When I moved to London back in 2012, I never could have imagined that I would still be here, seven years later. It had never been my ambition to live in here. As a teenager, I wanted to live in the North partly, I think, because I liked a lot of Northern bands, but mostly because I’d spent some time there and thought it seemed like a friendly part of the country. London, by contrast, always struck me as distinctly unfriendly. I grew up associating it with avaricious types, desperately trying to climb the rat pile of ambition, and as a place where excessive greed and deprivation exists side-by-side. If my girlfriend hadn’t found work there I probably would have stayed where I was, in Leeds. But having spent six months on the dole while living in a damp flat on the edge of the city I was only too happy to try to make a go of it somewhere else.
It’s 9th November 2016 and Donald Trump, a man synonymous with multiple bankruptcies, unapologetic bigotry, extreme physical and moral repulsiveness and a staunch belief in his own brilliance has just won the 2016 presidential election.