Tongue tied.

I've got London licked. 

Stone me.

Too many sticky fingers.
The Saatchi Gallery show off how The Rolling Stones lived in their early days. 

Goal.

After the rejections of the night, we stumbled into a pub to watch the football. There we were treated like locals, ie ignored, sworn at, joked about and jostled. The perfect end to a perfect night.

Bad Genes.

We further embarrassed ourselves later that night at the Chiltern Firehouse when Nigel reached into his new denims for a 'note' to say "ta very much mate" for that excellent service. Without looking he handed the fella the tenner only to be met with a very black look. We both looked down and realised he'd given him the receipt for the jeans instead. He gave us the once over and realised we must be Australian.

Putting on the Ritz.

Our first night in London and we suffered the absolute ignominy of being thrown out of the Ritz bar for not having 'proper' shoes on. I was wearing my new metallic Golden Goose shoes. You pay an arm and a leg for these to look like you've been wearing them for 25 years while you've cleaned chimney's for a living - we're talking seriously distressed. Nigel was even more so when he realised they weren't joking and we really did have to leave. "But these cost 2 'undred pand" - he spluttered in his best Cockney accent. Unfortunately for us the Ritz butler didn't give a raspberry tart.