If you’re not tired of London, you’re tired of life

London, city of the damned. City of incendiary tower blocks, jihadi mentals trying to slit your throat, yokels from Somerset up for the day to enjoy a spot of ramming Muslims in a white van. City of Thornberry, Abbott and Corbyn. City of Boris. City of anti-Semitic marches to commemorate Al Quds. City of Isis flags and where, in most boroughs, white British people are a largely resentful minority. City of vacuous liberal platitudes — we all stand together, not in my name. Why would you live there? I would rather live in Gaza, just about. If you are not tired of London by now then you are surely tired of life. City of gender-study courses, LGBT action days and poor huddled masses, mainly foreigners, earning fuck all.

City of eateries run by greedy ponces selling you a bowl of cornflakes for five quid, city of middle-class wood-burning stoves and Chelsea tractors choking the entire population.