As someone who grew up and went to school in Harringey, North London, let me tell you that you couldn't be more wrong, my friend. I remember that neighbours used to leave their front doors open all day and never get robbed. All night even. with a plate of sandwiches for any passing tramps. Down at the local pub, toothless pensioners would rattle out a few tunes on the Joanna (Cockney translation: piano), and everyone would sing along, including us kids. Sure, us kids were scamps; we'd do a bit of scrumping, and the odd game of knock-down-ginger, but it was all nothing more than harmless fun. If the local bobby caught us, he'd clip our ear and send us home with something to think about, but it would always be with a smile. Most days, you'd find Londoners dancing in the streets and singing songs about food. Mary Poppins was our patron saint, and probably still is. The streets used to be paved with gold, but that's all been half-inched (Cockney translation: pinched) by thieving Northerners, during an influx in the 60s and early 70s.
Compare this with how it is up North. Cobbled streets, run-down cottages with grimy back-yard barely large enough to swing a cat, flat caps, whippets, ferrets down trousers, ****-witted lynch-mobs, Jimmy Nail... the list is endless!
