What does London hold sacred? The stats will tell you that it’s a toss up between Christianity and Atheism, with Islam and Hinduism getting a good look-in as well. But we once saw a vast woman in a matador outfit pray tearfully to a rotisserie chicken, so, you know, we’re not so sure. Perhaps the best way to divine London’s spiritual leaning is to analyze what her citizens do on their sacred day: a quick geotagged search of #SundayMorning on Instagram yields a curious combination of the following: smug running Lycras, oversized newspapers, tired-looking dogs, and avocado-topped scrambled eggs. If this is your God, you’re welcome to him.
Let’s be honest: we won’t be well-liked. The North sees us as a tap-dancing, limelight-stealing little rich kid with a dreadful taste in chips and hard water. The West Country is wary of our technological jiggery-pokery and bemused by our haircuts. France laughs at our pop-up restaurants and pities our relative disdain for adultery. The only people who seem to like us, in fact, are the home counties, but all they do is turn up at the border every weekend like a bachelor uncle, looking to DJ at our house parties and asking whether any of our female friends are single. Go home, Surrey, you’ve got grass stains all over your chinos.