Well it's time again for the most eagerly awaited worldwide publication of the quarter: The London Expose'- Fifth Edition.

For us here in London (call us the silly bunch) things have been going relatively well. Relative, I guess, to that of Kosovan refugees. Apart from the obligatory clinical depression, suicidal thoughts, and the unrelenting compulsions to impale oneself on sharp objects, life is absolutely fantastic.

The onset of winter once again initiated the emigration of all the softies back to the warmer climates. I have to say that I take umbrage at the way these people leave us commando-tough people in London. Life is full of challenges, and we must face them. You cannot use sunny South Africa as your crutch! You have be strong, people....yeah, okay. I'm jealous. I'll shut-up.

It has been 18 months since I first exposed London for what it really is, and I have to tell you, nothing has changed. In fact, things are getting worse (more about that later). The Sun newspaper is still the largest selling paper, and is still is dominated by font-size 500 headings and the daily selection of mammary glands on "Page 3". It begs questions about breeding, intelligence and culture. England the paragon of culture? Pff. More like paradox of culture. I'll take up that debate any day. The paper is also still the substitute for the real thing. And the suntans are still acquired in the pubs by means of copious consumption of liquor (causing the blood vessels to burst, giving that "suntan" appearance).

In the interceding time there has much happening: the US Presidential election dragged on like an episode of Days of Our Lives- thank the Bill that George Dubbya won (die you leftie, commie scum); the famous gravity defying "Internet Economics" finally lost its wings; Slobbyguts Milosovic was ousted from Yugoslavia by Kostunica; Kabila was shot and the Israelis and Palestinians were at it again. Oh, and most sadly, England beat Australia in rugby! To say that I was sad is an understatement. I mourned, people. Despite the fact that Australia only had 13 players on the field for more than half the match, and only 12 for 10 minutes, and the fact that the peckerhead referee sent Latham off unjustly, I'm not going to make any excuses. Suffice to say that Australia were robbed. :)

The festive season...

Xmas at Med’s house was awesome. Nics and Cands put on a stonking (British vernacular for excellent) spread of food. Turkey, Beef, Sausages with bacon, the list goes on. In true fashion everyone was saying: "Dis maar 'n lekker chow ek se", or as my Aussie mates would say, "great tucker sheilas!"

Xmas activities consisted of a card game where people were made to drink if they got the card colour wrong. Between Craig's and my cheating we managed to get most people inebriated. We also engaged in painting Lance "I-chisel-my-mates-girlfriends" Ridewell’s face with homosexual and profane pictures. Lucky for him we were so bad no one really new what the artworks meant. It has to be said however, that despite our lurid art, the girls definitely took a greater liking to his looks when makeup was applied. Probably why he wears the stuff when he goes out.

The company Christmas bashes here in London were also quite a jol. For the Business Unit party they took us to the Chop House at Butlers Wharf, overlooking Tower Bridge, apparently some really fancy place. If the bill was any indicator of its exclusivity, then the place rocks. Food, drink and cigars totalled £70 per head. People, that's about R800, per person. That's a whole lot of apples, I'm telling you.

(Yep, what would an expose' from Justin be without a reference to money.)

The Firm Christmas party was also a blast. It was held at Battersea park- basically a big marquee just south of the Thames. It has to be said, Investment Banking Xmas parties rock the planet. To start with, they entertain anywhere up to 2000 people per event. They lay on a stage show, with all the dining tables surrounding the stage. As for the food, no complaints there either: seafood, beef, lamb- you name it. Oh and the liquor was also complimentary…hehe.  Oh, and the chicks were hot- check it!

"But that's not all folks!" The company (bless mother Morgan Stanley) then provided supplementary entertainment just in case we got bored- hey, hanging out with your colleagues is only so much fun. The ancillary entertainment came in the form of Dodgem cars, wall climbing, toy frog smashing, fake tattooing, bucking bull, and more. What a thrash!?

New Years then came and some of us went to Scotland while the rest of us hit the infamous Queen Mary on the Thames.

The crew that sojourned to the QM was Adrian (aka slagbag) and Greg Mitchell (aka smooth) and their gang, my mom, Webby, KP, Jay and me. At R400 a head (yep, money again) the night wasn't cheap, but we did get free nibbles and, for those who like horse urine, some free champagne. The crew danced and drank their legs off with my mom and I cutting some moves together as the clock struck. We all then piled outside in the sub-zero temperatures to watch the pretty poor excuse for fireworks along the Thames. I guess living up to last year’s "Wall of Fire" fireworks was always going to be hard. The night ended with Pauly, Greg and myself finishing off a couple of beers at 6am in the morning at a little Cafe in Leicester Square.  We were waiting for the tubes to open so we didn't have to pay the R300 cab fare back home. (My life does revolve around money, doesn't it? Gotta to speak to my therapist about this.) The next day was like Chinese water-torture and I woke up feeling like one of Craig Lewis' ex-girlfriends (like a cheap terry-towelling cloth in an industrial washing machine).

As for the Scotland crew, it consisted of Craig "Pete Sampras" Thompson, Lance "I-chisel-my-mates-girlfriends" Ridl, Shane "I-can't-pull-the-trigger" Collins, and Patch "I-can't-stop-pulling-the-trigger" Fenton. With the tour motto being, "what goes on tour, goes on the internet", I have recounted some of their tales...

From all accounts, the boys had a wonderful time. Some found it hard to converse with some of the local inhabitants (ask Craig- hehe) while others didn't feel the need to talk at all (ask Patch).

The fauna (ladies) were apparently quite nice looking too. Unfortunately, Shane had his opportunities ruined by his MATE Lance the Chiseler. When told that a young lady fancied Shane, Lance kindly informed her that Shane was in fact homosexual. Quite fortuitously for Lance, the lady then turned her attention to him. No points for guessing where Lance gets his nickname.

Reports also came back that Lance played tonsil hockey with - get this- the Welsh Woman's Rugby Team prop...yep, you read it right: WOMAN'S, RUGBY and PROP, being the keywords. He was loving her "muscular" body until she turned around and started tongue wrestling her girlfriend!?!

As for the remaining dog on heat, Patch, he apparently couldn't get enough, smooching as many as 50 foreign spit repositories. Rumour has it that most of them were treadmill candidates but nonetheless, that is an impressive number. I think someone should tell him that he ain’t 16 anymore, however. So good were his saliva swapping pursuits that he also allegedly kissed 2 (what appeared to be) girls at once. I've heard about threesomes but this takes things to a new level.

In general...

During the last quarter, Craig (my digs mate) invested in a new money-saving-cum-social-interaction-minimizing device, colloquially known as a Sega Dreamcast. This, and the acquiring of Tony Hawk Pro Skater game, has gone down as the best purchase of the year, if not the decade.

Being the gifted couch potatoes that Craig and I are, we just recently won the "Inter Southfields-Wimbledon Tony Hawk World Sega Dreamcast Championships" (yeah, okay, I'm lying, but we are the best in our region, if not the world, I'm sure). With both of us clearly ahead of the plethora of fellow gamesters in our area, we vie for the mantle of King Couch Potato.

As far as my investments go, I have been faring relatively well. My shareholding in Burger King has increased quite substantially over the holiday period, with my visiting increasing to as many as six times in one week. That's a lot of Double Whoppers folks. I guess you could call me the King of Burgers...or, the Burger King- get it? Nudge, nudge. (Ahhh, not funny, I know.  Sad.)

The explanation for this marked increase in Burger King visitations is due to an epiphany I had a couple of months ago while on the train home from work. The revelation? I have a Burger King at ALL three of my weekly train stops. One at Wimbledon, one at Waterloo and one at Canary Wharf. Am I not the luckiest person in the world? I think so.

My other investments include the obligatory long position in Prozac that is paying good dividends (mental ones, that is). Due to the adverse affects of seasonal changes, no friends, no family and constant drudgery of the ant-like behaviour us Londonites engage in, this is easily understood.

My Microsoft stock hasn't faired too well however, with the consumer market for PC's saturated, the US Antitrust Department’s statist attack on my main man Bill Gates and the overall drop in technology sector, the stock rose by 40% then dropped by 40% and is now about break-even. Praise the Bill for the recovery. With the NASDAQ dying, I'm not holding my breath though. Oh and my South African shares we won’t even begin to discuss!

Speaking of Microsoft and money, Rhys "I-mess-Justin’s-room-constantly" Weekley came to town in early January. Like all good tourists he has come to pillage the jobs and rape the economy. Earning substantially north of what anyone I know earns, the skinny white boy is looking to become the Bill Gates of London. In fact, he is earning what are commonly known (amongst himself and me) as Gates Dollars. Basically, money earned on the back of Bill and his Microsoftie products. His job description? VBScript, ASP, Jscript, SQL, VB COM programmer. Huh?  Yeah, all I know is that it is geek speak for: "I’m fricken clever and earn lots of money". Considering his terrible money management ability, I have kindly volunteered my time to help him look after his finances. Anyone want to come to dinner on me? J

My mother also made the pilgrimage to the Land of the Great Smog this Christmas along with my uncle Reg and his lady Anne. Together they traversed Wales, Canterbury, and the city streets of London. Apparently there was eight inches of snow up in Llandudno (Wales). Kewl. Mom also made the journey down to "Cornwall" (read below) with us- thanks again Chiseler. Oh, and speaking of snow, we had a couple of inches in the city. I have to say, that with blanket of snow, London didn’t look half bad- but don’t quote me on that and don’t tell anybody I said it.

While here my mom, Lance, Craig, and myself also went to the Dog Races one night. Contrary to what you are thinking, the night was actually a blast. We laid out about £10 each with Craig actually up for the night, Lance losing everything and my mom and myself breaking even.

In retrospect, if we had just chosen the dog that Lance said would "definitely not win", we would have been up considerably. Despite the proliferation of bar leeches and pugnacious poms, the atmosphere was quite pleasant. And as hard as it is to believe that a skinny dog, running around in circles, chasing a fluffy fake rabbit is fun, it actually is.

Last month, just before Xmas, The Chiseler invited us to "Cornwall". It is in quotation marks because we didn't actually get to Cornwall. In a nutshell, Lance lied to us. It turned out that he had a series of jobs that he had to do in Devon, "which is on the way to Cornwall". So Cornwall turned into Devon, and beautiful St. Ives turned into industrial Exeter. After I had finished my assault of verbal barbs, I decided to relax. We then ended up having dinner at a beautiful pub in Exeter and then staying at the Holiday Inn right next to it. In fact, to be totally honest we only entered the town to have a few drinks at the local Walkabout. True to form, the Walkabout was great fun. We managed to sing along to the Men at Work song "Land from Down Under" (the surrogate Australian national anthem). Matters between Lance and I were finally settled over a nice couple of whiskeys and a little hug.

From back home, I hear Craig Lewis has spent time in the bush looking for native women again, this time somewhere in Banga-Lotsanubians. I guess it is one of the symptoms of not being able to pick up in the usual places. While one Lewis had gone native with some fellow bush bandits, another (Wendy his sister) has been in London earning some pounds and having a great time. Thank the Bill Gates for Wendy, hey Mrs. Lewis?

A Tube ride...

I know that all of you (okay, the one person) who reads my Exposés know that I don't like to whine..."yeah, whatever", I hear the one of you retort. Okay, maybe I do, but I have been good thus far, so I'm going to share a painful (but hopefully enjoyable to read) anecdote with you...

Many a month I have been complaining that the tubes are horrendous, but every time I feel that I don't convey the message effectively enough. So let me try again. To start with you have to realise exactly how much of one's London life is spent on the tubes. Its considerable. I spend almost 15% of my waking hours on the tubes. To get anywhere in London further than one stop away is an hour round trip. For me to get to work, if everything runs smoothly, takes an hour...but it never runs smoothly....

...Take today for instance. Today my journey took 1 hour and 30 minutes. The distance as the crow flies from my house to my work is just about 15 miles (24km). Is the math not working for you? Yeah, not for me either.

Then you have the heat on the tubes and lack of ventilation. With everybody packed in liked sardines, this causes people to sweat...profusely. There goes my nicely washed body and cleanly pressed shirt. Wrinkle heaven I'm telling you. But lucky for me, on the last part of my train journey to work I was lucky enough to be able to rest my face in some smelly man's armpit. Lucky, hey?

Just to be able to get on the tubes in peak hour you will also need to be a skilled practitioner of what I call, Tae Kwon Tube. This involves engaging in a few combinations of throws, shoves and worst case scenario, some muffled punches, in order to board.

Anyway, so there I am this morning, waiting to board the Jubilee line and lo and behold I have a few feisty, impolite people (a.k.a. Londonites) trying to engage in some Tae Kwon Tube. I try and rise above it, but I realise if I don't counter, I'm not going to get on this tube. Having already missed three of the sardine tins, I decided to abandon the manners thing. Confronted by the two shovers, I engage in the classic, but still effective, "Opps Sorry" move.

Bang, shove, smash- "Opps sorry", I say. In no time at all I have pushed both out of my way and made it look like the other person had pushed me into them and jumped on the tube.

As the stress of the daily travel experience starts to takes its toll, I begin to question why I put myself through this torment five mornings out seven. In turn, I question the quality of life, all of sudden I am questioning life itself...and then it comes: "the unrelenting compulsions to impale oneself on sharp objects".

Bourbon Street...

In October I flew back to sunny South Africa to be there for the opening of Bourbon Street Cape Town and spend some time with the boys: Stevo, Alan and Murray.

I flew into Cape Town international the morning of the opening. Arrived at about 11am, doors to open at 9pm. Eventually Steve picked me up. Only an hour late which was pretty good for Stevo. As we drove to the club Steve's nervous laugh made way for a slew of caveats…

"Yeah, nah. Nah. Everything is fine, Just", he stopped. "Oh, there is a little problems with neon's," he paused, "Oh, and the balustrade", pause, "err, and the lights", pause, "and the coke machines...and the fire exit signs...Oh, and the soundproofing won't be finished in time. But apart from that, Just, everything is perfect".

The way he relayed all this to me was incredible, especially considering he hadn't slept in three days, crashed his car the day before and was about to open the newest and hottest club in Cape Town in just under 9 hours. He was totally and utterly relaxed. In fact, if it hadn't been so blatantly obvious that things were serious, I might have missed it. This is one of Steve's remarkable qualities- his stress levels sit just the other side of zero. I envy him.

In all fairness to the boys, they had been working like prostitutes on a double shift and it was in fact a culmination of poor tradesmen in the local area and extremely bureaucratic councillors that had pushed the opening 3 months past the deadline.

Anyway, it was about an hour from opening and we still had scaffolding up to the roof, building debris all over the floor, bars unstocked, toilet mirrors still being fitted, and no float counted. I was on the verge of a minor coronary, and if I had had time to fall over, I'm sure I would have, but as it turned out I was assigned some urgent tasks: the car guards and getting the soft drink issue resolved. Imagine it: "Vodka and Coke please". "I'm sorry sir, but we don't have any Coke tonight". Eck, there goes the high margin sales for the night.

So off I was. I quickly gave the car guards the run down- "Scabenga? Shiya!" (for my Australian and British friends it means: "Thief? Hit/Kill"). After conveying the complex remit, I threw them some torches and some fancy Bourbons shirts and then took off to the Liquor store.

"Hi, I realise you are just about to close, but can I have enough soft drink to last 2000 people buying drinks over an eight hour period?" The coronaries were not scarce that night. After his mild stroke, the guy picked himself up and organised my some 80 cases of soft drink.

The pace was so frenetic that I thought I was going to have a stress-induced subdural haematoma. It didn't help that I was running on reserve tank, having been sandwiched in between two very large men and having someone in front of me who persisted in keeping his chair fully reclined for the entire plane trip. I could hardly breathe, let alone sleep.

...Eventually the doors were opened. About half an hour late, which for a new club opening is apparently quite fashionable. About an hour after opening we had about 1000 people and by 12 o'clock the place was packed. Over 2000 people came to party. The vibe was electric. Being a typical Spratt I still couldn't relax and remained in my constant state of paranoia. I spent the early part of the night at the door because I had seen some Craig Lewis's (shady characters) try and jump the queue. I later patrolled the back for fear of robbery- the club still had considerable amount of building tools and materials that prevented us from properly securing the back doors. Later I worked the bars and helped Al and Murray tend to the cash. All of this, although helpful, was unnecessary. The night would have run just the same without me. The boys had done a "bonza mate" job.

The last people eventually left at about 5am (the license is until 4am, but who's counting?). Murray and Al cashed up and we had a few more drinks. We arrived home at 6:30am, just in time for the beautiful sunrise. Phew! What a night.

By all accounts the night was an enormous success with Steve O'D and Murray Bunn rocking the house silly with awesome music. If you are ever in Cape Town, do yourself a favour and visit the club. Tell the boys Spratt sent you and I'm sure they'll spot you a drink.

On paper, the night should not have happened, but it goes to show what you can do when you put your mind to it. A great night indeed.

The end...

People, I've said it before and I'll say it again: "London is poo". 

In all fairness, if you took away the bad weather, added a beach down the road, took 15 million people out of the city, paid me more money, gave me a flat and bought me a Porsche, life would be absolutely fan-fricken-tastic.  That's not much to ask- is it?

Justin Spratt, Reporter on assignment in London, signing off.