It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was closing time.
The Peculiar People of Plumstead and the Walworth Jumpers.
There are times when you have to appear sober at both ends of the day. I know. Nightmare.
Where else can you find vinyl records, rubber dresses, vintage frocks, fine food, Gregg’s food, a licensed knitting shop, a gay sauna and a B&B in which your wardrobe could be concealing a dwarf in his pants?
All this time I thought I’d been enjoying Brockley, I’d been in Crofton Park, which doesn’t exist. Furious.
Guy Debord described a dérive as: 'A technique of rapid passage through varied ambiances.' Cynics would call it a pub crawl. As would Madame Debord.
Did anyone complain about gentrification when Henry VIII built the first Royal Dockyard at Deptford?
I don't subscribe to the North/South London rivalry, even if 64% of free weather apps agree we have less drizzle in the South.
I've always fancied myself as a man of position, taking bribes for community projects, forcing rivals into the boot of my Volvo and sleeping my way to the top...
'Standing's dandy, but seating's cheating.' But what did Plato really know about the best position in which to enjoy a good pint?
Glorious sunshine, fresh air, happy, scantily-clad hotties – what's the best way to escape them?
Fuck the neutrals. Embrace the partisan.