I hate London. Its a sprawling ant hive, full of scuttling little insects, resplendant in their arrogance, all somehow convinced that the world revolves around them and their drab, wretched lives. It sits like a cancer, sucking the life from the rest of the country. It fed like a parasite for generations on the coal-blackened blood of the North and the Heartlands until, when it could feed no more, it sent the citys riot police to tell us to die quietly. That blood made it strong, let it spread its sickening, putrid limbs across the globe. Now it is merely a shell of its former self, a dying giant ardent for lost and faded glory. But still it thirsts. From the soulless, remorsless men of the square mile buying and selling the lives and dreams of others, to the decadent, decaying echo of Gormenghast that is Westminster the place deals only in misery. and so it will stay, a black, dreary window into hell, until the disgusted and vengeful sea comes in to drown this foul city and purge the land of its filth.