In Dave’s Diner, by the Hunger Hut, I gaze down the Old Kent Road into this heavenly vale. They can pull a pint with a broken tooth and I have hidden in the generous peel of their wallpaper. You can bring all your forlorn tendencies and feel yourself emptied of shame. There is a virtue in getting the run-down absolutely right. In the Montague you can talk to skeletons under fluorescent lights and drink the pride of our ancient heritage. And who the hell are you, anyway? I am in the pink of fish and kebab with my cool Victorian Guinness vase. I pull the soft flesh from its shell and mutilate scum purity. Come with me and be a man. Roll a cigarette and chew tobacco with your speckled teeth- we’ll watch the horses rocking on a big washed-out screen. I’ll buy a whisky and praise the Virgin close to excellent traffic and fine curbs. And you can shove your fucking Oxford Street.