Bloody Brixton. Many years ago, we were delivering some chillers to Nandos and I stopped off at the local McDs for a Big Muck. The only way I can describe it was that scene in "An american werewolf in London," where the two backpackers go into The Slaughtered Lamb.
Everyone hushed and kids stopped bawling. This must be what it's like to be the only Muslim member of the KKK. I placed my order to an openly hostile staff member and only later did I think about the copious amounts of bodily fluids that were probably expelled onto my beef patty. I couldn't get out of there quickly enough.
I rejoined my comrades who had similarly interesting lunch breaks. One of them had been propositioned by a scrawny addict with open sores and few teeth who became angry because he turned down this delightful woman. My other workmate had been watching this so intently, that he almost missed the youths hanging around the back of the lorry, seeing what was portable.
If a nuclear weapon was ever dropped on Londonistan, I would simply don my sunglasses and enjoy the warm breeze and bright sunshine that it produced.