So here’s the set-up: three nights away, child abandoned at grandparents (don’t worry, willingly - we didn’t just chuck him on the doorstep like an unwanted Yodel parcel).
Friday morning starts with Hayley doing the school run, trying to keep things “normal” for Zac. Me, I did the classic dad farewell speech - “have fun, we’ll ring you, be good, and don’t burn the house down”. He nodded, which in seven-year-old language means: “I’ll ignore you and continue obsessing over Spider-Man.”
Now, travelling to London is always a faff. Driving? Forget it. I’d rather eat cold chips off the floor of Pudsey Bus Station than tackle the North Circular. So we went rogue and embraced public transport. Exotic.
8:15am sharp: father-in-law picks us up and drops us at Leeds station, before disappearing back into his natural habitat (the car). Then it was straight into the LNER First Class Lounge. Yes, you read that right - first class, baby. Don’t be fooled though. This isn’t because I’m secretly loaded, it’s because I’ve got a railcard for being half-deaf. Gotta claw some perks back from the universe when one of your ears is basically decorative.
Inside, the lounge was all very swish. Free water, free biscuits, free crisps. I did my best Oliver Twist impression and shoved a few into my bag like I was prepping for nuclear winter.
Boarding the train was smooth and painless. That is… until Princess Kate arrived. Not actual Kate, mind you, but she carried herself with the same aura: Gucci bag, frosty glare, the look of someone who’s never knowingly bought a Greggs sausage roll in her life. Alongside her came her other half (poor sod) and their baby. Now, between you and me, she’d clearly booked herself into first class for “comfort” and then shoved the childcare duties onto him.
At one point he was stood there, baby strapped to his chest like a hostage situation, shovelling noodles into his face while silently begging for death. Meanwhile, Princess Kate scrolled her phone like she was awaiting news from the Palace. And then - the pièce de résistance - they decided to do a nappy change in first class. Right there. On the table. I’m telling you, you haven’t lived until you’ve had a bacon roll in one hand and Eau de Pampers wafting up your nostrils.
Speaking of which - credit where it’s due - the bacon roll and waffles weren’t bad. First class might stink of baby wipes, but at least it feeds you.
We rolled into King’s Cross just after midday, and headed for our lodgings: the Premier Inn St Pancras. Now, I know what you’re thinking - “ooh here we go again” - after the Skegness saga, but credit where it’s due: this room was remarkably nice. A proper London view too - King’s Cross, the British Library, all the trimmings. And best of all? Air con that actually worked. Unlike Skegness, where the word “climate control” means cracking the window and hoping a passing seagull flaps some breeze in, this place was Arctic. The room was like a fridge. Ideal Glenn sleep conditions. Stick me in sub-zero with a duvet and I’ll hibernate like a happy Greggs pasty in a freezer.
Half an hour to breathe, then it was time: my maiden voyage on the London Underground. Cue dramatic music.
Honestly? Not bad. No fire, no brimstone, no rats gnawing at my ankles. As a developer, I found myself bizarrely impressed by the whole “tap in, tap out” wizardry. So impressed, in fact, that I went full nerd and Googled how the system works. On holiday. In London. While other blokes were drinking pints in Soho, there was me reading about NFC technology like some sort of middle-class Alan Turing. Christ, I’m sad.
Anyway, off we shot on the Piccadilly Line towards the Natural History Museum. Oh, did I mention it was 25 degrees? In September? Autumn had apparently packed its bags and gone to Skegness, leaving us to stew on the Tube like pork pies in a sauna.
We spent a good couple of sweaty hours wandering about - dinosaurs, minerals, stuffed birds the size of small hatchbacks - the usual. But let’s be honest: I had one mission. Forget the diplodocus. Forget the creepy taxidermy. My 9mm Laowa lens was burning a hole in my pocket, begging to be unleashed on the Hintze Hall. That iconic shot: the whale skeleton, suspended in mid-air, tourists gormlessly staring up like they’re waiting for it to start singing Les Mis.
And by God, I was ready.
After the Natural History Museum we once again boarded the Pringles Can of Doom (aka the Tube). Tea time was looming, and let me tell you - that bacon roll from the train was a distant memory. My stomach was doing whale noises of its own by this point.
Thankfully, we’d been clever enough to book ahead. Two months earlier, I’d locked in a table at Oorja, a little Indian fusion spot in Leicester Square. And lads… lads. It was phenomenal.
Starters: onion bhajis… with mozzarella inside. I nearly proposed to the waiter on the spot. It was gooey, crispy, spicy heaven - like Greggs had opened a temple. For mains, we both went butter curry with garlic naan, followed by Kulfi for dessert. Rating? Solid 5/5. Michelin star? Don’t care. Michelin tyre? Still 5/5.
Bellies full, it was onto the evening’s big event: Stranger Things: The First Shadow at the Phoenix Theatre. Now I’m not a twat, so I won’t spoil the plot - but believe me, if you get the chance, go. Three hours (with interval), and it absolutely flew by. There were grown men crying. And when I say grown men, I mean not me. Definitely not me. (Alright, maybe a little eye moisture - but only because someone near me was chopping onions.) To cap it off, they dropped the Season 5 trailer at the end. The whole place lost its mind. Roll on November.
Post-theatre, we spilled out into the London night, naively thinking we’d grab a cab. Wrong. It was chaos. Like Leeds on a Saturday night if Leeds had spent 20 years on steroids. Not my scene at all.
So back underground we went, onto the Tube - my phone at 3% battery, my only contactless device (cheers, Halifax). I scanned in, then spent the next 15 minutes sweating more than I had in the museum, praying the battery would hold out long enough to scan me back out at St Pancras. Miraculously, it did.
Of course, we then walked out the wrong side of St Pancras, got lost like a pair of amateurs, and had to consult Lord Google to guide us back to the Premier Inn fridge room. Finally: heads down. Sleep.
Day one: done.
Day two: incoming.
Day 2: Blood, Ravens & Battleships
Day Two began with the Premier Inn breakfast, which - I’ll be honest - was solid. Very Skegness. Unlimited sausages, hash browns, coffee you could stand a spoon in. Ideal.
Then came the morning phone call to check in with young Zac. By this point he’d probably just forgotten where we were, wondering why we’d vanished like a dodgy magician at a school fair. Despite us priming him for weeks about the three-night trip, kids’ brains are like sieves - ask him what he had for tea last night and you’ll get blank stares.
Anyway, he answers the phone absolutely buzzing: “I’m crafting!” he declares. Then apparently had a little wobble about going to Nana’s. To sort it out, the mother-in-law deployed some top-tier distraction tactics: “We’ll go to B&M afterwards and get a crafting kit.” And that was it. Crisis averted. He was beaming down the phone, all thoughts of us forgotten.
And to be fair, why wouldn’t he be? He loves his time with Steve and Karen. They spoil him rotten, keep him busy, and he knows full well he’s on a mini holiday of his own. Confusion over, straight back to happiness.
With Zac settled, we got ourselves sorted and once again descended into St Pancras for another ride on London’s steel sardine tin. Destination: The Tower of London.
And what a day: blood, gore, executions, torture, yeomen… and the ravens. Oh, the ravens. Mate, I love animals. Every time I spotted one of those majestic beasts hopping about, I got giddy. Hayley rolled her eyes so hard I thought she’d detach a retina.
In my head though, they weren’t just birds - they were full-blown angry Cockneys giving it:
“Awright guv’nor? Wot you starin’ at, eh? You fink you’re bettah than me?!”
Beautiful. Poetry in feathers. Yes, I’m a strange boy.
I snapped photos like David Attenborough on Red Bull, but what really blew me away was the poppy display: 30,000 ceramic poppies draped around the Tower. Absolute madness. Beautiful, sobering madness.
Next stop: the Crown Jewels. No photography allowed - very MI6 vibes - so I’ve kindly drawn you all a picture instead. Look, Ma, I’m an artist. Spoiler: it’s basically shiny stuff that makes Liz Truss’s lettuce look even sadder. Spectacular though.
My only gripe? I wish they still kept one of the towers active. Not for royals or political prisoners - no, no. For the rude shitbags. The shoulder bargers. The queue jumpers. The blokes who trap you in a corner because they’ve decided their backpack is the size of a bungalow. The people that charge in, don’t let you out first and then act like you’re the problem. All of ‘em. Straight in the tower. OFF WITH THEIR BLOODY HEADS.
After finishing up at the Tower of London we wandered over to Tower Bridge to play my new favourite London game: Dodge the Dickhead. Same rules as the Tower - people barging into you, blocking your path, and generally behaving like extras from a zombie apocalypse. To be fair, the views were cracking. Beautiful bridge. Full of nobs.
Once we survived that gauntlet, we strolled down the Thames to the bloody marvellous HMS Belfast. Now this… this was something else. A proper step back in time. The ship that played its part in WW2, sat there like a floating slice of history.
Inside, it was fascinating - but also eye-opening. Nothing hit harder than stepping into the gun turrets. They pipe in this audio: a countdown, then BOOM! The floor shakes. Then again. Louder. Shakier. Louder still. By the end, I was clutching the railings like a pensioner on the Waltzers. And then you realise: there were 27 blokes crammed in there during the war. Twenty-seven. In a room so tight that if one lad let rip it could’ve been classed as biological warfare. Honestly, we owe those people a debt that can never be paid.
From there I ventured deeper into the belly of the beast - down sketchy staircases, into the engine rooms, up onto the bridge. Hayley, wisely, said “sod that” and left me to crawl about like a lost mole. Fair play.
Truthfully? If I’d left London without visiting HMS Belfast, I’d have regretted it. Absolutely astonishing.
Afterwards we dragged our aching feet to London Bridge Station, hopped a Tube to Green Park, then another back to St Pancras. Quick pit stop at the room to rest our battered trotters, then out again for tea at Pizza Express. Standard. Dough balls demolished, pizzas inhaled, then back to the hotel fridge-room for telly and kip.
Another big day loomed.
Day 3: Crowns, Cobblers & Chaos
Our final day in London - and, in true British fashion, the day where things started to go wrong. Not catastrophically wrong, just that gently farcical flavour of wrong Britain does so well.
First stop: Premier Inn breakfast. Usually reliable, usually solid. But today? No bloody black pudding. Honestly, what’s the point of a fry-up without it? Might as well serve Weetabix and call it “Full English.” I made do with an extra sausage, which felt like cheating.
Bellies vaguely full, we waddled downstairs ready to tackle the capital - only to find the automatic doors wedged shut. Proper stuck. A huddle of guests gathered, all of us staring at the glass like pigeons outside Greggs. Eventually a staff member turned up and, instead of fixing anything, marched us back upstairs, out a fire exit round the back like we’d just robbed the vending machine. Glamorous.
Still, press on. Euston → Northern Line → Charing Cross. Quick salute to Nelson’s Column, photo taken, job done.
Down Whitehall, collecting landmarks like Panini stickers:
- Women of World War II memorial (excellent).
- The Cenotaph (solemn and sharp).
- Household Cavalry Museum, where a mini-parade was underway.
Naturally popped by Downing Street to see if Pudsey’s elusive MP, Rachel Reeves, might waft out for a wave. No dice. Probably inside bingeing Netflix while plotting which tax to torch in November.
We also popped by the Household Cavalry Museum just in time to watch a bit of pomp - guards swapping over, horses prancing, the whole cinematic deal. People queued up, cameras at the ready, then proceeded to do the one thing humans specialise in: stand inside the little white box that’s clearly there to keep you out of the way of the soldier on horseback. Tourist after tourist waddled in as if the box was a polite suggestion. Honestly, my jaw clenched so hard I could feel it doing push-ups. I had to resist the urge to theatrically usher them back behind the white line with nothing but my glare and a pointed eyebrow. Deep down I was hoping the soldier would prod them with his bayonet or the horse would give them a bite, a bite so solid it would deserve its own Trip Advisor review.
Into St James’s Park, where I dusted off my favourite London game: Dodge the Dickhead. Tourists veering like wonky trolleys. Families walking five-abreast like they’d booked the park for a private parade. Backpacks with the wingspan of a Boeing.
Pelicans were out looking smug, but I got distracted by two US Chinooks thundering overhead. Flying buses. Sorry pelicans - you’ve been upstaged.
Thirsty now. Spotted a drinks stand. Wandered over. Nearly fainted. HOW much for a Coke?! At those prices I chose to dehydrate like a Victorian consumptive. Gave it a miss.
Down The Mall, Union Jacks and US flags flapping away - clearly rolling out the carpet to blow smoke up Trump’s enormous orange ring piece.
And then: Buckingham Palace.
We arrived knowing full well we weren’t getting the official Changing of the Guard - that was happening on Monday, naturally, because London’s sole aim is to wind me up. But we did catch a sort of mini-guard change. Three soldiers came marching out, strolled up to the two guards already on duty, whipped out some paperwork (yes, even the King’s Guard can’t escape admin), swapped positions, and disappeared back inside like it was nothing.
We were chuffed to be stood right by the central gates for it - a proper moment of British pride - except, of course, for the tourists leaning over our shoulders to get photos. Absolute bastards.
It was now almost time for Hayley's favourite part of the trip. The Buckingham Palace State Rooms.
We queued just as a Lancaster Bomber from the BBMF tore across the sky. Cameras out. Phones out. Snap-snap, video-video. I’d seen it this year at Blackpool and Coningsby, but over the Palace? Goosebumps. It looped again. A staffer muttered, “I don’t know what that old plane is doing.”
Me, half-offended: “Well actually it’s the Lancaster Bomber from the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight - the only airworthy Lanc left in the UK.”
Staffer: “Aww, isn’t that lovely.”
Move over Dan Snow - Glenn from Pudsey, official London historian.
Security next - tighter than Heathrow. Liquids out, belts off, blink at your peril. Then into the State Rooms. Gold everywhere like someone spilled a Dulux tin. Dead royals glowering in frames. King Charles’ personal art casually chilling. The thrones. The chandeliers. Looks so pristine it’s almost fake - like a set from The Crown.
No photos allowed, so please enjoy my professional crayon sketch instead.
We emerged dazzled into the gardens and found a café. Hydration! Cake! They even flogged afternoon tea in a tin. A £50 tin. Lovely tin. Not that lovely. We went two Cokes + two cakes for £20-odd and, for once, I didn’t moan - if you’re getting fleeced, may as well be by royalty.
Gift shop exit, obviously. Fridge magnet: tick. Mr Men: The Coronation: tick. Toy trebuchet for Zac: tick - because nothing says “we missed you” like a medieval siege engine.
We followed the winding paths out and popped up near Hyde Park Corner. My feet were screaming. Rather than hoof it half an hour, we took the Tube from Hyde Park Corner to Westminster.
Up we came into an influencer breeding ground. Pouts, tripods, “accidental” candid shots. We crossed Westminster Bridge, played Dodge the Dickhead: Championship Edition, then ducked under the bridge for the iconic Parliament + bridge + Thames shot. Nailed it.
Plan was to walk to Waterloo next. Feet said no. So near Waterloo we hailed an iconic black cab and let a friendly driver natter football while ferrying us to Hard Rock Café at Hyde Park Corner. Top bloke. Comfy ride. Saviour of feet.
Pre-dinner nerd detour: the Bomber Command Memorial across the road. I’d clocked it on Maps - in we went, under the road, and… wow. London does memorials properly: big, striking, thought-stopping. A reminder of the people who gave us the freedoms we rinse every weekend, like voluntarily destroying our arches on sightseeing death-marches.
Into the Hard Rock Café fifteen minutes early; parked at the bar. I asked for a Coke and a Diet Coke. Barman: “Diet Coke’s unlimited refills; Coke is a glass bottle.”
Sugar tax, ruining my life one overpriced bottle at a time. “What else?” “Fanta.” Fanta it is. Downed it, immediate refill, then gawped at guitars and jackets some bloke from Def Leppard probably sneezed on.
Seated at last. Hayley: fajitas. Me: smash burger + onion rings, no salad. Grease, meat, cheese - perfect. Washed down with Fanta top-up #3. Dessert: apple cobbler that looked tiny on the menu, arrived like a full tray. Did I eat it? Obviously. Sugary bliss.
We paid and wandered into the Rock Shop (because in London even restaurants have gift shops), muttered “ow much?” a few times, then left sensibly empty-handed.
Outside, drama encore: a black cab at the roadside with flames licking out the wheel arches. Two random superheroes appeared with extinguishers and battered it out while waiting for the brigade. Just a casual Sunday.
Into Green Park, Tube towards St Pancras. At Euston, some poor sod stepped off just as the tannoy announced: “The Tube will no longer be servicing Euston Station.” No fanfare, no reason - London casually shutting one of its biggest stations on a Sunday evening like it’s off for a Horlicks. Bad luck, mate.
St Pancras next. Climbed another subterranean mountain to street level just as a car conked out with hazards on. Cue BEEP. BEEEEEP. BEEEEEEEEEP. Because yes, of course, if you beep hard enough he’ll levitate out of your lane.
Finally - FINALLY - back to the Premier Inn. Shoes off. Clothes off. Air con on. TV on. Bliss.
Nearly home time.
Day 4: Goodbye London, Hello Lemsip
We didn’t plan a thing for Monday. Wise move. Woke up feeling like I’d been punched in the throat by a particularly judgemental pigeon - sore throat, headache, and my forehead felt like it was trying to steam itself. Turns out being packed into subterranean tins with tourists and assorted southerners is not Peak Hygiene. Surprise, surprise. It chose the day we came home to ambush me, so: fine. Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been rabies.
Downstairs for breakfast and miracle of miracles - black pudding has returned like a sword-bearing hero. My day improved by approximately 83%. I ate it like a man reclaiming his soul. Pastries were plundered, coffees were ignored, and we trundled back up to the room to pack our gear.
Made our way to King’s Cross for the 12:30 home train - but naturally London had one more small indignity for me. Thought we’d pop into the Harry Potter shop for some wand-based nonsense, until an overzealous security guard decided that my backpack could not be worn on my back. Apparently I had to carry it like a toddler with a lollipop, and follow several other jobsworth rules that read like someone’s sadist Pinterest board.
Not feeling 100%, lugging a full backpack and a suitcase suddenly felt like auditioning for Gladiators: Luggage Edition. So we bailed and stumbled into the LNER First Class lounge, which appeared to be testing a revolutionary new heating system designed personally by Satan. Hot enough to poach an egg on my near bald head. Hayley said it was fine. I argued with the radiator and then conceded defeat. Out onto the main concourse for some fresh air, a handful of paracetamol, and the blessed boarding call.
Train home: uneventful, seated like minor royalty thanks to my disabled-person railcard (still milking that perk), and slowly rehydrating like a man being un-mummified.
In summary. A brilliant weekend. I’m not a crowd person - my instinct at scale is either fight or run and occasionally fantasise about gently kicking people in the balls - but I managed to look past the elbows and the selfie sticks and actually soak it all in. The museums, the odd theatre tear, the burger grease, the Lanc bomber, the memorials - they were all excellent in their own ways.
Will we go back? Hayley’s already googling tickets to see Harry Potter in the West End, so unless she’s lying (and she’s not), we’ll be back before you can misplace your Oyster card.
Cheers London. You’re loud, overpriced, and a bit arsey - but you’re ours for a weekend. See you soon, preferably with earplugs, a Greggs voucher and enough hand sanitiser to flood the Thames.
