I was just in California for a holiday and returned to London yesterday. Yesterday was also my two-year anniversary of living in London. I’m not into anniversaries and superstition, but one thing I said aloud recently to a friend in California was, “I booked a flight to return to London on my two-year anniversary with London; I hope something terrible happens.”
Two years ago when I moved to London, it was to a part of London called Vauxhall. I don’t live there anymore because fuck that place.
As it turns out, yesterday something terrible did happen: a helicopter crashed into a crane in Vauxhall, and then, as the Guardian puts it, “cartwheeled before bursting into flames.”
Strangely enough, that is precisely what happened to my life exactly two years ago to the day. Remarkable and uncanny.
This helicopter incident could have only happened because it happened in Vauxhall, because Vauxhall is a sinister bastion of malevolent, vile, contemptible evil and villainy.
If you’re from Vauxhall or live in Vauxhall or have anything good to say about Vauxhall and don’t like what this post has to say, fuck you for being associated with Vauxhall and stop looking at me like I’m not Portuguese enough.