Text me maybe

I will never understand why relationships have to be so damn complicated.

It’s you and I, we like each other, we want to spend some time together and give it a try.
Done! Easy! Right?

Hell no! No pain, no gain. In this case, no game.

When you’re approaching somebody, you need to weigh every single word and look after any action you take. You need to play that game.

Should I ask for their number?  What should I say and how often should I text?  Will they think I’m going too fast and feel some pressure? And if I don’t, will they feel I don’t care?

Don’t spend too much time overthinking it because, whatever you do, it’s always gonna turn wrong.

And instead of simply being honest, we’ll lose the beauty of seeing each other’s shy expressions, smiling for that funny thought, looking down when recalling that hurtful story, only because we’ll always focus on a game we never know how to play right.

So next time you like somebody and you want to give this thing a try, just keep it cool and safe: go for “Text me…maybe.”

The Britalian Post

Feedback on The Britalian Post

Everywhere I go, everyone I meet, I always ask people for some feedback and insight on The Britalian Post. This helps me understand if I’m going in the right direction, if I’m writing relevant and engaging content, and what and how I can improve.

Recently, I’ve received some really interesting input, and I thought I’d share it with you.

It seems that in the photo in my bio in the left sidebar (that I’ve recently changed), I was making a sexual gesture that might appal a reader. Come on! This is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard!!! Anyhow, what I thought was just an insignificant and innocent hip-hop gesture appears to hide a deeper semiotic meaning that perverse minds could spot. So to speak…

More has been said about the content and my frequent use of swear words being inappropriate as well. This leading the readers to think that I’m all about “f*** you’s”, and therefore judging me beforehand. Whereas I’m only the nicest guy ever, aren’t I? 😀

The thing is, there’s a reason why I make use of such tacky jargon. For those who don’t know, the way expats speak English is very different from natives’, and the use of swear words for us doesn’t sound as bad as if we were swearing in our own language. We basically learn the language we hear from others, so if they swear, you should probably tell them off!

So I decided to stick to this “street language” to stay closer to the type of reader I’m addressing – because (maybe) reading content that sounds more like the way they (we) speak, makes them better identify with the stories. Fuck me, that’s so easy to understand! (Come on, another swearword?! What’s wrong with you Jim?!)

Then, even if I tried to write in a more eloquent and articulate way, I just couldn’t – simply because, HELLOOOO, I LACK THE VOCABULARY AND THE SYNTAX!!! And even if I attempted to, the tone of voice would clearly sound fake and unnatural. Maybe people would no longer like it (if they ever have), and I couldn’t be so grateful for the 932 views and 477 visitors for the month of July only.

Which is – shit! – it’s super cool! (Jim really, swearing again?! You’re such a lost cause).

Jokes aside, thanks so much to all of you for reading and following this blog – I put so much effort and fun into it, and I’m beyond flattered when I hear that you guys appreciate it. A big and deep GRAZIE! And please, always feel free to get in touch and share your feedback (or story) – I’ll seriously value every single word.

Oh, almost forgot. Since I’m such a lost cause, add the following tag to your list:


The Britalian Post

Every time someone leaves London

Every time someone leaves London, they start wondering what made them move over in the first place and what changed in the meantime.

Every time someone leaves London, they know they’re never going to be the same but they’ll never know why. And when you ask them, they sadly smile back and look away – before mumbling something in return.

Every time someone leaves London, they imagine there’s always a way back, but, whether there is, they’re just lying to themselves.

Every time someone leaves London, they ask themselves why the London City Hall area – just a little walk away from Tower Bridge – helped them brood over all the things they had left behind; and how that spot on the riverside down in Camden could breed all they were carrying forward.

Every time someone leaves London, they start regretting any choice they’ve ever made. For they now understand that the companies will never be the same – those bus journeys as melancholic, those nights as fuzzy. That they will no longer be…them.

Every time someone leaves London, they remember how special they were treated when they went back to their hometown, and how now they will solely be another random somebody.

Every time someone leaves London, they can no longer say where home is. And that makes them wonder…

They know what they’re leaving. As they know what they’re finding.

Every time someone leaves London, they just realise they had fallen in love for real.

And as love, leaving often hurts.




The Britalian Post


The social compromise

A captivating style, an alluring outfit, is something that many look to achieve – even if it means wearing those ball-squeezing skinny jeans (ouch!) that pump up your butt and define your legs.

The clothing you choose is more or less the upshot of what you like wearing and what makes you feel like you look good. But this “looking good” changes according to the circumstances you find yourself in.

For this reason, based on the situation, “looking good” becomes a social compromise.

Aware of appearances always coming first, that Essex girl knew a thing or two about social compromises. In fact, she had to dress up for work – but in her daily life, she would opt for ripped jeans and brazen hoodies. According to her friends, that just wasn’t adequate for a lady, and she‘d have to show more flesh if she wanted to be noticed. Then, I mean, if someone needs to take an accurate look at your boobs before even hearing you pronouncing your name, just make sure it’s worth agreeing to that social compromise.

As a result, appearances lead us to act accordingly: by adapting our look to different circumstances and to what people would want us to look like. We get so deeply influenced that, eventually, all that is left of us is nothing but pure appearance.

Even that Essex girl had to take a step back, follow her friends’ wise advice and abide by that social compromise:

“If you don’t like what I’m wearing, you can just go fuck yourselves!”

The Britalian Post

I’m staying

Spent last night at Leadenhall Market among a bunch of drunk-ass smart-dressed City chaps celebrating a birthday.

For the first half or so, I was shyly hiding behind a friend for feeling too out of context and totally unable to fit in, and for a moment, I started thinking: should I stay or should I go?

The environment of the City, which sometimes you feel like being a boastful space full of cocky and materialistic blowhards, appears to be a tight-knit circle where prejudice and discrimination connotate the general opinion towards strangers, or immigrants. A person like me – with that accent and not dressed up alike – surely catches their attention, and thus their ire.

Turns out I was a victim of my own prejudice.

It simply was a great night – I was dragged in hilarious jokes, interesting chats and drunken group singing. I was treated equally and why would it be otherwise?

For how different our worlds can be, most times our own prejudice clouds our own judgement.

So, honestly, doesn’t matter what Theresa May says or does, what people voted for or didn’t.

I’m staying.

The Britalian Post

Passing by…

We often say that people in London are extremely individualistic, that they don’t like interacting with passers-by and always treat others indifferently.

This morning, an old lady hopped on the 67 bus route to Wood Green and came sitting right next to me. Smiling, she said something to gain my attention.

Maybe she only wanted to exchange a few nice words with somebody, have a quick and pleasant conversation before ending up at home on her chair.

But I’ll never know. Because I totally ignored her and barely smiled back.

The fact that I was focused on some reading and listening to music doesn’t count as an excuse, and I didn’t even have the decency of taking off my earphones, ask her to repeat herself and how her day was so far.

We often say that people in London are extremely individualistic, and judging by my own behaviour, this is so damn true.

The Britalian Post

The recruiter’s love story

Every love story has its ups and downs but this one made me really taste the bitter end.

She was beautiful – curly bright hair, light green eyes, a nice body, a clever chick. And I still can’t believe she actually promised she would always be there for me.

I mean she knew I was struggling, she knew I needed a job, she knew how my career was important for me, and she said she could understand.

She would call me every day – asking how I was holding up, what I had done the previous night, and how I was doing with the interview steps. She would text me, email me, meet me every time I did and didn’t need her. And I did believe it was all real.

She assured me I would get the job, that she would do whatever in her power to help me out and guide me through.

Then she disappeared – no more texts, no more calls, no more meeting up. Was she interested in somebody else?

I tried. I did my best to be patient and wait, to follow up nicely. It was a waste of hope.

I failed at getting the job. And she failed me.

The last time we met – just to quickly catch up and finalise some details – I gave her a last heartbroken goodbye. She didn’t even flinch; she didn’t move a finger until I stood up with anger and made my way to the door.

“Wait, please!”, she yelled and took my hand.

“What now, Samantha?”, I said visibly bothered.

“Can I retain your details for future opportunities?”

The Britalian Post

Things you can do with £1,000

How to handle your money is probably among the most difficult tasks ever.

You never know whether to save, to invest, or simply have fun with it. Some people say it’s a matter of responsibility – of being an adult and build a solid base for the years to come. I believe it’s only a matter of priorities – I mean, the money is yours so you get to decide what to do with it – and perhaps you may just want to take it easy.

For instance, say you have a spare £1,000 coming from heaven – a tax return, a bonus at work, a genie granting a wish (why would you wish for just 1k?!) – and you can do whatever with it, what would you go for?

Assuming that you just want to live life as it comes, I’ve come up with a short list on the things you can do with £1,000.

Take your crew to The Guinea Grill in Mayfair

Have you ever wished to have a classy dinner you couldn’t normally afford? Then The Guinea Grill is the one for you! Their wide selection of meats and their expertise on steaks make of them one of the best steakhouses in London.

But you wouldn’t go there by yourself, would you? You could use a celebration (an important date or recurrence) and squander your money on quality food. So say that you may want your crew to join you – eat till explosion, drink till demolition.

Any other place you fancy going? Please just share away!

Commute with Uber for a week

Aren’t you tired of commuting with public transports every single day?

Fine, transports in London are second to none but with all the unexpected disruptions, the rammed carriages, the trains terminating before your stop, the stink and the heat, and all the times you’re smashed as fuck and you need to get to the other side of the city, it would be nice to get your ass just driven around.

And that’s when Uber comes handy! Recently, with their 1.5/1.6/1.9/2.1 surcharges, Uber has almost become more expensive than Black Cabs. That said, you need much money if you want to rely on Uber for a week and a £1,000 will surely do the trick.

So download the app, sit your ass in the car, and enjoy the ride!

Spend 2 nights at the Shard

Ok, in my entire life in London, I’ve never been at the Shard. I’ve walked past it and paced by the entrance but as soon as people began looking at me like I was some kind of a creepy bum, I’ve always quickly bowled out of their sight.

Yeah, the Shard is a real luxury! And if you wanna be there, you can’t go with empty pockets.

I have no idea of how much a room with a city-sight view may cost but I suppose you can spend 2 nights there for £1,000.

I picture spacious rooms, elegant decor, airy windows that give onto the Thames, and a fascinating outlook on the City of London. I picture a vast selection of breakfast, fresh and professionally cooked food, and then swimming in the pool on the top floor with a glass of bubbling champagne.

I’d go for it!

Play it at the Casino in Monte-Carlo

Don’t know about you people but this is something you might want to do once in your life. You can either get to win money and entirely change your life, or simply realise how poor you are.

In fact, this is Liam’s and Graham’s pick among the things they could do with £1,000.

They happened to have that individual amount out of savings and decided to go do shit with it. Liam and Graham are two simple and regular chaps from Whitechapel (East London). They are true-born Brits, communicate with a slang that only an expert cockney would be able to decode, and they are used to spend most of the time with their mates down at the pub watching football.

They don’t expect much from life. They appreciate what they have – being friends, doing fun stuff around the city – and they promise themselves that none of them will ever leave the other’s side. They’re dreamers, music aficionados, beer experts, and they always run short of money. More importantly, Liam and Graham are there when they need each other.

Anyway, they’re off to Montecarlo – all dressed-up and ready for the posh night. They make a stop at the Café de Paris near the casino and have a few drinks while watching the World Cup – Brazil was playing if I’m not wrong.

They see all these rich people around them – I mean those people you can tell they’re loaded just by looking at them. And the girls…wow…just another level. They can’t wait to enter the casino and ask for the bill: £76 for 4 drinks, that’s really insane.

They make their way into the casino, pay the ticket, enter the main hall. Wow! This real?
They don’t even approach the main tables, they well know those are way out of their league. Or pockets. So they have a beer, finish watching the game, and then sit at the machines. They don’t really lose too much money, in fact they win 18 and 8 cents respectively. They would surely frame those bills.

They’re out and up for more drinks, so they make their way down this stairway that leads them to this super posh place called Buddha Bar: shishas, relaxing music, incense, soldier-like staff. They get a table outside and Liam takes a look at the drinks menu.

“Dude, we might have a problem…”, says Liam goggling, “the average price for a bottle of wine is around 200 quid!”

“You fucking kidding, mate?!”, asks Graham smirking. “Alright, look for the cheapest booze.”

That’s what Liam does and orders a £45 bottle of rosé.

They suddenly notice these two tremendously sexy chicks sitting at the near table. The girls start peeking at them, giving looks and interested smiles. Did I mention that Liam and Graham are two good-looking chaps? Yeah, that’s a fact.

So they start wondering about approaching these girls and how to make a move, considering that they come from completely different worlds – if not for the appearance, definitely for the amount of cash. They wonder about how fucking awesome would be dating them – get to sail on their yachts, travel the world, have a taste of that rich life, get to know people who matter. They wonder how this could change their lives, and they want to make it happen.

Relying on the manners and presence of a proper English lord, Graham goes to sit with them. Liam (who looks just like a street cockney) joins right after.

They make conversation: the girls are from Ukraine, have 2 mobiles each, text with a lot of people. Upon the guys asking what they do, the girls say they mainly enjoy life, travel a lot and chill. They seem to have established a connection with the girls – Liam and Graham are now so impatient to get to know more.

One of them types something on her mobile and shows it to Graham, his eyelids stretch to his forehead and looks at Liam stunned. She turns her mobile towards Liam and here’s what’s written: “Do you want to come to our hotel?”

Liam and Graham have the same thought. The two simple chaps from Whitechapel are about to experience a type of lifestyle they’ve barely heard about through the TV news or read on papers. They’re about to be paid back for all the strains, the hard times, the monotony of a life they’ve happened to live. All is so unreal – all is about to happen without them even seeing it coming, or expecting. They’re beyond themselves, they can’t believe they’ve hooked up with two beautiful rich girls and that dream of experiencing a wealthy fast-paced new life is suddenly coming true. 

Then she types something else and shows it to Graham. His expression changes completely. She shows Liam the phone again with a giggle. Just one thing is written: “£1,000.”

“Oh, shit!…”

So they decide to leave. They call a taxi to go back to the hotel and when the car comes, they realise they’ve run out of cash. So here starts their counting of the leftover change, coin by coin, and with the last 10p they get to the amount to pay the driver.

What a night!

In most cases, if you decide to play your £1,000 at the Casino in Monte-Carlo, you’re very likely to realise how poor and miserable you are.

. . .

How much money did they spend on that trip? Nobody knows – probably way more than £1k, even if they didn’t accept the ladies’ “sweet” invite.

The truth is Graham had booked that trip for his soon-to-be bride’s bday, but since they had broken up earlier that month, he decided to take Liam with him instead. Not the best replacement but definitely better than losing the money. And honestly, when you’re simple chaps from Whitechapel and you’ve grown up not expecting much from life, a crazy night in Monte-Carlo with a mate can help cover up that big gap that somebody’s left right there. Right where it hurts the most.

It was never about the money – it was never about the £1k, nor about Liam’s scrounging a free holiday. It was about being there when a friend was drinking his sorrows, about trying to adjust the world while his was already ending. It was about acknowledging that things could have gone differently – that they could have been born rich, elsewhere, perhaps having never met each other. And while drowning in a pint or two down Whitechapel, the latter is what scared them the most, because that world – for how broken, cracked, messy, raucous it was – was still worth more than £1,000.

Thanks to Liam’s and Graham’s story, we have one big learning. Among the ones above, there’s now one more item we can add to the list of the things you can do with £1,000:

Hook up with top-class prostitutes

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