The Mayor of South London

It’s 2:38am and I’m stuck in Deptford. The air is damp and muggy, my clothes sticking to my skin like a paste. Spots of rain fill the air with a mist that should be cooling but isn’t. What makes this worse is the fact I’m stuck in Deptford. I hate Deptford. I hate London south of the river but I especially hate south east London. It’s too residential and stale despite an antagonistic quality that lingers in the atmosphere at all times. Fuck Deptford.

And now I’m stuck here late at night, in a place I feel unsafe during daylight.

I pull out my phone and open Citymapper. My phone’s at 6%. I’m usually impeccable at making sure I’ve got enough charge on my phone but I got cocky today. I woke up with a moderate fifty-two percent and forgot I was going to be a stupid little supportive friend to a mates band playing in this rancid part of the capital.

The low battery means I try to do everything faster than I usually would but this causes more mistakes and in turn slows me down. Is this the circle of life?

I type in my address and the app brings up my options, of which there aren’t many. It’ll take the best part of an hour but there’s only one change by bus. I’ll take it.

I follow the digital red brick road to a street corner that I swear I recognise from Luther. Someone was murdered here. There’s 14 minutes until the 47 bus will come and rescue me. I find myself reflecting in that time. On the night. The attractive person with the silver hair. How much I hate Deptford.

It was a friends bands one year anniversary gig but for some reason they’d decided to host it in London’s armpit - it might have been because half of them live in the area, but it felt personal. Luckily they’re a lovely band and are even lovelier people which made me feel a little less resentful about the trek south than I might have if their music was okay and they were all scumbags. It had also been a few years since I’d last seen them in any kind of capacity. One of those friendships you neglect but keep the neglect at bay by messaging every few months saying, ‘hey man how’re you!! we HAVE to get a pint sometime let me know when you’re free!’. It’s important to leave the last part in, ‘let me know when you’re free’. ‘let me know when you’re free’. It shirks any responsibility of of you and back to them and leaves you nicely non-committal while feeling like you’ve done your bit and are actually a really great friend. Fucking London. We’re all too busy to go for a drink but I’ve got plenty of time to get a tattoo of a heart with LDN stamped in the middle to remind me that I’m now locked in this ferocious cityscape until I burn myself out and my therapist advises I leave town for a few weeks to years. I probably won’t. I’ll just die here. Good band though.

My bus is here. I’ve never been more excited to see two bright, white numbers charging through a mist of damp air. Maybe I’ll get the number 47 tattooed on me next.

I hear the passengers before boarding the bus, wondering if it’s actually a party bus that I’ve managed to gatecrash. The noise is unbearable after the gentle patter of rain outside but there’s no turning back. Literally no way for me to get home other than this. An Uber would have been out of the question. If my phone died while the car was en route they never would’ve found me and even if my phone didn’t die then it would have in the car and fuck being in an Uber at three in the morning when I can’t screenshot the drivers details and send them to a mate.

The bus sets off and I make my way to the back. Nice and safe. At least this way, with my back to the wall, there’s very little chance of someone vomiting down the back of me. At least this way, they’ll have to make a concerted effort to vomit down the back of me by which time I’ll see them coming and can tell them to get to fuck. I realised, looking around, that buses don’t even have the little ticket bins they used to so the potential vomiter wouldn’t have been able to use it as a receptacle. Thankfully most of the noise is coming from the top deck. I ball up my damp jacket, turn it inside out and tuck it between my head and the vibrating window. Images of the silver haired person from the gig creep in. They were too cool. You would never know they’re probably a skin sack of nerves like everyone else. So confident. Smiling at the band and the atmosphere without worry. No trace of self consciousness whatsoever. Then there’s me, unable to compromise on a stony smile for the fear that someone will think I’m weak and target me for extortion, theft and/or murder. To be that pretty and confident. It must be their long legs, it gives them a source of power I’ll never understand. My jacket is comfier than I anticipated.

I must have fallen asleep briefly because I suddenly notice that unless this bus can bend time and space we’re already coming up to London Bridge. So nearly there! Not home - just north of the river. A few metres and I’ll be traversing the no mans land in between. The bus jumps slightly over a bump at the start of the bridge and I get excited. I’m out of South London and won’t have to go back for at least six months, maybe more depending on how much of a recluse I find myself becoming. I look back through the window from where we came, South London, and find myself smiling. I must have had more to drink than I thought if I’m smiling on my own in public. Either that or my legs have grown.

I notice the older woman sat opposite looking at me inquisitively. I don’t even care I’ve been caught smiling. I smile at her and say ‘I just hate South London,’and she shuffles awkwardly in her seat. Maybe she’s the Mayor of South London and I’ve offended her.

Back to my damp jacket.

I then realise I shouldn’t go back to sleep, I need to get off soon and could end up somewhere worse like Peterborough. I don’t care if I offend the mayor of Peterborough. Do they even have a mayor? I bet they don’t even have restaurants.

I turn back to the Mayor of South London and say, ‘can you wake me up when we get to Shoreditch?’

The Mayor nods and smiles back. I bet that’s why South Londoners voted for her. She’s down to earth.

God, I fucking hate Deptford.

JC Spencer is an up and coming writer based in East London. At the time of writing this he has -£12.36 to his name.