Red buses, telephone boxes, cobbled streets and London brick. Narrow Streets, narrower alleys, tutting loud when they won’t walk quick. Stand on the right please PLEASE coming through, don’t mind me and I won’t mind you. Let us off please, out the way, this isn’t the New-YORK-Bloody-Subway. London Fields, cheap barbecue, bottle of wine and a pizza, too. Lovely coffee, proper flat white, only the good stuff none of that shite. Columbia Road on a SUNDAY, mate, hate the crowds but I do love cake. EIGHT minute wait for the Central Line, I haven’t got the fucking time. Whilst I’m here though, pop to Boots, or maybe a cup of some overpriced fruit. Hop on my bike from Clapton to Shoreditch, forever running LATE so I’d better bloody move it. Sun is coming out and everybody’s happy, best time of year and the best place TO be. Where did you say you’re having your ceremony? Oh, that thing, just the BARBICAN Conservatory. This fucking city will always have my heart, not really for the place but ‘cause it’s where we got our start.