Let Me Take You By The Hand . . .

HAVING LIVED in London for over six months now, the fag-end of the millennium seems as good a time as any for this reporter to take smack. Did I say smack? Sorry, I meant stock.
Before emigrating, I was warned of the myriad perils and abominations which greet gormless Micks such as myself upon arriving in the big smoke: expensive drink in pubs that close too early, urban squalor, traffic congestion, unfriendly people, racism, violence, exorbitant accommodation costs and an inadequate public transport system.
The harbingers of doom had a point: why move to a foreign city to endure such hardship, when you could stay in Dublin and endure it amongst friends? Wisely or not, I opted for the devil I didn't know and now feel confident enough to put paid to a number of myths which abound about Perfidious Albion's capital city.
The myth: English women will jump into bed with anyone with an Irish accent.
The reality: Of course they won't. Why on earth would they? The notion that any woman would lower herself onto the engorged trouser-totem of a man purely on the grounds that he speaks like he's chewing a piece of turf is ridiculous . . . and one that I clung to like a drowning man would to a piece of driftwood for quite some time. However, I'm loathe to recount the sordid details of my sexual exploits on sovereign soil for a number of reasons, not least because I still remember the expression of utter stupefication that clouded a loved one's countenance as I watched her read an interview I did with David Baddiel a couple of years ago, in which masturbation and condom disposal featured prominently among the topics of conversation.
Suffice to say that despite my soft Irish lilt, I have been more preoccupied with the former than the latter in the last six months. This is because I am busy working and haven't time to engage in frivolous banter with slappers from Essex. Except when I'm doing gigs and it's my job.
The myth: It's impossible to get gigs if you're a new stand-up comedian in London.
The reality: Gigs aren't hard to come by if you know where to look for them. However, once you've booked them, you'll probably have to wait anything between two and six months before you get to do the bloody things. It's fair to say that any comedy club that doesn't force you to sit at home twiddling your thumbs before you get to grace their stage probably isn't worth doing. True, performing 15 minutes of McStand-up in front of six people in a grotty pub basement for no money is good for clocking up stage time and trying out new material, but it gets very soul-destroying very quickly. Having one or two circuit stalwarts who are prepared to fight your corner in the more prestigious clubs can be very helpful indeed.
The myth: Drink is very expensive in London.
The reality: In fact, in one fancy bar that doesn't sell pints, a glass of Belgian beer costs #3. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that anything from Belgium could be worth that much money. Having said that, one Clapham pub which I regularly frequent has two pool tables, a juke box and sells drink at Coronation Street prices to a clientele that could have come straight from the set of The Bill. I wouldn't take my mother there, but once they get used to you they're harmless enough.
The myth: A burger and chips costs #10.
The reality: Sorry, that's Sweden.
The myth: You can't get tickets for Premiership games, except when you can and then they costs four weeks' wages each.
The reality: True, if you earn #8 a week. A trip to Upton Park to see the Hammers take on Sunderland cost #32, albeit for a restricted view. Thankfully, the obstructions were minimal: occasionally it was difficult to make out Kevin Phillips when he was standing behind Niall Quinn.
The myth: The London Underground is the most hellish form of public transport in the world.
The reality: All Londoners loathe the Tube, but compared to anything Dublin corporation have to offer in the way of public transport it's nothing short of magnificent. Imagine getting exactly where you want to go, quickly and on time. Sounds crazy, doesn't it? But it happens. In fact, many grizzled old Irish men in London love the Underground so much that they live in its stations and regularly toast the health of visitors to their homes with bottles of cheap wine and cider.
The myth: Most Irish emigrants in London can't wait to get home for Christmas.
The reality: I shall be in The International Bar, Wicklow Street, Dublin 2 on Tuesday 21st December 1999 at 6.30pm. If you're reading this, Simon, start pouring me a slow one! n

SEASONS GREETINGS TO ALL MY READERS
While I'm here, I'd like to take this opportunity to wish all my loyal readers an exceptionally merry Christmas and a very, very prosperous new year. I wish both of you all the luck in the world, and hope you get everything you deserve in the year 2000: exceptionally low marks in your Trinity exams, if that recent performance of Shopping ... Dr**king in London was anything to go by!