A SURREY STORY

The incidence of drug use if infinitely higher than in the throbbing heart of the metropolis, largely because there’s fuck all else to do, and there’s a sense of community such as you only get around Islington or Camden in London.

There’s also a thriving live music scene. Not for suburban bands the degradation of the pay-to-play policies of inner-city pubs, oh no. Being near a University town, Kingston, there is a plethora of young people, prepared to try extra hard to have a good time because, er, you have to. Most nights of the week, someone’s playing somewhere, be it John Ottway at the Bun Shop or Half Man Half Biscuit elsewhere. Never let it be said that the suburbs are a cultural desert.

I’ve been thinking hard about townie snobbery against the suburbs and countryside-dwellers. It was all very well a few decades ago, when anyone with any get up and go whatsoever would herd towards London in search of music, clubs and general good times. If you preferred to stay in the suburbs then, visiting friends, playing games, going on outings, you were quite obviously a deeply sad bastard with no sense of adventure.

These days, though, it’s quite a different story. London has far less to offer on a day-to-day basis . . . and you need fuck loads of money to do anything at all. Away from the hustle and bustle, people try harder, use their own imaginations to come up with things to do, and seem to interact more.

FIREWORKS

DISPLAY

There is more room for diverse personalities. Being able to keep up with the latest trend is far less important than being an interesting individual. People don’t get so streamlined into different groups. Odd collections of people fall together with no discernible link in terms of style, only attitude. It’s all rather refreshing, really.

The cult of hedonism is alive and well. My second Sunday here, I was invited by two gorgeous women to spend the morning alternating between the sauna, steam room and Jacuzzi at a health club. Lying there, sweat running off my body, trying for all I was worth to keep my eyes from wandering too far, I decided life in the suburbs has much to offer.

A few days later, we attended a massive fireworks display of truly awesome proportions. At first, I felt I ought to be bored. This was, after all, quite a dweeby thing to do, not grown up and sexy like dropping an E and going to a club to pose around. But it wasn’t long before I was oohing and aahing along with the rest of them.

I think those lacking in imagination really need a city to provide thrills and entertainment. If you’ve got your own real lust for life and sense of fun, it doesn’t matter where you are – back me up, you thousands of rural Hot Press readers. You know what I’m talking about.

In my heart of hearts, I remain a Londoner and shall continue to make frequent forays to the big city. But in my spare time, I’m quite happy in a huge basement flat in suburban Surbiton, where people try that little bit harder and someone’s always got something available to give reality an extra little shift.

Good to see Channel 4 give Mother Teresa a good kicking. For a malevolent old tortoise with a macabre attraction towards the dead and dying, she’s cut a pretty good career for herself. Odd the way the presenter’s face was placed in partial shadow, though, presumably to play up his Devil’s Advocate role. You can’t help but feel she’s a dotty old fundamentalist who doesn’t realise when she’s being used, but sometimes ignorance is no excuse – and hers is a salutary case in hand.

Wherever she goes, pestilence, military dictatorship and mass murder follow. God help any country where Teresa and Kate Adie turn up at the same time.

Motto of the week: Fuck fashion. Short skirts and stilettos in winter? Who are they trying to kid? And as for those polio victim boots that lace right up your leg and make you walk like you’re just pissed yourself, enough is surely enough. My little style disciples, take it from me: this winter, the truly hip people will (still) be wearing DMs, brightly coloured thick socks, hats and capey-shawley type thingies. With shiny black trousers and matching elbow-length gloves and gas masks. After you . . .