Luckily I got completely shitfaced which made the night go past in a happy blur, at least until we started having so much fun it stopped being fun and started being scary. After going to laugh at the crack dealers on Coldharbour Lane and then stumbling drunkenly into what is perhaps the world's gayest club, I was lucky to wake up alive and with my dignity intact the next day.

Then it was off for a hungover drive to Box Hill in Surrey with three of the previous evening's casualties. Due to us not getting our arses into gear until mid afternoon it was pitch black when we got there, so after a fruitless search for doggers we turned back for London.

Noticing a sign for a bonfire at a place called Brockham we decided to drive down and see what it was like. Despite being fleeced by enterprising bumpkins on the way in (advertised - £2 per car. Reality - £5 per car, £2 per person after you've walked so far there's no way you'd turn back) and a compere who made Alan Partridge look like Tony Benn, it was really worth it.

A spooky torchlit procession with ominous accompanying music, the traditional raising of Guy Fawkes to the top of a massive bonfire, watching his face melt as the flames licked at his feet - now this is what it should be about. A connection with our barbarous medieval past with undertones of The Wicker Man, out in the freezing cold baying with a crowd of frankly frightening Tories and inbred farmers. I shall be going again, unless I can find an even weirder one.