Guy Fawkes.

New Brighton's best effort of a fireworks display was brutally put to shame during the real Guy Fawkes, here in the place of its birth.

Obviously not actually in Westminister Abbey, but darn near close, in Roundwood Park. Which I'm 50 percent sure is part of London's ghetto.

Darting out of work as quickly as possible, I took my usual route which leads me through Oxford Street in the direction of the Bond Street Tube Station. This time I was met by a street full of people. They were everywhere. With big screens lining the street and that melancholic voice of "Angels" booming out, it was pretty evident that I had walked straight into the switching on of the Oxford Street Christmas Lights, the key switch-flicking duty in the trust worthy hands of the Rock DJ himself, Robbie Williams. He was helped by Leona Lewis (who seemed either incredibly nervous, or incredibly cold, or both) and none other than the Spice Girl herself, Baby, now known as Emma Bunton. Presumably being named 'Baby' can really limit your future prospects.

Missing all the umming and ahhing and the inevitable annoying delay techniques, I arrived at the beginning of the countdown. Nothing like counting down to turning some lights on to really get your blood pumping. Unfortunately, from what I could see, the electrician behind the beamers was a few bulbs short of a street full of Christmas lights. A couple managed to flick on, and thankfully that included the ones nearest Robbie. However most of the rest of the street was still dim. If this was the signal to begin Christmas, it's sure going to be a bleak one. But having been back since, the lights are quite amazing. Although apparently they've been the same for about 20 years ("Oh god, not the umbrella's still" was overheard), they added a few new touches, including an amazing feature of dangling lights on the Debenham's storefront. I can't wait to walk down the street with snow on the ground and Christmas presents on the mind. The bona fide Love Actually. Minus Hugh Grant as PM. (Though the way David Cameron is being seen, that could actually be an improvement.)

I rolled with the hundreds through to the tube and managed (just) to avoid being pushed through to the tracks. I caught the tube all the way out to Richmond in Zone 4 to meet Millie and her flatmates who were finding a spot to watch the fireworks that Millie seemed adamant were Monday, and not the previous night as I had told her. Unfortunately, Millie got stuck in 2011. So followed the tube back to North London to make it to another display in Roundwood Park at 20.30. On top of this, I had encouraged other people to meet us there and then ran out of battery on my phone. Remarkably, we ended up finding each other. This is also my excuse for having no photos or videos of the incredible sights I saw that night. The fireworks were, without any doubt, the most amazing ones I've ever seen. New Brighton? Hell, no. Paris' Bastille Day? Nah-uh. These fireworks were unreal, and at times, slightly terrifying.

They were accompanied by a soundtrack that now ties up a chunk of my London memories, perfectly seamed into the movement of my English life.

We did a quick tour of the fair before I legitimately thought my fingers or toes might no longer be part of my body and frostbite had taken over, and then trekked back to the overground to catch it home. When I got off at Shepherd's Bush I had an enthusiastic gentleman keep me company, mostly by staring at me and telling me he would "like one of me". I told him I was currently on special at the Hammersmith PoundLand. He seemed to misunderstand and asked me if I spoke French. I told him 'no'. But I have to say I wasn't surprised. If I had to guess the nationality of this random male, it sure wasn't going to be British.

And people say the French have a 'je ne sais quoi'. I think I'd prefer that 'je ne sais pas'.