Sarf

South London. For many Londoners it's like the Science Museum - a splendid place that they really intend to visit. One day. When they're not so busy.

People do really live there. Noble souls with firmly-set jaws, and the proud air of someone living with a terrible illness. Whenever someone tells you they're moving South, it's always said bravely. "Honestly, it's really manageable these days. It's ten minutes by bus from Clapham."

You nod sympathetically, ask if there's anything you can do, and think "I will never see you again."

It's never the same if they move to Brighton. You'll see them fairly often, as it's far easier to get to, and has a beach. That makes it an honorable member of Zone 2.

This brings us to another tricky issue. No-one is exactly sure what South London is. Waterloo, for example, is far too central and useful to be South London. Clapham also has its fans, people who are prepared to sit on the Other Bits of the Northern Line, sailing through quaintly-named places that you think were simply painted on the Tube Map to make it look busy.

The problem with Clapham is the people who live there. Oh, they're marvellous, but they're a bit touched, if you know what I mean. If you go there for a dinner party, someone may suggest nipping to Vauxhall for a cheeky disco (Vauxhall is NOT South London. No one knows exactly where it is). And they will always say, "Let's catch the Overland. It's so much easier."

This is the difference between Northerners and Southerners. South London folk have clearly had A Bad Experience on the tube and try and avoid it at all costs. North Londoners thrive on Bad Experiences on the tube. It makes us the haloumi-eating bastards we are today.

But South Londoners are obsessed by the Overland Train. One Clapham friend points out that you do get a magnificent class of Rough on the train. And this is true. You can easily lose your heart and your wallet - but you should never try and take South London Rough home. A friend is currently dating one. In the beginning it was all truculent violence and brutal sodomy. Now he cooks Sunday Roasts and plays Abba CDs. Tragic.

Mind you, he says that since they had that "Clapham Junction" drama about gay bashing, property prices have soared. Which tells you at least four odd things about Londoners, and one dark thing about the human soul.

The Overland Train, along with knife crime and Alexandra de Vane, is South London's most remarkable feature. Yesterday a friend and I both tried to go to Dinner Parties in South London. I was going to "Brockley", she was going to something like "Ebbsfield End". At about 7 o'clock on a Saturday, London Bridge starts to look like a resettlement camp for lost souls clutching bottles of pink fizz. It is full of departure boards listing destinations that are Clearly Invented (Penge?). I found myelf standing next to a baffled Muscle Gay gawping slack-jawed at the board and stroking his Echo Falls for comfort. He glanced at me, and the look said "I normally wouldn't notice you, but if you take me away from all this I will make you happy." I shook my head sadly. I had to get to Brockley.


The Overland Train is just like a proper train that goes to real places, but it contents itself with rattling slowly through Dad's Army destinations called "Upper Warlingham" and "Knockholt". No one ever gets on or off at these stations. Why would they? They're not real.

I once had a friend who lived somewhere far-flung that began with B. You could reach him via an exhausting combination of tube, train and DLR. At the station were trees, fields and cows. This is not South London. This is simply a way of letting the good folk of Kent see Les Mis.

Brockley was lovely. It has a few streets of Very Nice Houses that have been lovingly done up by people Who Wish They'd Bought In Kentish Town When They Had The Chance. It had a lot of trees (each decorated with a picture of a different lost cat), and a variety of 50s utility furniture and Christmas trees lining the pavements.

It also has a Tesco. As Tescos go, it looked like those lonely outposts in Star Trek that are casually wiped out by marauding Klingons. Nervous staff stood behind a counter, ready to beam out at the first sign of trouble. The stock was almost entirely crisps and nappies. "It's really changed the area," said my friend Joe, "There's even a gay couple who shop in here sometimes. You never saw them at the 24-hour corner shop."

At the end of a lovely evening, I stood on a freezing platform, next to a drunk man who was simultaneously pounding the information point and urinating.

Not dead!

Merely resting.

Anyway, hasn't Big Brother been fabulous? It's given us Vilest Woman Alive, Alexandra De Vane (surely a shoo in as next Doctor Who companion), and also managed to break a taboo that no-one had really imagined showing on television before, that of sulky gay Dennis spitting on a Muslim.

It's really been full of "I can't believe that just happened," moments. This year, truly will be the year that one of the housemates invents a bacterium which escapes and destroys humanity.

Of course, the real joy is offered by these two:

Ah, Dale and Stuart. With Stuart's arrival, Dale's visions of Alpha Maledom crumbled. The question is, what happens next? Well, they've worked out together, but Stuart has yet to prove his ultimate supremacy over Dale. Which will probably take place with Brokeback-style sodomy on the live stream. Well, that's why I keep tuning in at any rate.

Cricket outrage

Leave Kevin Pietersen alone! He has such lovely hair.

Coldplay tit

Chris Martin, the man who makes music that glum men drive to. He has spoken again: "I feel like you’ve got to write as many songs as you can between the ages of 28 and 33 because those are your last few years before you get a belly. I couldn’t possibly write a hit record when I’ve got a beer belly." [Digital Spy]

What a dismal, cheerless fool. I mean, yes, clearly the macrobiotic vegan is pretending to be "one of the lads". But, if the spatula he's married to allows him beer, then it's probably from some organic microbrewery and tastes of pond.

It must be terribly depressing being him. He ditched a vocal from Kylie cos it sounded like she was having too much fun, and this week he walked out of a Radio Four interview, sulking: "I always say stupid things and I think Radio 4 is the place that will most remind me of that."

Which is nice.

So, where were we?

(Shuffles on. Pretends nothing's up. Waves!)

oh hello. There you are. Well, here's my new favourite thing - Starnow.co.uk. It's a site for people who would like to be very famous indeed please.

Browse through its directory of identikit blonde presentones. But also feel free to boggle at their Beefcake. I've plucked out a few choice ones:

Evan. He's a gymnast. He's also a "DANCR" and has starred in "piter pan".


ENVY girl band. "would be willing to participate in reality TV shows and documentaries based on our journey to the top!"


Carlos. He is "capable of dynamic" and lists the order in which he's learnt songs. Stalkers note: He works as a doorman in South London. Bounce me!


Justin. Best credit - Harlequin Romance Novel Cover – Intrigue Series – ‘Private Swat Takeover’

Meanwhile, crime

I've been reading an extraordinary amount of murder in the bath the last few days. I haven't reached any startling critical conclusions - beyond

1) Margery Allingham always remarkable.
2) Edmund Crispin brilliant, but sometimes pointless
3) Dorothy L Sayers very literary, but not that interested in variety of suspects
4) When Agatha Christie is good, she's unbeatable. When she's bad, she's puzzling.

Also read "Who Killed Roger Ackroyd?" a remarkable French critical text that argues convincingly that it wasn't who you'd think.

I tried reading Anthony Trollope, but 75 pages into Phineas Finn and no corpse. Fail.

It was today

That is all

Measles

Bizarrely convinced I've had these already. But doctor says no. Last few days have been a grim blur of oily baths, creams, anti-histamines, wine and Agatha Christie books.

It's odd how when I'm healthy I make a real effort with food. When I'm ill... not so much. I got back from Costcutter yesterday with chocolate mousse, pizza, onion rings, and milk bottles.

Last fortnight has been pretty much miserable. And included having a filling without anaesthetic. Oddly, that was a high-spot.

Spotty!

I wake up this morning. Covered in spots. Completely. Little red dots.

I've had this once before, as an allergic reaction to a bloke's shower gel. But what's this? These have no feeling. They don't itch.

The only strange thing I did last night was drink some Rose wine for the first time in a month. But it can't be that? That's gay nightmare.

UPDATE: Suddenly, sharply, this evening, they start to itch. Arrrrrrrrrrrg!

Recent Parties

I have actually managed to leave the flat and go to two parties.

1) My Twinkie Ex's Brighton Eurovision Housewarming
Packed full of young gays with Effort Hair and not much else going for them. I go with my friend Tim, who has the advantage of being my age and sane. Rather than 19 and full of issues.

My Twink Ex sidles up to me. "Is Tim your boyfriend?" No. "Your shag?" Oh no. "You not even done it once?" No. Twink nods, intrigued. On my way to the kitchen minutes later I overhear him announcing "No, no they're not together. You can have either of them. Yes. Tim is single."

Soon Tim is surrounded by young gay things who keep accidentally bending over. I sit in the corner, watching Eurovision, and drinking.

Eventually Tim comes over. "Shall I take you home?"
"I think we came last," I say.
Apparently, as we leave, I turn to the room and announce "Good night! Your hair is perfect!" and then Tim has to help me walk home.


1) The Nurse's 21st Birthday

It's nice that I keep in touch with The Nurse. Realising he's just turned 21 is making me do worried maths (it's fine, I've only known him three years). Getting to the party involves traveling to East London, which takes hours.

When I get there, the Nurse is in drag. It's not a flattering look. "I'm pretending that I'm from Kettering" the Nurse explains. Drag's fascinating. But what is the drive that makes handsome young men dress up as ugly older women?

Anyway, I've been in the pub for less than a minute before I pull someone called Stuart. He is a stubbly ferret, has a proper East End accent, and tattoos that look home made. I am smitten. Sadly, however, the reason he's all over me is that he is Very Very Drunk. I suspect he is not discriminating and gently leave him. A few minutes later he is kissing a man with a combover. They leave together.

I stand watching the Nurse do karaoke. I am chatting to his sisters. They are brilliant. We are getting on like a house on fire.

Well, until the main drag act asks the Nurse, "So, what kind of men do you like?"

"Burly blokes with big cocks!" screams the Nurse.

His sisters and I look at each other. None of us wanted to hear that.