And how was I each time she asked if I was getting excited?

My usual grumpy self.

Truth be told I find it very hard to get excited about the unknown. I was the same last year on our first trip to London together and yet we’ve already booked our second London trip for May and I’m incredibly excited about it.

Disneyland though?

I wasn’t sure.

Crowds, noise, lots of walking and trying to keep a 7 year old happy… on the surface, doesn’t sound great does it?

Zac is a bit like me. Anxious about stupid things. It was only summer last year where we’d had a bit of a breakthrough and managed to get him onto a few rides at Skegness, but Disneyland is a whole new world. Ba-dum-tssh.

Anyway, we kept the entire thing quiet from him until the night before our flight. Could have been a disaster but hey ho… Hayley picked him up from school, we got a McDonald’s tea… his favourite, and before it arrived we revealed the huge secret Hayley had been desperately holding onto for months.

Tomorrow morning we’re hopping the channel and going to Disneyland Paris to meet the mouse and his crew.

Initial reaction?

Classic Zac.

“What about school?!”

Well kid, forget school because for three nights we’re off to enjoy ourselves. It’ll still be there when we get back and your teacher won’t give a shit.

So we ate our McDonald’s, got Zac to bed, watched an episode of Danny Dyer’s Caravan Park, then got to bed ourselves.

Day One: Rain, Captain America and a questionable airport breakfast

5:15am arrives and Steve is here to pick us up and take us to Leeds Bradford Airport ahead of our 8am departure.

After spending £8. Yes, that’s right. Eight. Bloody. Quid. On a drop off…. We headed in, dropped our bags at Jet2 and navigated the building site that is Leeds Bradford. We were all ready for breakfast, and with limited options we headed to SALT.

I grabbed the “Bobby Dazzler” — sausage patty, hash brown, black pudding etc. Sounded good… Sadly, however… It took so long to arrive that our gate was being announced, and when I bit into it it was pink inside.

My stomach turned.

So I handed it back and asked for a refund.

Off we went to the gate, and jumped on the flight which only took 1 hour 15 minutes. I’ve genuinely had longer turds. It was a particularly windy day so the landing was intense. Bumpy as hell, rough landing — it took all my strength not to hurl all over the poor guy sat in front of me.

We got off the plane, headed into the airport where we were expecting the latest treatment from post-brexit EU — fingerprints and all that jazz. Thank YOU, Bojo the sodding clown. To our pleasant surprise the copper checked our passports and waved us through. Sweet relief.

We then grabbed our suitcase which was already on the carousel.

Five minutes from leaving the plane bus thing through to leaving the airport. Astonishingly fast. For a huge airport like Charles de Gaulle, they had their shit together.

We headed to the taxi area and found our driver who was holding up our name card, bit like something you see in movies. I felt like a celebrity for a moment.

We left the airport with the driver, headed out into windy wet Paris and jumped in our transfer. It was fancy. Sparkly ceiling lights. Big TV with Disney movies on it and just 45 minutes to the hotel at Disneyland. Hooray, soon to be at the land of the mouse.

Unfortunately, with the speed of the airport my stomach hadn’t had chance to settle from the landing … so by the time we were approaching Disneyland I was ready to unleash hell.

Fortunately we arrived at our destination just in time for me to breathe, calm my stomach and not destroy a lovely taxi.

So… Our destination?

Hotel New York — The Art of Marvel.

Zac was buzzing for obvious reasons. Seeing the three Iron Man suits and the Captain America shield in the lobby really got him excited. When he saw the shop full of Marvel gear, he was leaping around like the web slinger himself.

The concierge service took our luggage off us and told us it would be in our room when we got there. Service at its finest.

We made our way through the hotel trying to work out what was what. First to the drawing station where Zac enjoyed colouring some pictures in and playing games and quizzes on the interactive tablets. 

Shortly after he had his first superhero encounter booked and was excited to see it was Captain America / Falcon. After the encounter you can walk around some incredibly well designed photo areas where they can pretend to be superheroes.

It was a great start.

Outside however the weather was atrocious, and despite Disney’s best efforts it could NOT be described as “magical”.

We carried on regardless and went for a walk around Avengers Campus, then jumped on to the Spider-Man WEB Adventure ride (which is bloody exhausting by the way) but Zac loved it. We also walked down by Toy Story Playland so Zac could go on the Slinky Dog ride — another huge success and demanded a second spin with me. Then a third spin alone.

I tried to convince him to go on the Toy Soldiers Parachute Drop but he was adamant it was too scary and he wouldn’t do it… 

More on this later.

We also popped in to see the Hulkbuster inside Stark Factory — genuinely impressive. It’s clear from looking around Disneyland that they have access to some of the best costume and prop designers in the world.

With Zac being unsure about rides and the weather not behaving, the first day was a bit hit and miss but we didn’t let it dampen our spirits. I had my fingers tightly crossed for day two.

Later on we headed to the Downtown Restaurant in our hotel. Hayley had told me about how it’s one of the most popular restaurants in Disneyland but not being a huge buffet fan I wasn’t sold.

I was glad to be proved wrong however as the food was pretty good. The desserts, all shaped in little Avengers items, were pretty damn good too.

All in all, a good way to round off our day.

Day Two: Pastries, Peter Parker and painful testicles

Day two began with breakfast in Downtown.

After a late tea I wasn’t overly hungry so I opted for two slices of toast and the EU equivalent of bacon — which let’s be honest — is diabolical. EU bacon is basically ham that’s been lightly threatened with a frying pan. It filled a hole, however.

Being in France the only other logical thing?

Pastries.

I’m not normally a big pastry fan but I went for a pain au chocolat.

Banging.

Well done the French. You know a bloody good pastry. Shit bacon. Good pastry.

Looking outside we could see blue skies and sunshine. Result.

It was time to start destroying my feet.

We first headed into the main park and made our way to Buzz Lightyear Laser Blast, where you zap aliens whizzing around an indoor track. Shortly after we headed back to Avengers Campus because, let’s be honest, Zac would live there if he could. We also had a date with Peter Parker himself after Hayley bagged us a spot on the virtual queue to meet him.

He was sound. Top guy.

Sounded a bit French though. Odd. He was American last time I checked.

Zac loved it though so oh well.

We bought some expensive photos which, as a photographer, really made my bumhole twitch — but they were quite good.

We then moved on to Animation Academy where Zac could do a little drawing class. He’s a budding artist, very good at drawing and colouring unlike me — I am a digital Picasso only. I even have a shagged ear, just like him. Not self-inflicted though.

He got to draw Winnie the Pooh.

I stood and watched from behind and saw some of the monstrosities people were creating. Zac could have taught them all a lesson.

After we’d finished we went for a wander and spotted Ant-Man doing a little character encounter. Zac jumped at the chance. We got given a time to return, came back and he was the first in line for some photos.

Another hero ticked off.

Whilst wandering about we also spotted the original Captain America floating about. Zac managed to stop him and grab another photo.

We were nailing the characters that day.

On our wanders we walked past the parachute ride and, after a bit of back and forth, convinced Zac to get on it. “I’m only going on it because dad wants to go on it, but I’m going to hate it”, he said. I told him he’d love it so much he’d want to go again.

“Nope. I hate it. It’s scary.”

As we boarded our maiden jump the heavens opened.

Not rain.

Nope.

Hail. Because of course.

I also quickly remembered the pitfalls of theme park rides — the block between the legs that holds the belt on. After pinching my testicles so hard I nearly became the first man to sue Buzz Lightyear personally, I rearranged them and we were off.

Zac was unsure at first but was quickly scanning around Disneyland from the leafy heights and taking it all in.

To nobody’s surprise the moment we got off:

“Can we go again?”

During the day we also managed to get into the Premiere Theatre for Mickey and the Magician — it was great other than the fact that 20 minutes in we got kicked out because of a technical issue.

God damn it.

Just after the Lion King bit too.

For tea we had a booking at PYM Kitchen. Another favourite, or so Hayley says.

Again it was good — buffet food but a good range of tasty options, enough to keep everyone happy. Zac was particularly impressed by the science beakers they were using for drinks.

At this point we’d covered 16,000 steps and our feet were aching, so we headed back to the hotel for an hour to rest before heading back to the main park for the spectacular end-of-day fireworks, drone and water show.

Don’t get me wrong, I think Disney is a bit of a cult.

There are grown adults wandering around dressed as princesses at 9am and nobody bats a bloody eyelid. Back in Blighty they’d bang you in a mental institution, shine a light in your eyes and slap you about for this sort of behaviour. Disneyland Paris though? 100% approved. Expected, even.

To a non-Disney-mad person they all look mental.

Genuinely. Mental.

I must say though that even though I believe it to be cult-like, there’s something very endearing and charming about it all. After a visit I do now understand the whole “Disney magic” thing.

It did help that Saturday was a much better day weather-wise. Chilly but dry — other than that mad patch of hail.

With music surrounding your every move that takes you back to your childhood as the end credits rolled on your favourite Disney movies, it does feel quite special. I also feel like there’s maybe a bit more to it for adults and people of my generation. We grew up watching Disney movies on VHS. The era of Disney+ and on-demand content means some of it is probably lost on the youth of today. When movies were treats, and not just something you can watch at the click of a remote.

Being young, sitting in front of a fire watching The Lion King, Pinocchio and the rest on VHS felt magical in its own right, and the park soundtrack really takes the mind back to those carefree days.

What completely rounded it off though was the end-of-day show.

We were lucky to be able to stand in the reserved area so we got an unrestricted view right at the front and it was astonishing.

From the water fountains that were making us piss wet through, to the fireworks, drones and projections, it really left a mark and sent us all back to bed on a high.

I briefly considered becoming a Disney adult.

Then I remembered the price of the photos and the fact my testicles could not survive another round with the Parachute Drop ride.

On the way out Mickey was stood on the Disneyland Hotel balcony waving and dancing in front of everyone which really got a cheer from the crowd and rounded off our day in a lovely, Disney magic kind of way.

What a day.

Mind changed.

It’s fun.

Expensive fun.

Day Three: Sunshine, pirates, and questionable parenting

Sunday was the best day weather-wise.

Sunny, warm for a March day and just genuinely joyful. The sun on your skin is enough to put anyone in a good mood, but when you’re in Disneyland it’s ramped up by ten.

The day began with another superhero encounter — this time Black Widow. Just as with the other heroes he met she was great with him and he looked genuinely in awe.

We then headed back to Downtown for breakfast.

As with the day before… shit bacon, questionable sausages (chicken and veal — come on, what the fuck?!) but awesome pastries.

After we’d finished it was on to the main park.

Mickey was once again putting on a bit of a show but unfortunately for me…

First stop?

City Hall.

Why?

Because I’m a nob and left my favourite cap at PYM Kitchen.

After a bit of back and forth, and no cap yet as it was still at PYM, we headed out.

First stop was It’s a Small World. This seemed really familiar then I remembered it had been parodied on The Simpsons.

The little land of Duff.

I AM THE LIZARD QUEEN!

Anyway, it was fun.

We then went on another ride that was a little train and then we had the midday parade. This was pretty damn fun too. Disneyland really do the theatrical stuff incredibly well and really sell the characters.

Zac seemed to enjoy it too and handled the standing around really well, just as he had the night before waiting for fireworks.

After a little walk we headed towards the Alice in Wonderland Maze and spotted a little ice-cream stand. Hayley had wanted to try one of the themed ice creams since we arrived so we all picked one we wanted and set to demolishing it.

I wasn’t going to get one but after seeing Zac and Hayley’s I changed my mind as I felt left out.

Yep.

I’m just like a child.

Great ice cream and came with a drink for just €10. I’ve had shit ice creams in Skegness for around that, so can’t complain. I’d say for Disneyland Paris this price was practically charity.

After the ice creams and toilet stop number 312 of the holiday we headed into the little maze and wandered around.

One theme of this holiday was the return of my favourite London game…

Dodge the Dickhead.

It was back in style.

People stopping for no reason other than maybe sharting themselves.

People stopping dead in the middle of walkways like they’ve just remembered they left the oven on back home in Belgium.

People changing directions for no reason. Warming up their trainers maybe? Who knows, but my piss was considerably boiled numerous times.

People were even pushing in front of seven-year-olds to see things, even though they’re adults.

Honestly.

It was FULL of dickheads and the maze was no different.

I’ve muttered the word twat under my breath this week more times than a Greggs employee says “next please” at 8am on a Monday.

Zac is often hyper and doesn’t listen well but compared to some kids he was a diamond. Other kids would push past him to get to things, hog the photo spots and the dickhead parents would stand and watch, probably looking in awe at their ugly little crotch goblins.

Zac as usual surprised us and took it completely in his stride.

Other than the fact he’d heard me moaning a few times and suggested (as I’d said numerous times) we should just tell them they’re stupid, or fart on them.

And yes, that’s one of my super hilarious dad jokes. If Trump can get a peace award, I’m more than worthy of a parenting award for these jokes alone.

Final note on this — I know people complain about us Brits. Sure we never seem to learn the language, but I genuinely believe the majority of us are polite, well-mannered and respectful of those around us.

We also understand the concept of the queue, unlike some.

Back to Alice Maze — this was no different. Full of dickheads. It was fun, but being in tight confines with said dickheads was even more annoying.

Anyway we continued on, headed further into the park and found our way to Pirates of the Caribbean.

This one was inside, dark and quick in places. I expected Zac to not be a big fan but he absolutely loved it.

He didn’t like my singing though when I would join in with a round of:

YO HO YO HO A PIRATE’S LIFE FOR ME.

Spoilsport.

That was and still is my favourite ride, which makes sense as it’s my favourite Disney franchise.

Full of confidence Hayley had the fantastic idea to head to Big Thunder Mountain.

Zac, watching the riders come flying round the track, kept stating how quick it was and how he didn’t want to go but being the boss parents we are we convinced him it would be fine.

This after Zac also asked, “Has anybody died on this ride?”

Nope.

Not yet at least.

What I also didn’t realise being a Disney newbie was just how quick this ride was.

Never mind Zac — I almost shat with the speed, so I was genuinely not surprised he was a little bit in shock by the end.

He did get over it and told us how proud he was of himself for going on it.

We were too.

I was proud of him.

I was also considering writing my will before my wife comes up with her next glorious idea.

By 7 we were all ruined after more walking, so we headed back to the hotel for an hour before returning to the kids club and letting Zac do some drawing and chew the cast members’ ears off ahead of another late tea at Downtown.

By the time we got to Downtown we were all practically falling asleep. This counted double for Zac. We smashed our teas, got showered and headed to bed ahead of our final few hours in the land of the mouse.

Day Four: One last ride

Monday arrived and we were all feeling a bit glum about the prospect of leaving.

We got up and headed once again to Downtown for our final breakfast. As we’d eaten what felt like about 3am the night before, none of us were particularly hungry. I stuck to what the French do best — a pastry.

Afterwards we headed back to the Studios Park for a final blast on the parachute ride, the Cars ride and our third go on the web-slinger ride. We also managed to get Zac to meet Black Panther, stand at the front and watch Thor and Loki then finally saw the majority of the Avengers assemble for one last hoorah before we had to leave the park.

By this point it was approaching 12 and our transfer was booked for 2, so we headed back to the hotel and sat in Bleecker Street for an hour for a nice cold drink and a snack before Lewis Hamilton himself tore-arsed us through the backstreets of Paris on our way back to Charles de Gaulle.

Sad times. Back to the real world. Back to real bacon.

So what did I think?

Overall I really enjoyed myself. Zac seemed to absolutely love it too.

Truth be told I wasn’t sure about the trip beforehand, not because of anything other than my anxiety and fear of the unknown.

Whilst the first day had its rocky moments — and dia-bloody-bolical weather — it gave a small glimpse into what we could expect from the rest of the break.

The rest of the break did not disappoint.

As with all touristy places, there are definitely a few things that need improvement and / or just plain boil my nuts.

1. The app. The app feels cumbersome at times and things seem to switch places at random, leaving you struggling to find things. The map on the app is also pants and doesn’t label things particularly well.
2. Places to sit. If you’re letting your little one run around in a park there’s literally nowhere to sit. Benches are few and far between. It’s quite a big park (yes, okay Orlando heads, I know it’s tiny ) and often you need a break every now and then to rest your feet. This sometimes feels impossible.
3. People. Some people are just dicks, but this isn’t unique to Disneyland Paris. London was full of them too.

Positives

1. The staff. The vast majority have a smile almost welded to their face. In a job that’s clearly demanding, tiring and likely full of long days, that’s impressive. I also did my research and found that the majority are only earning just above France’s national minimum wage. That, combined with living near France’s capital, must be tough. Absolute credit to them.
2. The characters. The attention to detail is incredible and it’s enough to convince the young die-hards. They’re fantastic with kids and really leave a lasting impression.
3. The surroundings. Sure, as some reviews will state, some areas are showing their age. However the grounds are immaculately kept. Cast members are always walking around with litter pickers ensuring the experience is positive and incredibly clean. They’re also renovating a lot of the park, and we’re just a couple of weeks away from the new Frozen expansion opening. Money is clearly flowing and they’re not afraid to spend it.

So, will we return?

Yes.

I’m quite confident it’s a trip we’ll make again. How soon, I’m not so sure.

It isn’t a cheap break. I know nothing in this world is cheap, but three nights with flights and accommodation in the home of the Avengers ran us a good few grand — and that’s not an amount to be sniffed at.

Was it value for money?

The hotel, the rides and the staff made it feel like good value. It does, however, take a good while to save up that amount of money in this economy.

What is for certain is that Disneyland Paris isn’t yet a complete product. Whilst we were there some lucky folk were getting previews of the brand new Frozen World, which opens at the end of this month and marks a significant expansion to the park.

Not only that, but everywhere you look there are cranes and workmen building new rides, attractions, shops and restaurants.

With rumours of a new Lion King land following the arrival of Frozen World, Disneyland could prove to be much better value for money in the coming years.

Take a look at our highlights:

The post Disneyland Paris: Expensive, chaotic… and yet quite magical appeared first on Glenn Taylor Blog.

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.

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