| Saturday, June 23, 2001 |
 | So last night I managed to get to the wastelands of West London - Sloane Square to be exact - to see a friend in a play by Sir John Vanbrugh. Plays written by architects are rarely a safe proposition, but by lopping an hour or so out the director turned it into a bedroom farce without the bedroom, and a good time was had by all.
Discussed with Nick, who was also present, just what a cockrotting sinkhole the King's Road is. The men are generally porky rugby yahs. The women seem to be afflicted with tapeworm or tapeworms. Both have vast expanses of space behind their clear, untroubled eyes.
You think I want to find myself thrown out of a pub in SWwhatever, screaming "You don't need a fucking jeep!" at passing traffic? I do not.
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