Before I came to London I was of the impression that Harrod's was a noble place. A place where the rich went to buy opulent and luxurious goods. A place where the social elite congregated to purchase their truffles, their perfumes, their spices and their caviar. A place where you had high tea and drank champagne at the oyster bar.
It's nothing like that though. Well it probably is, but you have to get inside. Which isn't usually an option due to the throng of idiots that surround it constantly.
On a Saturday, if you're European, consider yourself to be wealthy and have the the worst fashion sense this side of the Eastern Bloc then for some reason you'll find yourself walking around out the front of Harrod's. There's no explaining it, it just happens. You may not want to be there, but on a Friday night someone inside the big domed tower overlooking Brompton Road flips a switch that turns on a special bad taste magnet which is so strong that if you live anywhere from Germany to Italy to Portugal and have one single item in your wardrobe that is embroidered, is glittery or has rhinestones on it, you'll wake up on Saturday morning some time and realise you're wearing your embroided/glittery/rhinestoned clothes and are blocking the footpath out the front of Harrods.
It's probably not your fault, but by god do you bunch of retards piss me off when I'm having to pass through that area.
Seriously, what the hell is with people who can't get from one point to another without doing any of the following:
Drifting is when you walk along the footpath and ever so slowly deviate from your initial course and begin walking diagonally across the footpath, cutting off everyone behind/beside you. Whenever someone attempts to pass you on the otherside, you then counter-drift in front of them. This is usually when you'll feel a sharp blow to the back of your head, courtesy of me.
This enrages me so much. People who walk along, then suddenly decide that the best time to stop dead in their tracks and reach around in their pockets to find their rhinestone encrusted Nokia is whilst they are on the busiest footpath ever. If you do this, know that I will probably cut you.
3) The Flying V
Yes, like on The Mighty Ducks. This is when there's a bunch of people walking shoulder to shoulder and taking up the entire footpath so anyone walking in the opposite direction is forced to edge between them, walk onto the road to avoid them or just turn around a walk back the other way. For fuck's sake you people, the footpath is wide enough to accommodate maybe four people, there's eight of you. It's not going to work. Go single file you assholes and stop making everyone else walk around you. Often this is a family. I still hate them. Children are not an excuse.
4) God-ing it.
This is when you believe that you are a supreme being that can walk through crowds without having to ever move for anyone else. You think the crowds will part, just so you can get to the luxury optics aisle to find a tinted lense for your Prada monocle.
I hate going anywhere near Harrods.
If it's not the European fashion victims clogging the footpaths, it's the Japanese tour groups.
And then you've got the protestors picketing against Harrods because they use fur in some of their items.
Fuck off with your posters of skinned dogs. I don't care if Harrods has a tiny zoo full of animals it slaughters nightly to create fur lined chihuahua carriers. Yes it's bad that these animals get treated so badly, but if I've pushed through 10,000 people to get to Harrods, I'm not going to turn around just because you're giving me a fucking pamphlet.
Wow, does this rant ever stop!?
Well yes it does.
Sometimes all it takes is one little moment to make it all worthwhile.
Today, that moment was a dick joke.
On the tube, I was nearing Knightsbridge, preparing myself for the impending battle through the Harrods crowds.
As the train was about to pull out of South Kensington the standard announcement rang out.
"Stand clear of the doors. Mind the closing doors. This is a Piccadilly line train stopping all stations to Cock..."
For some reason the message cut out and so the train's destination changed from Cockfosters, to somewhere arguably less savoury.
This was enough to make me giggle, because I'm basically a 4 year old. But the best part was just down the carriage from me there was a man and his son. The son was about 8.
When the announcement was made, the little kid threw his hand over his mouth and began laughing. He looked up guiltily at his dad who smirked, ruffled the kid's hair and laughed as well.
Yep, dick jokes bring people together.
It's badly dressed Europeans out the front of Harrods that tears them apart.