There is another side to London that remains unknown to the tourists, that emerges only at night, that comes alive in aging terraced houses and sprawling estates. It is a world of pills of dubious origin swallowed hurriedly and hopefully, of music with a thumping beat that you'll still hear when you wake up the morning after, of Rizla papers bought from an all-night garage, of bottles of mineral water shared as love tokens, of greasy kebabs eaten when the taste-buds have long since numbed, of su...