Sunday. To The Bullet Bar – formerly the Verge – in Kentish Town for the engagement party of the prong-haired, make-up clad music critic Simon Price and his doll-ed up girlfriend Ms Jenna (literally – she is dressed as a porcelain Victorian doll, and looks wonderful).

Present are faces from the past and present: Tim Chipping, Xavior Roide, Andrew Mueller, Chris Roberts, Taylor Parkes, Rhoda B, Ms Anwen’s Marc, DJ Val, David R-P, Seaneen, Tallulah. As it is with Mr Price’s clubs, plenty of glittery-attired people of all 48 genders, and a few takes on Cillian Murphy’s character in Breakfast On Pluto, as good an indication as any of the average attendee of Mr Price’s clubs. There’s also lots of older and more soberly-dressed people who are clearly family members. Both mothers make approving speeches.

Normally it’s the drably-dressed ones that I fear are going to attack me for my appearance – as has even happened in Mr P’s own club on occasion. But this is a private party, and Mr Price is in charge. Normal people are allowed in as long they don’t jeer at the more outlandishly attired and eccentrically coiffeured. Well, not to their faces anyway. It’s nice to go out and feel entirely safe like this.

Some might call those who dress like Mr Price and his dancing friends ‘Goths’. But despite their love of cemeteries and the iconography of death, Goths tend to be quite gentle and non-violent. It’s the other types of Children Of Night that I really fear.

Outside the Bullet Bar I wait to catch a 134 bus home, and when it comes, it zooms right past me. Full up. But I don’t mind too much. Buses at night really don’t agree with me.

On the previous night, Saturday, I take a 263 from Archway to Highgate. It’s a very short journey, but I am feeling rather tired. The time is about 9pm. Within seconds of the bus moving away, an undeniable stench of dope smoke fills the vehicle. The driver stops the bus and calls out for the smoker in question – the only person on the top deck – to desist. A young man in a puffy tracksuit and a baseball cap bounds angrily down the stairs and has a heated discussion with the driver.

“Look mate, do I have anything in my hands? Do I? Do I?”

He’s clearly disposed of the joint in question, which is the idea. But now he’s going to have an argument with the driver anyway. For the sake of it. Just because he wants to feel right. And myself and all the other passengers have to sit and wait until this petty tableau peters out. And we just hope he doesn’t involve us. There’s the inevitable stand off, and the argument quickly hits a loop of the same phrases uttered on both sides, again and again. As all such arguments do. I jump off the bus quietly and walk home, leaving them to it but feeling upset that this sort of thing happens far too often.

I’m sometimes accused of acting like the world revolves around me. If only. Sadly, on Saturday nights, if not every night, I’m made indelibly aware that the world really revolves around shouting young men (and women) like this. Readers who aren’t keen on my more liberal and Guardian-esque entries will be reassured to know that it’s on occasions like this I find it hard not to think of Daily Mail-ish terms like ‘feral youths’. These are the young people who shout, scream, fight, intimidate and generally make getting about London at night that little bit more stressful for me and my non-violent friends. One could argue that there’s always been youths like this in every generation, and always will be. But that doesn’t make me feel any happier about getting back from a party.

I can’t help thinking that perhaps these youths really should join the army. Not to kill people, but to keep the peace. Or perhaps just a boxing club. They’re clearly teeming with surplus aggression, and it does seem unfair to spend it on people in their immediate vicinity, hostages to these brasher striplings. Like any other energy source, this aggression should be harnessed to do some good, not channelled into petty arguments with unlucky bus drivers. And that’s about as Daily Mail as I get. I have such sympathy for the casualty staff and bus drivers who work at nights. Whatever they are paid, it can’t be enough.

So if I can’t afford a taxi, which is rather the case at present, I’m finding it can be safer and less stressful to walk the streets at night than catch a bus. And I do need the exercise. So when the 134 passes by, packed and unyielding to new passengers, I take the Universe’s hint.

Thankfully, though they act to the contrary, such youths are not the world. The Diary Angels page is still growing, and can be found here. Thirty-eight Angels so far. Most of whom, I’m fairly certain, don’t pick arguments with bus drivers about their right to fill a bus with dope smoke and pretend they haven’t.

I’ve already sent the Angels their first exclusive: a lovely e-card of colour artwork, specially commissioned from Oxford artist Jeremy Dennis. It’s of me at my laptop surrounded by a host of said Angels, with reference to an early Beardsley self-portrait where he’s working as a clerk, entitled “Le Debris D’un Poet”.