I had just arrived at Chalk Farm Station after taking the train from my family residence. It was New Year’s Eve, roughly 10-ish. Night black, lights on — whether cell phones or the lights in everyone’s eyes. I walked from the station upwards, past the river bridge, towards Primrose Hill. I may have been checking the time on my iPhone meanwhile, idk. As usual, passing classical high-real estate buildings, champagne-attractive women, and people in 1/4 zip pullovers laughing in restaurants with pints of IPA. It was Friday. My face as stone cold as ever. Eye contact here, eye contact there. Anyways, I eventually got to the corner gate closest to me only to see dubious police officers - redirecting drunker pedestrians and tourists from the gate. Apparently the park was closed for New Year’s Eve. What bullshit. I was confused, myself. The 5-foot-somethings were telling me that it’s a no-go in their hi-vis jackets, neck beards and paw-hands. I wasn’t mad at them, btw — just the situation. My first thought was, “FUCK!”. I had a Macbook Pro, refill pad and fineliner pens in my backpack for no reason. Though, why would I bring a backpack to the park on a celebratory night? I turned right out the gate on a road leading towards the centre of Camden Town.

I didn’t know what I was going to do. I was improvising. I was surprised by the amount of [Wealthy] Arab tourists I was passing by. They really wanted to spend their New Year’s in a park when they could have an exclusive pass into any Knightsbridge [Dubaitown] establishment? Damn. Anyways, I was thinking about doing something illegal: Going into a public park; by covert means, of course. So I’m side-eyeing the gates whilst walking, looking for a gap wide enough to fit a six-foot-six black man that weighs fifteen stone. It’s not as hard as you think. So I’m stepping out — dripped up, of course — seeing the other rejects on their phones hurrying or congregating around their drug dealer-friend’s audi trying to ask their acquaintances on snapchat if there’s anything going on. One hand holding the face, the other crading the breast and holding the phone. I can hear distant “X said that there might be a motive tonight…” in 24 different languages. The asian girls just walk while looking at their phones, quietly shouting ideas at each other. These are the wealthy ones by the way, the ones in FILA trainers, bucket hats and gucci bags.

After turning the corner I continued scanning for something. What I did see where failed attempts happening before my eyes. Some dumb kids tried to flank the police but they didn’t really think that MAYBE the police would eventually find them and arrest them… No exit strategy. Sad. All I was thinking was that they were fucking it all up for the rest of us. Dumb kids. Anyways, I was on the road adjacent Primrose Hill but also the London Zoo on the other side. I’d been to this area many times on my past night cycles and I knew there was a small residential road that cut right, obscured by trees. It was just deep and hidden enough to give me a new visual on the landscape. I was getting in. One way or another. I didn’t give a fuck. I still don’t.

I saw roughly one-to-four pigs on their post and some others on patrol. These were the kinds of moments you would only imagine to see in an Assassin’s Creed game rather than a well-intentioned stroll in the park… I was hesitant. I was trying to calculate how I’d break the law, whilst also unscrewing my head left and right looking out for witnesses. Especially ones with a 45-year-old counternance, overcoats, flat caps, leather gloves and phrases like, “Ooh I do love the theatre!”. No hate to the locals though. I believe there were some passer-bys and even nearby policemen which quickly switched me into let’s-piss-in-a-nearby-bush-and-get-the-fuck-out-of-here mode. I would pass by the friendly coppers holding the lower-west gate with an unecessarily polite head nod and they would nod back. The tension was killing me. My shoulders were tighter than a virgin and my chest was more inflammatory than the remarks I’ve already made in this story. It felt like somebody made me swallow Vaporrub and cleanse my palette with Deep Heat. Even worse, it was a white guy and black guy. A black police officer with a white compadre. It doesn’t mean anything for me but I could see the existential affliction on his face. He looked like a deer in headlights; Only, he wouldn’t look me in the eyes... He didn’t know whether he’d be ridiculed or saluted by another white black-man. I felt empathy for his sorrow.

I kept walking forward, back towards the first gate I encountered. Sweating too much in the drip I was in for my liking. Cars were passing, boris bikes too. Vauxhalls with overly-loud speakers playing dancehall music but with morrocans in tracksuits who obviously didn’t know what the word ‘Speed bump’ means. They must’ve been Qatari drifters, sheiks from a foreign land. It’s funny because I would’ve been worse if I was in the car with them, screaming profanities at old ladies with half my body out the window like Mad Max — but from Tooting Broadway. I passed by another group of fellas cranking their ways in through a small wedge crowbarred inbetween a pair of guards in the fence. I wished them Godspeed, hoping they would make it. I also kept that place in mind as a second option in case shit went down. The clock waited for no man. I pulled my phone out of my pocket: It was 10:30-11:00pm-ish. Things were looking dangerous. I slipped it back into my pocket and started nervously walking towards the original gate. I walked, passing by the same groups again: Hypebeasts, Oxford-types, coke-money, oil-money, fu er dai’s, dubai boys, drunks, tourists, yardies [Magnum in hand], interracial couples [yes, black guys, bad trim, and white women], older middle class couples, and people looking for the nearest bar with 5 stars on TimeOut.

After scaring away the masses, and getting some igniting physical responses from some pigs, I finally got to the corner spot with no idea with what I was going to do. I looked left, I looked right. I still had no idea. This whole time I was just scanning for a fuck. Well, attractive and well-dressed women who would make eye contact with me then proceed to walk up to me and tell me they wanted to have unprotected sex in the closest dark alleyway possible. Me, of course, not in total shock and questioning whether this girl has an STD or should even be trusted, quickly and swiftly complying with a simple “Yes.”, taking her hand and nonchalantly taking her to an obviously public and inappropriate place to insert myself into her vigorously for 10-20 minutes cumming inside her, with no consequences, and mutual respect for each other, no emotions involved, ending with a friendly handshake, her skipping away happily with her friends into the city with high self-esteem and me walking lightly, anyonymously, with a smile on my face towards any direction, past a nonchalant police force. Just a mutualy-beneficial and friendly transaction. Unfortunately none did. It was probably the lack of money, and/or power.

I decided to move towards my left, up the hill. If I couldn’t get a view of London from Primrose Hill itself then I’d get it from the hill that shares the view. I had crossed the road, trying to find a spot to settle down and write a journal entry. I stopped at a literal crossroads; a corner, really. I sat on a guard post and turned. The view was good. It had been a long time since I’d been here. It was just as good as I always remembered it. I decided I’d post-up here and just try to figure something out. Just one-to-two minutes later a pair of fair-skinned police officers would walk over and established themselves on the opposite side of the road, opposite me. Their body language oozed suspicion. This sparked a flame in me. I can tolerate doing your job but the London Metropolitan Police Force is one the the most ineffective and incompetent forces I’ve ever seen. It’s a force that can be summarised by giving directions, dancing at Notting Hill Carnival with thousands of people smoking weed, quotes like “Okay, so as you can see we’ve had reports a disturbance and some people may be offended,” and telling anyone who’s witnessed a murder or robbery “Sorry there’s not really much we can do, I’m afraid.”. So when two white knuckleheads [Their race doesn’t matter] start pushing their chests out like they’re defending the holy land, they provoke a fuse inside me that ignites a sole desire to eat their flesh and stab them in the heart repeatedly with my teeth, just so I can here them agnostically cry to God for help. Safe to say, I was irritated; but I chuckled looking to the left of me. Seething, with the vaporrub in my chest, I crossed the road walking towards them. It wasn’t midnight so it wasn’t time for fireworks, yet. With flares in my chest pocket, I looked them up and down, smirked and walked left. BLM wasn’t gonna like that one. They knew. Tip: If someone thinks you’re a thug, out-sophisticate them.

I reclined on the park fence and unequiped my backpack and pulled my beige Muji notebook and two fineliners out. I turned and magically the two bozos had dissappeared. Quel Surprise! I smiled and turned back to my journal. I had originally planned to write a final reflection for 2021 and draw up some contract work I needed to do for a project I was working on with someone abroad. So I checked my phone: 11-close-to-midnight-o’clock. Okay. Well, I had a view, a journal and at least a spare 20 minutes. I started writing out my thoughts and feelings into the final free pages of my notebook. I was writing for ten minutes when all of a sudden I noticed one couple establishing themselves in near me. I continued. Then I noticed a small trio also post themselves on the fence further down. Uh oh. I continued. I eventually, after roughly ten, maybe fifteen, more minutes, signed off my final journal entry. Emotional, I know. I would, after that, lift my head to see the equivalent of Stamford Bridge around me. Did my SoundCloud really take off? Already?? Turns out everyone caught on about the view and got desperate since they were also stranded with ten-to-fifteen minutes till midnight. There was no time for contract work now. Fuck. I stood up, now surrounded by normies and pub-people, claiming my space, surprised by how many people were fine with just standing on a hill in north-central London to watch the yearly fireworks. Almost as if they were on Primrose Hill… We all stood awaiting the spectacle, with EVEN MORE people joining in and trying to find a spot on either side of the road. I really stood there thinking “If this isn’t proof that I’m a trendsetter then I don’t know what is.”. I had less than two hundred followers on Instagram yet I had psychically congregrated a mass of people that challenged the great Moses himself. It was obvious: I lead, never follow.

The status had remained the same: A growing influx of eager civillians wanting a view of the London skyline for Earth’s birthday party. Some had drinks, some did not [They had hashish or cameraphones or both]. It was all getting rowdy and noisy — in a civil way, of course — when all of a sudden, an unexpected leakage occured and one of our best men had climbed the gate and entered the park, running for his life. Luckily, in his cirumstance, police officers aren’t the epitomy of health and fitness. Unluckily for him, he was alone with no place to go; So they caught him and walked him off towards an exit. Meanwhile, we all cheered him on as the gladiator of a nation. He recieved more love on his run than most olympians these days. Everyone started to chatter about it. Something was brewing. Another leaked out. We cheered. He slipped. We winced. He returned. The youths was rebelling and we loved it. It was inspiring. It was good entertainment, also. There weren’t nearly enough police officers to handle something like this. Just then, a burst of local patriots burst through the gates and cracks of the upper-east corner. Tracksuits and all. We had a mission. It was way too many for the police and those that entered remained. That rapidly encouraged and ensured bystanders closer in my direction to pour in, the amount getting larger. Like Sparticus, but degenerates wanting to get drunk in a park. This inevitably culled my inner flame. The heat and vigour of youth and adventure was burning hot in my chest. Adrenaline. I said what I always say when I change the world, “Fuck it.” and asked the guy next to me for a boost up. He asked some reasonable questions with a smile on his face and helped me. I struggled like a retard and fell on my flat back like the dumbass I was. I got up and ran straight for the hill. It was the Battle of Balaclava and I was getting mine. I also was embarrassed and I didn’t want to see if any attractive women saw me fall like an idiot, therefore eliminating me as an option for being a suitable sexual partner. Because that’s what matters. I surged forward, watching the what-seemed-like-millions climb the hill like ants and the others beside me also running with the childish enthusiasm of a 14 year-old boy playing tag rugby or British Bulldog in PE class.

I got up the hill, finally, with it not in it’s greatest shape — the grass torn with mud exposed — at the front end and turned, resulting with a mental “Woow…”. It was gleaming, glassy, and glossed. Breathtaking. Sparkles everywhere. You couldn’t make this up. The dots connected all over the surfaces of the concrete slabs. Little smiles with teeth garnished with silver shavings of window lights. Flourescent twinkles. Cars shot through like comets and a red and amber haze simultaneously dressed the city, guarding it in a soft-gazing glow. Big Ben had never looked so big. The London Eye was whiter than ever. The Gherkin was to be seen and so was the Shard in the distance. All corners of London became extremely apparent, cross-sectioning into unity at one axis: The view I was experiencing. Blue of smartphones, office lamps, street lamps, electronic signs. Someone was in a warm bar having a good beer with his or her friends. I… was not missing this. I bathed in the moment, in the exposure. It was so ambient. So etherial but in a warm way. There was still two minutes left. I stood there alone. Everyone was chattering and hooting. Maybe drinking, maybe lighting small fireworks. Everyone was taking photos with their smartphones. Selfies for couples, group photos for friends, landscape shots for sole spectators. Everyone was proud of what we were all able to accomplish together. A rare privilage that not a lot of people get. Celebrities don’t get this kind of treatment. They prefer breaking tax laws, anyway. There was no way the police were going to do anything — there were too many people. Now all there was to do was to wait to watch, make out, light up, take pictures, and say “Woow!”. Luckily enough, in all my standoffish demeanour, a light-skinned guy [5’10-ish, curly hair with shaved sides] was stood next to me and it seems we both had a subconscious desire to connect with each other, but I had too much pride to admit it. Finally a conversation was started — thanks to him. His name was Brandon. He was from New Zealand. He recently moved from his place of origin to Newcastle [Of all places…]. He said he loved it [He must’ve been obviously lying]. He was working as a barber or something to do with shoes, I can’t remember, but it was something that’d be welcome in Shoreditch. He had come down to London for a weekend to visit London and celebrate New Year’s Eve. I asked him what he thought and he said he liked it. He didn’t seem to look like he desperately wanted to climb to London for any opportunity to get-the-fuck-out of Newcastle, which was strange. Not what you’d usually expect but we carried on. It was a nice back-and-forth. I gave him minimal information as I always do [In uni, live near Wandsworth, 6’6, don’t play basketball]. We went tit-for-tat. He seemed nice; and what seemed like two minutes turned into “10, 9, 8, 7…”. It was happening, fuck. I joined in. “6, 5, 4” I pulled my phone out. “3, 2, 1… HAPPY NEW YEARRR!!!”. Fireworks were popping off, people were kissing, spliffs were burning, and the police were seething. We had done it; and we all celebrated. I had finally done what I’d wanted to do for 5 years and it was worth it. It was finally happening and the view was just as good as I imagined it to be. The music from a bluetooth speaker was playing and everyone was joyous, like what church used to be. It was spiritual. I turned to my Kiwi friend in this sentimental moment and slid in a warm “Happy New Year, bro.” and he returned the favour with a similar favour. We continued to watch the fireworks on display. It was beautiful. Red. Pink. Beige. Gold. Blue. Orange. Purple. Green. It all saturated the night sky. Each bang lit our smiles another colour.

It went on and on. This was the first time I’d been in the cinema since 2019. The people behind me and the show in front. It really was movie magic. Brandon and I decided to exchange contact details. I had no data so I gave him my Instagram username in hopes he’d find me when he got home or made his way back to Newcastle. We said goodbye warmly and platonically. He went back to friends who I hadn’t noticed before. Majority females. I, being me, instantly began to scan to see if there were any that were hot that I’d want to fuck. I wanted to get plugged in so I could conduct further research but I didn’t want to encroach on my friend’s night. Be alone on New Year’s, not lonely. So I stood there, as the show ended, observing the cityscape and glancing behind me, taking pictures as camouflage, to see what the other people where doing. They were laughing, having fun. I went around, to the top of the hill, behind the clergy, to take one grand photo. It was good. I was done. I was ready to go home but I was also fiending for a party or something crazy and spontaneous to do. I was torn. The lust for life had caught my nose and I was ready to smoke, snort or fuck anything in front of me if it meant having a good time. Unfortunately, I was a mute. Everyone seemed somewhat moronic, half-convinced in their fun or torturous to spend another four to five hours with, ending with me asking myself why I stayed out and drank when I could’ve just gone home and had a gotten a good night’s rest for the next day. So I said “Fuck it” and left. I walked down the hill, passing by all the other people capturing the last dying moments of what happened. They were taking photos together or shouting with drinks in their hands. I was observing.

I continued, walking past the indifferent police officers at the gate. They knew they had failed but they didn’t care; they did the best they could. None of us cared. I walked back towards Chalk Farm Station and it was polite pandemonium on the streets. So many people. I passed through the folk who remained at the outdoorsy pubs and restraurants with glasses of Chardonnay. Everyone was either walking away or towards the park in excitable fashion. I walked and walked, weaving past various groups and gangs of people with money. I finally crossed the final road and entered the station. I whipped my card out and tapped at the gate. It scanned and it lit green. I’d done it. I’d had a great night. It was amazing. A great start to the year. The elevator ride down couldn’t contain my rays of sunshine. The rays from within lit up the train platform as I walked across it to the far-end. In a feeling of completion, I rolled the backpack of my shoulders and saw it was open. I dug in to double-check everything was safe. I’d lost my Macbook.