“Get out down to South London sometime moron and and see how long you last with your snowy white anti racist credentials. Funny how these black steaming gangs tend only to attack whites (often alone or in pairs and doing no more than going home after a night out probably having socialised with people of colour themelves).”

This comment was left on the blog Enemies of Reason, a sarcastic take on the Daily Mail and other pinnacles of Journalism.

I live in South London. Inner South London. Just off Brixton Rd.

I’ve still never been steamed, or seen steaming, in South London, and in general I’m in South London everyday.

It should also be mentioned that I am white.

Really white.

So white I almost glow in the dark.

I make ginger people giggle.

Every day I walk around South London, the dodgy bits, and the good bits. I play basketball in the park, go for a jog or to the cricket nets in a much dodgier park, walk at night, and generally live my life.

Never have I seen any violence.

The only violence I know of in my area was a kid being stabbed by another kid, both were black.

I have been burgled here, but I’ve been burgled on three continents by many different ethnicities and skin tones.

So I have no idea what this guy was going on about.

I’m not sure if he is from South London, or even from Earth.

I’m sure steaming does exist, but if I travel by bus and tube, plus walking, all around South London all the time, and I have never seen it, I doubt people visiting for an afternoon for proof of people of colour (as he so respectfully describes them) mugging random whites.

Sometimes when I read about London it conjurers up images of some rat infested city where everyone has a knife and no white person is safe, then I leave my front door and walk to Brixton Rd and see a white woman walking her baby.

The baby does not have a knife.

He has paws the size of dinner plates.

Seems to miaow more than necessary.

Is built more like a medium sized dog than a cat.

Is so big and strong that when he wants you to pat him he really just head butts you out of the way.

But, he seems ok.

Getting him was the best part of the day, the rest of the day was buying cat supplies.

I don’t care who you are, buying a cat bowl is not a masculine experience.

During the day I also saw a shrill voiced kiwi woman with a hand ripped to shreds by her foster cat, a big ass dog with blood pissing out of his ear, and a gerbil that I wanted to buy and call richard.

But they were the only animal I had any issue with.

This may no longer be the case, as you may remember I had a trainer cat here recently taking me through the ropes.

This cat showed me that typing was not a way of making money but purely a way of entertaining the cat.

Sadly, I may not have entertained the cat enough.

One day when returning to the house I sniffed a rather shitty odour.

That odour was gas, lots and lots of gas.

It was hard to breathe in it, and I couldn’t stop coughing.

Quickly I made my way to the kitchen and found one of the hot plate knobs switched to full gas.

I may not be Vincent D’Onofrio, but the cat hair that was all around the knob made deduction pretty fucken simple.

While I was opening windows I found the cat, looking vibrant and full of life, playing with a ball in the lounge room.

Clearly this gas was not affecting him in the way it was me.

That is when I realised this was not an accident.

This fucker was out to get me, and it was no coincidence that this was his last day in the house.

But there will be another cat, and being that all cats essentially share the one consciousness, this one already knows my strengths and weaknesses.

The bastard.

Stay tuned, I won’t go out quietly

This might be a move for years, or for minutes.

The other day we were walking down the street and an elderly couple looked at us aghast,s hare some quick words, looked straight at us and stopped walking.

In the seconds that followed I had many thoughts go through my head.

Are these people homophobic?

Do they hate Aussies?

Can they tell my friend is wearing skins?

None of the above.

This elderly couple (she looked like a cartoon witch, him the dude who sniffs your clothes at the bus stop) saw that a car was coming close to the curve and that a puddle was there and could splash them.

I get why they stopped.

Who wants to get wet.

But why the fuck didn’t they tell us about this car.

The witch and I had eye contact, they were only 10 metres away, and there was a few seconds to warn us as they could see the car and we couldn’t.

Instead my first indication of the puddle was hearing the water spalsh and then my quick turn and effeminate jump to make sure I didn’t get that wet.

Luckily I had on my big WWII coat and didn’t get that wet, neither did my friend.

Then as we passed the couple the lady looks at us and says, “that’s why we stopped”.

Thank you, bitch.

Thank you so much for only communicating with us to tell us how glad you were that you didn’t get wet and we did.

Why would we have wanted any warning before hand, surely it was better for us to leap up and get wet, and then listen to you rub it in.

Welcome to London, Doyle.

This is not our cat, but a friend’s we are minding while they are away.

But from this moment on I will be living in a cat household one way or another as I have granted my royal seal of approval for my wife to get a cat.

So this is the warm up.

On the whole cat/dog issue I have always said that I have no problems with cats or dogs if they have a good personality.

And the cat we are minding, churro, has a pretty cool personality.

He either wants to play, and he can get a bit nuts at times, or he wants to just hang out on the couch.

If you could have sex with him you’d marry him.

Now I get the appeal of gayness.

Our kitten may not be as a cool as Churro, but I can only hope.

Although I could do without moving my fingers and having them scratched or bitten.

This is me trying to work (play games) and him trying to attack my hands.

It is some sort of pup culture reference that is lost on me, so it doesn’t seem to be from star wars.

The website is some sort of vain journalistic nostalgia trip with talk of yacht races.

As if that isn’t a blog you want to read.

If you want to know more about questing voles, or any voles, you should go over to the site and sniff around.

Perhaps people in London have adapted to not having backyards by letting their dogs sleep inside, but cars are not as easily kept in the spare room.

Finding parking near our place is enough of a reason to never get a car.

Then there is traffic and the congestion charge, to cars I say, thanks, but no thanks.

But London is a resourceful city, and here there is a service called streetcar. For a fee of under a hundred quid and at a rate of 6 quid an hour you can pick up a car on almost every street corner of inner London.

You can then drive this car to ikea, if you need a desk chair and can’t afford to go to a real place, then you can drive back home a few hours later with your cheap chair with little hassle or price.

That my friends, is genius.

Within a ten minute walk of our house there is like 6 cars we can hire, so if you need to get somewhere that is impossible to deal with via public transport, or you need to carry something, you just whip out the six quid an hour and off you go.

It is almost as good as the bike thing in paris, the Vélib’.

Except you can’t stop for quick burgers on the way home.

There was also a present in the last car i rented, it had a tiny soccer ball that some kid have left, which is now mine.

I doubt 50% of Australians could spell eucalyptus either.

But it is still funny to hear an American puss out.

He is a footballer, and from what I can gather he did something people don’t like.

I am doing my best not to find out and don’t plan on losing any money on football betting based on his career.

What really annoys me is that at my tube station people are always going through the exit to get to the platform, so that when you are leaving the station there are always people almost bumping into you as they run for the train you have just got off.

There is entry tunnel right next door, it is no quicker going through the exit tunnel, and you won’t bump into anyone.

But people are fucking useless motherfuckers, and instead of thinking they just run around bumping into people.

How can I hate John Terry and his potential car fucking ways when i have such hardship in my life?

She doesn’t want a dog, like the rest of England she is obsessed with cats, so much so that I have finally caved in and decided to allow her one (and only one) kitten, but only with the proviso that I can get a dog when we get a house.

It must be said that she was not overly happy, but the cat news made her excited enough to agree.

Her only dog rule is that the dog must have a neat face. This obviously makes no sense, so i agreed to it.

Then we were discussing the everyday problems that having pets would involve, and she talked about how it might come on the couch.

I was confused, as how would the dog get inside to even get on the couch.

She said, “dogs live inside”.

And there it was, another cultural difference.

In Australia (and now I have found out Sri Lanka) dogs are outside animals, but in England, regardless of backyard space, they are inside animals.

I understand the basic difference, the temperature, but even so, why would anyone keep a dog inside?

Sure give them a warm place to sleep, the garage, an insulated kennel, or a doggy door to the laundry, but they don’t come inside, certainly not when you aren’t there.

That is madness.

Dogs are outdoor animals, they have fur, they like to chase things, they piss on trees and grass, why would they live indoors if you had the space?

A dog isn’t like a cat, they take up space, they stink a little, they like to roll in dirt, they much on their own shit and bark at the moon.

Outdoors is their place.

Even if they have a neat face.

Will the cultural differences never end?