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When I heard that, according to recent YouGov research, Northerners are increasingly pig-sick of London, I emitted my very best unfazed, heard-it-all-before, Londoner ‘meh’ sound. It was probably followed by a ‘whatever’. The North hates London; it was ever thus. I am originally Northern — my accent, when irate, still has the gentle cadence of fractious cormorants following a sea trawler — but I have lived in London for 18 years. I dreamed of a London life since, aged around seven, I worked out that a day in the North passes very, very slowly, and that the 8.47am train from Glasgow, which whistled past the fields in which I spent long summer holidays kicking a tree stump, went directly to Euston. I love it here — but the North has never shared my passion.

The formidable Manchester actress Violet Carson once said of her childhood: ‘When I was a little lass, the world was half a dozen streets, a bit of wasteland, and the rest was all talk.’ This sums it up succinctly. As a child, the rest was all ‘talk’. And the talk was that London was bloody awful. It was hectic, unfriendly, dangerous, expensive, full of posers and folk who thought they were ‘it’; and, worst of all, ‘no one even speaks to you at a bus stop’. ‘Bloody brilliant,’ I thought. I would go to London as soon as I could, head for the Smash Hits office in Carnaby Street, marry John Taylor from Duran Duran and spend weekends circumnavigating the Isle of Dogs on his yacht. I loved the sound of this place where posing, preening and thinking you were ‘it’ was acceptable. And it so is. Dandies, eccentrics, pretentious dickheads, we have an abundant source. They liven up a life.

Many years have passed since I escaped here. The North and South have progressed and mutated but the YouGov survey shows that, attitude-wise, not very much has changed. One participant remarked there was ‘general public anger’ about what London gets and the others do not — there was a feeling that ‘You’re OK if you’re inside the London bubble, but if you’re outside it, you’re “well outside” ’.

I can’t argue with this part. London is bigger than the next 15 or so smaller cities jammed together. We have all the work. Our houses — if that’s what impresses you — are worth considerably more. Our transport links are continuously being preened and titivated. If you stand outside The O2 in Greenwich or the Royal Albert Hall long enough, every pop, rock, rap and opera performer will pitch up and play. If it snows in London, it’s national news. If London is furious about something, Westminster jumps. In fact, if anyone in London makes, does or says anything, it simply seems to be taken more seriously than if someone in Macclesfield did it. Although I’d wager the folk from London would find Macclesfield’s endeavour ‘cutely adorbs’. Living here will make you aggressively blasé about anyone moaning about London ‘getting everything’. Of course we get everything, we tut — it’s where everybody is.

By turn, during my visits back Up North, I often feel I need a decompression chamber to sit in, quietly sulking, for 24 hours, to prevent me from being a roaring London dickhead. Because what do you mean, no one delivers takeaway food? Why don’t you know your Wi-Fi passcode? I need to do some work. Where is Pret? They don’t have quinoa or coriander or tofu in this supermarket? I saw all these movies weeks ago. Why won’t Net-a-porter deliver same day? Why won’t Ocado deliver at all? And why is the local radio station incessantly plugging a marmalade festival?

I miss Vanessa Feltz. Why is all talk about cars, kids or Gary Barlow tickets? No, I don’t do Zumba. I haven’t tried the wine from Lidl. Why are we eating at the Toby Tavern family pub? Why can I not even walk to the postbox without bumping into at least three people who saw me doing gymnastics in my vest and pants aged four? No, Dad, I don’t think immigrants have been stealing the Queen’s swans to eat. No, we don’t just turn a blind eye to it in London. See, I’m a 100 per cent London dickhead.

But still, I see the beauty and splendour of the North. My throat still crackles tearfully trying to explain the feeling of passing Shap — up high in the fells — on the train to Carlisle, the rain blasting the side of the carriage and sheep clinging to the sides of mountains. I’m still proud to be from there. I relish the pragmatism, the fierceness and the no-nonsense attitude that 18 years in the far North West granted me. If only I could convince the North to love my new ‘hometown’ a bit more in return. Fat chance.

Northerners’ visits to London are, at best, unsatisfactory. They emerge through Euston and King’s Cross into honking queues for bank-breaking Oyster cards, then head off towards Oxford Circus in rush-hour bedlam. They’re lured into those hell-hole Angus Steakhouses. They are ripped off, jostled about, stressed out and left utterly skint. I’ve supervised enough Northerners on London trips to know there is no point trying to dissuade them from Camden Town at midday on a Saturday. They demand to see the market. They insist they must eat some terrible jerk chicken. They want to return ashen-faced, £100 poorer and tell you, ‘It was really bad, so busy, I don’t know how you do it.’ We don’t do it! I want to scream. ‘You never see my London! It’s not best appreciated as a tourist destination. In fact, I’ll go as far as to say it sucks. London is a lifestyle choice.’ See, I sound like a London poser again.

The other evening, a typical night after work, I caught a taxi home from an event at Kettner’s in Soho, which wove its way slowly down the busy streets. The night was balmy, the pubs spilled out on to the pavements, people were everywhere: G-A-Y bar kids, dancers from Jersey Boys smoking outside the theatre, the Ronnie Scott’s queue overspill, preeners, posers. We made it down to Holborn, through legal London, through the prettiness of Clerkenwell, past the Zetter Townhouse, around Old Street roundabout, through the increasingly Magaluf-like Shoreditch. ‘Glory of Love’ by Peter Cetera blared on Magic FM. It was 11pm. Everywhere was crowded, life was being lived, stuff was happening. We passed the Browns strip bar, which has infuriated me forever but is seemingly unkillable; we trundled down on to Mare Street in Hackney, past infamous party spot The Dolphin, past the restaurant Rita’s, on towards the brand spanking new Olympic Park and Hackney Marshes.

There is a sense with London, on a trip like this, of passing through a dozen very different, ever-transforming, dramatically burgeoning villages. Any turn you make would find you a new place to drink, a new place to get up to mischief. It is not like this in the North. People retire from going out very early in life because, if you begin going to pubs at 16, the chances are you’ve been to the exact same pub about 500 times by the time you’re 22. Besides, it’s time to think about having babies.

London is lovely. Exhilarating. Life-enhancing. I think this every time I ride through it in a taxi. Or when I train by the Serpentine in Hyde Park, or in Victoria Park; or when my neighbour Steve marks the start of summer with his windows up and his Lovers Rock albums playing at full blast. Or when, the other week, I went to see a musical starring Gary Kemp at the Theatre Royal Stratford East on Wednesday, for fish and chips in Exmouth Market with a Mr Whippy for pudding on Friday, for a long dog walk in Epping Forest on Saturday, then did outdoors Vinyasa yoga in Walthamstow on the Sunday.

See? Outdoors yoga. I am a 100 per cent London dickhead. A poser, a preener. Someone who thinks they’re it. If I saw you at a bus stop, I wouldn’t even try to talk to you. And if you’re a Londoner, too, you wouldn’t have it any other way.