Londoners

There is something about London. It is a city which, more than any other I know, champions the Individual.

But we're all just one big in-crowd. Yes, we're split into tribes, divided as we are by cash, culture and postcodes: the Camden Kids; the Sloanes; the too-cool-for-school Hoxton homies; the Stoners, the Skaters and the Player-haters; the City Boys and the mummy's boys; the Bohos and the Bobos and the complete-and-utter no-nos; the "I'm Not A Plastic Bag"s (Hindmarch not Primark, natch) at the farmers' markets; the Yummy Mummies; the Topshop Princesses teetering absurdly in this season's bondage-style shooboot; the Goths clomping miserably around in God-knows-what season's bondage-style f**k-you-boot. Not to mention the other 50 per cent of Londoners hailing, by origin or ethnicity, from every possible corner of the globe.

We are quick to dismiss country bumpkins and green, blinking-eyed alien invaders of our big bad city. Yes, poor fool, you may very well be aware that there is a McDonalds within suitcase-wheeling distance of Big Ben, the Eye, Buck Palace and Madame Tussauds, but have you heard of Brick Lane? A mile of curry houses, Bengali-cheek-by-Pakistani-jowl, rounded up by the best Jewish bagels and baked cheesecake you could dream up? Chew on that one. Or what about the sprawling corner of Hackney boasting the best pho this side of Hanoi; a Chinatown with more Peking duck than you could shake a chopstick at; and a whole haremload of Arab joints up around the Edgeware Road? Nope, didn't think so.

Between us we speak in a thousand different tongues, but no language is more universal and uniting than that of a Londoner's tut-tut-tutting, teeth-grinding, snorting irritation at outsiders in our tube stations. Wide Americans with bumbags and baseball caps; skinny-jeaned fourteen year-olds from the Yorkshire Nowheres on their way to an indie concert, gulping like goldfish at their first taste of freedom in the hot, airless tunnels of subterranea; greasy Italians in shiny trainers, thick hoardes of Japanese. Kindly step out of our way, we seeth. We don't want you here.

Oh, don't get us wrong. We love foreigners. London is the world's shrine to multiculturalism, didn't you know? We have among us Eritreans, Tongans, Bolivians, even a few Welsh. A Londoner can have a Lancashire accent or be a practising Rastafarian, he can fast at Ramadan or feast at Diwali. We have many disguises, but look around the sea of humans at Holborn station at around 5.30pm and you'll spot us. Resigned exasperation is the trademark look of the Londoner.