On Monday I made a rare excursion from my beloved north London to chez Mrs TKK’s in the west of the capital. It took barely seconds after had we got in through the door and into her room before she was introducing me to a fun and prurient new activity.

Tenant watch.

Mrs TKK’s bedroom window faces out onto to the tenement in the street opposite, and is ideally located for tenant watch in being centrally positioned in the block.

After initially shrugging off her invitation to join in by considering it a tad on the intrusive side, I gave in to temptation and was instantly hooked.

I can’t explain why, but there is something mesmerising at seeing someone walk into a room, take a plate from the cupboard, lay it on the table and then get out the knives and forks. Even a bloke pausing to scratch his arse takes on a profundity I would never have previously considered. Seeing someone either arrive or leave is the Holy Grail. Seeing someone leave alone and arrive with another is the holiest of the Holy Grails.

Then there’s the “surely it’s not happening!” moments. I did wonder at one point whether a couple in the flat to the top left were about to participate in some kind of kinky activity, but it turned out they were merely trying to shove a wardrobe closer to the wall. Rats! And I’d got the camera ready n’ all.

And if you want to get meta, you can, as we weren’t the only ones reaching for the binoculars. So you can have the scenario where you’re watching people who are watching you watching them. Fantastic stuff.

And when the darkness starts to creep in, it’s like watching a 70ft screen of monitors. All it needs is some form of remote control and it’ll be perfect.

All this begged the question in my brain as the tube sped back oop to narf Lahndan:

West London: where art thou net curtains?

TKK and Mrs TKK consider whether the guy in flat opposite is a potential murderer or just an arse scratcher.

It didn’t take long for – and it kills me to describe him as this - Mayor of London Boris Johnson to add another ‘fine in theory, unworkable in practice’ idea to the political slagheap.

To those who can’t be bothered to click on a hyperlink, I am referring to the proposed ban on drinking alcohol on public transport in the capital from 1 June.

It is perhaps another example of a heavy-handed law being introduced that penalises the many because of the conduct of a few.

Removing antisocial drunks from public transport might just be more effective than a blanket ban on drink.

A can of lager won’t chant “Ing-er-land!” repeatedly for the duration of your journey, leer at your girlfriend or start a fight with a door.

But a drunk will. And taking the can out of their hand is pointless when the contents of a six-pack are swilling around in their stomach.

But this is not the only string on their drunken bow.

Back in 1998/99 I was a student bar manager (which explains my subsequent life-long hatred of karaoke, Catatonia and students) and regularly had to get the late tubes from Angel Islington back to the safe haven of my beloved north London.

Apart from finding out how bloody difficult it is to get glasses from people after drinking-up time, I became acquainted with the absolute carnage that late night public transport in London can be.

While a weekend nightbus resembles a battlefield at its dénouement, with booze casualties strewn about the place, on the late night weekend tube the conflict is still ongoing. So there will be singing. There will be blood.

And there will be vomit.

Biblical levels of the stuff.

The vomit, the vomit!

It’s a wonder I don’t have enduring PTSD symptoms after some of the disturbing scenes I witnessed.

On one of the first occasions, I noted a respectable-looking middle-aged lady rummaging in her John Lewis bag. I thought she was peering at the premium brand consumer goods she’d purchased there, when in actuality she was creating enough space in her carrier to vomit into (I felt she maintained a veneer of respectability by taking the aforementioned bag with her when she arrived at her stop).

On another occasion a woman showed that alcohol hadn’t completely disrupted her lateral thinking powers by opening her umbrella and barfing into it.

And if you’re going to vomit through the window in the gaps between the carriages, it’s probably for the best if you wait for the train to stop moving before you do so.

But these episodes paled in comparison to the symphony of sick I had a front row seat for one evening.

The Piccadilly Line tube was about to pull out from King’s Cross when three severely inebriated girls lurched onto the carriage.

It’s said that when girls live together for long periods their periods synchronise. These girls were
so tight the same was happening to other bodily expulsions.

One girl started off the symphony by chucking into her handbag. Another settled for vomiting on the floor (via her feet). The third vacillated between being violently ill and passing out.

Being a gentleman, I offered her my bottle of water in the hope that she might avoid the fate of her friends.

She smiled, took a sip, and looked much better.

Then vomited into her lap.

Remaining the gentleman that I am, I didn’t ask for my Evian back.