The suburbs and the city.

You won't believe this, but I found a little note stuffed through our letterbox this evening. "Clean The Alley Day", it boldly proclaimed.

We live at the beginning of the road, and it so happens that the great Ruislip Manor community has organised a fun-day outside our house. The entire town's been invited to "the alley adjacent to 1 Ashburton Road"! This makes me feel uncomfortable, especially since they're offering refreshments and entertainment.

What kind of entertainment can you offer in an alley? I'm simply praying it's not a peephole in the fence and a free shot of my intimate bits. Still, by all means, if you want a crap day out, do come along. Nothing compares to an afternoon spent cleaning up the litter of a hundred dogs.

A couple of friends have taken to calling me "Pretty Boy". What's that all about? I had to endure the first half of the rugby standing in front of two cretins who took great satisfaction in blowing and carressing my hair. Don't get me wrong, I quite liked it, but the touch was a little manly.

This before one of the cretins in question vomited spectacularly on the stairwell, down the bannister and in at least two actual toilets. That's what you get for drinking Glenn's Vodka with Tropical Fruit cider on the train, folks.

Speaking of toilets, I was in one last night and stood up only to find a weirdo gazing over the top of the next cubical. Just his face peering down at me! It made me jump, and it was only when I remembered the incident this morning that I put two and two together, coming to the conclusion that, quite frankly, that's a bit weird.

I have a lot of these retrospective moments. Like the time I was in Sheffield and thought nothing of two guys sharply exiting the same cubical. I'm such an innocent drunk.

We eventually rolled out of O'Neills at 3am last night, somehow finding our way to the most disgusting Subway in Leicester Square. A little de-tour found us slumming it up in a Tottenham Court Road underground pass, catching a quick nap before they opened the tube.

If Home Alone 2 had been set in London, Kevin would have copped it on the first night. Forget pigeon ladies, we have drug dealing hoodies and pill pushers. We also have incredibly random tourists.

I was just laying on the underground stairway when two girls came by and sat down with us. For some reason, the simmering blonde decided to draw on my face. Thankfully there was no ink in the pen, because that could have been really embarrassing.

I vaguely remember dancing with a slightly intoxicated - if very attractive - brunette. Things were going well, there were plenty of smiles and I might have grinded discretely once or twice.

And err...I headbutted her.

No excuses. It was a shape too far. I tried to twirl, she stood her ground. Somewhere in the middle our heads clattered. It was one of those moments where you have no choice but to give an exaggerated wince, smile, then wait twenty seconds - until she's not looking - before effeminately tending to what's actually a very sore bump.

In other news, I'm just about ready to quit my job and quit London.