South London

Your heart pumps blood of broken bottles though your brain's veins. A slimy poisonous moss has grown over your teeth that you numbly probe with a swollen tongue; dry and cracked like a turtles head. A fat, sweaty, obnoxious pig connects with a solid kick to the back of your eyes before starting on your temples. He then relieves himself, leaving a seething, stinking pile of filth behind.

Oh dear god. The pale blue/grey dawn light pours from the window mocking you. A blurry image of a near empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table sternly reminds you of your folly. Your back is an excruciating, gnarly knot; twisted by the fully clothed night on a lumpy sofa. What have you done?

You make the painful crawl to the bathroom looking for pills, any pills - oh sweet Jesus, please let there be Nurofen. There are none. You suck water from the tap.

See what happens when you go to South London?

Now Time Out are always trying to stir up racial hatred between North and South London but I am not having any part of it. I live in North London so I am clearly culturally, financially, morally and genetically superior to anyone from the South but unlike most North Londoners, especially cab drivers, at least I am prepared to actually go there.

North London is superior to South London in every way so there is no real need to talk about it. Let's face it South London is only there because North London looks after it, like a retarded sibling - similar to Tom Cruise in "Rain Man".

But I was needy and desperate last night and the only offer was drinks down South so what could I do? A taxi is obviously out of the question - so I get the tube. But this is London so the tube is broken and the train stops at Warren Street. London may have the biggest, oldest, most used underground transport system in the world but that is no comfort when it breaks - which it does - all the fucking time. Sometimes they announce excuses, sometimes they don't.

It did mean I saw a heart warming scene that you would only ever see in London. A 30 something yuppie from Moscow, sat on a bench, helping a 21 year old goth from Illinois with her face make up, discussing the various public transport options to get to Brixton. Just think, there was a cold war 20 years ago.

After various transport shenanigans I get close to my destination and the final leg is by taxi where I have interesting discussion about the impending tube strikes with the Jamaican driver.

"Da ting abot Tatcher - aldo was she was a tough woman, at least she sorted oot de unions."

"True." I say.

I finally get there but now I am in South London - there is no way out. I have no choice but to stay at a friend's and drink whiskey until the early hours, discussing the numerous spelling mistakes and grammatical errors on my blog.

In the morning I have nothing but the long, dark trek north listening to my iPod, realising that Black Heart by Calexico isn't about a broken heart at all but the worst hangover ever - a world record I have just shattered into a thousand small sharp shards.

Don't do it kids.