London-Westindian-Extraterrestrial Solomon at my Clapton local specialises in jokes too bad even for internet:
A black man and a Jew are waiting at a bus stop on Stamford Hill [30K+ reserved but successful Hasidim, with their own highly effective police force]. The black man has never spoke to a Jew before, so he tries posh and polite: “Excuse me, sir, /dÊ’/o you know when the next bus is /dÊ’/ue?” “Fuck off, you black cunt,” replies the Jew.
On a mapless bike trip into deepest Essex, during a pasty-pause at the Seven Kings railway bridge in Ilford:
Two English workmen [numbers unknown, their police force prefers investigating dead celebrities to jumping in ponds and solving burglaries] are checking their phones on a bench when a Pakistani pedestrian intersects the roadworks traffic jam carrying two large binbags. One bursts and a dozen cheap plates smash on the road. Split-second wordsearch: “Fuck!” “Fuck, he said,” says one of the workmen, and goes back to his phone.
The disadvantage of going mapless into Essex is that one tends to get sucked back parallel to the M11, through the London Borough of Redbridge, where cycling facilities are rather less well developed than in East Berlin in 1985 – no Guardian luvvies that far out. It is impossible to discover what anyone speaks because all extramural movement is in motor vehicles and at high speed.
The advantage of this disadvantage is that one ends up at Wanstead Flats, where high-rise takes the form of some excellent if untended apples, which crumble very well with Walthamstow Marsh blackberries.
The disadvantage contained in the advantage of that disadvantage is that one then passes through the Olympic Park, where the brand new cycling facilities are considerably less well thought-out than in Purmerend, Holland in 1985. The parts of the bylaws not boilerplated from elsewhere appear to have been written by someonething to whomwhich English is an exciting but not particularly riveting adventure.
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