cave on “a mountain somewhere outside Blackburn”, emerging from his hermetic retreat only when necessity dictated he earn his corn kicking ball for the local football team.
Now that he’s taken the Chelsea rouble, upped sticks and moved to London, all has changed, changed utterly, for Duffer. Which is why, as an experienced veteran of life in the Big Smoke, I have decided to throw a few pointers his way in the hope of helping him ease into his new home with a minimum of disruption to his notoriously relaxed (to the point of being comatose) lifestyle. For example…
Don’t make any more of those casual off-the-cuff remarks to journalists of the “I couldn’t care less about the money, I’m just here to play football” variety, however refreshing they might sound to supporters. £70,000 might seem like a fair wedge to be trousering week in week out, but once you’ve bought yourself a shoebox apartment beside the Thames, done your first weekly shop in Sainsburys Local and bought a couple of rounds in a pub on the Kings Road, it won’t be long before you find yourself scrabbling for small change down the back of the sofa to pay the pizza delivery man.
Don’t use your indicators when driving. Like stopping at pedestrian crossings, it’s simply not the done thing in London. When you take delivery of the ball wide on the left wing away at Old Trafford, you wouldn’t dream of telling Mikael Silvestre how exactly you’re going to set about leaving him sitting on his backside scratching his bald head. If you don’t signal your intentions there, why on earth would you dream of doing it on a public highway?
Don’t talk to people you don’t know on the Tube, unless it’s late on a Saturday night and there’s a sporting chance that everybody’s completely pissed. For some reason, this is the only time it’s deemed appropriate for people to engage in social (or sexual) intercourse on London’s public transport system, unless they’re purple of complexion, carrying a can of Special Brew in a brown paper bag and bawling obscenities at the tops of their voices. Normal Tube etiquette is similar to that of the elevator, decreeing as it does that, no matter how sardine-packed the carriage may be, you should pick a spot on the floor or ceiling and stare at it intently until you arrive at your destination.
Don’t stand on the left-hand side of an escalator. It is an unwritten rule of London life that people who are not in a hurry stand on the right when travelling on escalators, leaving the left-hand side free for those who are in a rush to barge their way up and down a staircase that is already moving. It is a damning indictment of London life that this is the nearest thing to
quaint and civilised behaviour you will witness throughout the duration of your stay in England’s capital.
Don’t call around to somebody’s house without making an appointment. Social mores in London dictate that people are forced to book three years in advance before dropping around to a friend’s house for a cup of tea and a natter, by which time the person they’re visiting is liable to have moved house. Doorstepping somebody unannounced is such a complete no-no that my immediate reaction upon hearing my doorbell ring unexpectedly is to dream up an alibi for the
night I did whatever it is I think I’m about to be arrested for.
Don’t bother going to mass on Sundays. Or any other day for that matter. Churches are thin on the ground in South London – four years on I still don’t know where the local church of any decent God-fearing denomination is. If you really do require spiritual sustenance to get you through the long hard season ahead, become a Muslim. You can’t throw a stone in London without hitting a mosque, a statistic no shortage of supporters
of your new team will gladly prove given the slightest provocation.
Do look busy. Everyone in London looks busy all of the time. Whether or not you actually are busy is irrelevent, so standing on the wing at Stamford Bridge with your shirt out and your hands on your hips is bound to be frowned upon by the paying public. To avoid this state of affairs, simply walk past Marcel Desailly or John Terry at a brisk pace every now and again, making sure to not say hello.
Don’t spill another man’s pint or look at his bird.
And, finally, don’t get into an unlicensed mini-cab without negotiating your fare first. Proper cabbies in London must sit an exam called The Knowledge before they’re allowed ferry passengers around the city. Their unlicensed brethern’s equivalent is known as The Ignorance. To their credit, however, they do provide excellent sight-seeing tours of London to newcomers to the city. To see London’s many tourist attractions, simply ask your driver to bring you to a location you know to be no further than a mile away, while remembering to mention upon entering his car that you have absolutely no idea where it is. b