  I have just returned to Colchester after my longest foray thus-far this trip into the depths of London. As I see things, the City of London is the second biggest nexus in the administration of global imperialism after Wall Street. Walking through it, along the Strand from Blackfriars to Trafalger Square, stoked the dying embers of my anticapitalism back into flame.
I felt again the anger that had made me come to London for May 1st 2001, with the intention of smashing up as much of the place as I could. It made me want to resist again, want to fight back against the sheer lameness of the whole get-rich-and-fuck-everyone else project that my homeland has come to represent. It cannot produce anything aesthetically worthwhile: what it produces is ugly, clumsy, half-suited fucks dancing around with drunken insouciance to pub bands while drinking £3.50 bottles of beer JUST FUCKING KILL YOURSELVES ALREADY, YOU STUPID BASTARDS! These lives are not worth living. Maybe mine isn't either, but at least I'm not dedicating my life to ugliness and oppression.
Speaking of ugliness, everyone (and I'm especially referring to the ladies) in London looks really rough, as does everyone in Colchester. Both places are crawling with Latin (French, Spanish, Italian) teenagers who stand as a living testament to how easy it was for out ancestors to wipe the floor with the Roman Empire in the first place. 
