Last night I found myself sitting in a car for eight hours in Berkeley Square, which, in our continuing attempts to confuse the world, is pronounced Barclay square.
Talk about sub-culture; more like a sub-species. Why anyone would want to go into the centre of London and queue outside a bar for three hours to pay a kings ransom for a heavily diluted drink, only to come straight back outside and cower in the frigid temperature since smoking is considered a near hanging offence these days, is beyond me. And then to be harassed every few seconds by people attempting to sell single dead roses at five pounds a pop, or begging/demanding spare change; or the man/woman crammed six inches away throwing up or dropping said ridiculously priced beverage all over your Jimmy Choos or Versace frock, because, after all, Gucci is just so yesterday.
Small diversions were to be found by watching taxi drivers, "accidently" crashing into rickshaws or deliberately crashing into mini-cabs illegally picking up fares at the kerb. But if you've seen one drunken brawl you've seen them all. Although the fight between the two women was fairly diverting until it began to stray perilously close to the Roller.
And even at three am when most normal people have crawled away to even more stupendously priced clubs, the crowd here were apparently made of sterner stuff. Which is probably why even the police patrol in threes
So how do you tell some vagrant of indeterminate ethnic origin, armed with a pick-axe handle that just because you're sitting inside a classic Roller, you're just a driver and too poor to give him some spare change? And no, you don't just happen to have a spare packet of ciggs, while he's swinging his weapon and suggestively eyeing the silver goddess perched on top of the radiator grill.
Am I getting old or have I just misunderstood the concept of Fun?
And I got a ticket.