Blonde's Eye View: Journey to the centre

Which is why I was ill prepared for a suburban friend's birthday bash in central London.

The meal itself was great, but finding myself in Piccadilly at 12.30am was a huge shock to the system.

First of all it was light. Not the soothingly expensive glow of the Canary Wharf towers, but a neon glare that resembled a sci fi movie's alien planet set.

Sprawling, brawling, spewing tourists covered every surface.

Two other Londoners from the party and I clung to each other in fear.

Who were these bare legged, coat-less screeching masses moving toward us in a staggering formation?

A quick straw poll of language and lilt revealed the answer was: 15 year olds from Newcastle. It was like Magaluf on a Saturday night. But cold.

Tourists always party in Soho, Leicester Square and Covent Garden.

Which is precisely why I never go there.

It also explains why decent out-of-towners swear they couldn't live within the Tube lines.

If night time Piccadilly were my only experience of London life, I would run for the Malvern hills too.

Stupefied by the horror of Chavdon we made our way through clouds of Benson and Hedges, Impulse body spray and vomit, fruitlessly looking for a taxi.

No cabbie would voluntarily enter the lion's den of late-night W1.

Eventually we reached Tottenham Court Road; feet screaming, freezing and thoroughly fed up.

It was so bad, I even considered getting the night bus. The whole horrendous experience was a reminder of why I avoid central London on the weekend.

The plastered, vulgar out-of-towners, can keep it. I'm sticking to my local.