A trip to Brighton on Friday evening. We went to dump our bags at the grim tower block by West Pier that passes for a hotel, to find an argument taking place between a father and his son on the steps outside. This was the tip of the iceberg. In reception a full scale slanging match was underway between a drunken man in a suit and a middle aged woman pulling furiously on a cigarette. Hordes of glamorous, skimpily dressed women egged the woman on in impenetrable Irish accents; they seemed to be communicating the opposite of “leave it, love, he's not worth it”. From the bar area came the shouts and roars of two further men locked in disagreement over the morals of another glamorous, skimpily dressed woman. By the time we'd checked in and reached the relative safety of the lift, a phalanx of police were moving in from the seafront. As we came and went over the next 12 hours, there were always at least half a dozen glamorous, skimpily dressed women loitering in the lobby, shouting, while overweight, sweating hotel staff dashed to and fro, attending to various crises. It was your average Irish Gypsy wedding reception. At one point we found ourselves in the lift with the most vociferous of the young ladies. She apologised for having a fag in the lift; we decided to offer her smoking our wholehearted support.

Later, I saw and . They were drunk. On Saturday, I saw and again. They were still drunk.

I don't know why South East London intimidates me so, but it does. I'm used to walking the streets of the capital with the kind of swaggering, brazen confidence that might make you want to punch me in the face; in SE London, I tiptoe fearfully around every corner, fearing that someone might actually punch me in the face. My trip to Joe & Tash's birthday in Peckham on Sunday evening was no exception, as I continually crossed roads in order to avoid groups of hooded youths which I feared might take away my dignity, my innocence, my iPod. But I arrived safely. At one point I attempted to explain the concept of Bluejacking to someone sitting nearby, where you can sent pictures, music files or messages from your phone to other Bluetooth-equipped phones within a certain radius. I initiated a hi-tech electronic scan for the list of available phones; a list of about 7 scrolled up – not bad for a Peckham bar at 6pm on a Sunday. Some people had chosen to assign names to their phones, like “Cath63″ or “BobTalk”. Most had left the default settings – Nokia6230 and so on. But the last phone that popped up had been given the moniker “Nobcheese”. I raised my eyebrows. Nobcheese? What kind of a name is that to give anything, particularly a gadget on which you rely on a daily basis? I scanned the room, wondering where Nobcheese might be located. No-one betrayed the answer on their faces. I scrawled “hello, Nobcheese xx” on a piece of paper (don't ask me about the kisses, I've no idea) and took a picture of it on my phone. I then rescanned the room, in order to send this picture to its rightful recepient. But Nobcheese was no longer available. He'd disappeared as mysteriously as he had arrived. I hope he's OK. Peckham's a dangerous place.