this is the sport in this country smoking

Pristina, Kosovo: "This is the sport in this country, smoking," says our Nigerian host from the UN Human Settlements Program.

And sure enough, everyone is smoking, in their cars, in bars, on the street, even at petrol stations. Cigarettes are about 1.5euro a pack of twenty, so in a country where other entertainment is hard to come by, smoking represents excellent value.

"Nine out of 10 people smoke. When you walk around they offer you cigarettes, they are offended if you do not smoke."

Briggs wants to fit in. He buys a pack quickly and smokes steadily throughout the evening. He is torn, though. He wants to smoke in the Mexican restaurant, but feels hidebound by the conditioning of the draconian rules in the UK.

"You are thinking this is a civilised country," says our guide, with a laugh.

Our French friend from one of the many international agencies reassures him that there is no need to ask. People like to see a man smoking.

Touring a couple of bars, we meet UN and EU workers from Sweden, Lithuania, Portugal, the Netherlands, France and Germany. But they are not really nationals. They are internationals. They stay in their elite bubble here in the Balkans, transferring from one agency to the next. There is a suggestion they do not pay much tax, and the expenses are very good. The Daily Express would not be pleased.

The Italian we meet is everything you would want in an international worker. Beige suite, with impeccably pressed trousers, a perfectly trimmed beard and a relaxed and charming demeanour. He has just had an excellent meal.

Our host tells him we are off to Prizren.

"And have you told your friends in Prizren they shoot in the street?"

"Yes, but they shoot in the air and so we do not need flak jackets. We just need the helmets for when the bullets come down."

The trials of managing a junior football team

Mobile phone conversation overheard on the No. 2 bus:

"Yeah, I've started managing a team, you know. I came in and I started looking at the attendance charts and there are kids who are showing up to training every week and not getting a game. There are kids showing up on time, doing everything right, and they're not getting their chance.

Some of them think, just because they are good players, you know, that they don't need to train, that they can show up for matches 10 minutes before kick-off. These kids need to learn some respect. You know what I mean, these kids need to be taught a lesson.

So I decided to shake things up a bit. First match, I had some of the good players on the bench and gave those fringe players a chance.

But, you know what, I never realised the gulf in class! We started losing the match, but with a 10 minutes to go I made some changes. We ended up scoring a last minute equaliser. I was relieved!

Stalin enters London

Strolling back to work from my lunch on Friday, I saw a march coming up High Holborn and turn into Kingsway. I only saw the back end of it – a few people carrying banners, some from unions, some from left-wing organisations. There were some people, perhaps rented, tapping cowbells.

I walked over to the group at the end of the protest, and asked a girl dressed in black what it was all about. It was the May Day protest, she said, the day when workers protest. She was a social worker. Perhaps she was protesting about all the rubbish parents out there.

Buying a banana from the fruit-seller on High Holborn, I asked him what he thought of this rag-tag rabble.

“Some of them were carrying a picture of Stalin around. He killed 30 million people – what are they parading his f*cking picture for?”

I had to admit that the fruit-man, who has the look of a bloke who needs a defibrillator with him when reading his newspaper, had a point. It is hard to understand a person who takes Stalin as their political hero. Lenin, maybe, who had the good sense to die before the Communists really got warmed up with their purging sensibility, but not Stalin.

I tried to smooth things over by saying that there is no accounting for taste and that personally my hero was Bryan Robson, but it didn’t seem to help.

On the nick in Woolworths

I always viewed Woolworths with affection. I liked Brixton Woolworths in particular. The shop is the centrepiece of the high road, with its sculpted white tiled front and huge red sign at the top of the building. Some could point to the Town Hall or the Ritzy cinema, but for me the Woolworths is the landmark building in Brixton.

I went in there for compilations of old bands like the Beach Boys and Squeeze. I got my kitchen utensils from there. I knew the place was on the downward slope late last year when they had no potato peelers, and the red polo shirted shop assistant told me he didn't know when any more would be in.

When it was finally announced that Woolies was no more, I used to pop in for a little look around. With just 10 or 20 per cent off, people were going absolutely crazy, taking armloads of DVDs, toys, children's clothes. The Brixton store went from being a large, well-stocked place to bare and sad-looking. The only product left well alone was the ironing boards, a sad indictment of our society's wanton attitude to crumpled clothing.

On a bright, sunny day in early January I took a walk over to Crystal Palace and found that its Woolworths was still open. It was the final day of trading and everything must go. Needless to say, the place was heaving. I thought that on this final day of trading I had to do the decent thing. I had to shoplift something.

You could barely call it shoplifting. The security guard was paying no attention, all of the staff would be out of work by the end of the day.

The only trouble was finding something I wanted to nick. As is my habit, I went for the CDs. Most of them were simply in crates on the floor. There was a serious-looking dreadlocked man meticulously going through them and taking what he needed. I made my own search, whilst trying to steer clear of him. I didn't want to get into a fight on this special day.

After some rooting through heaps of forgotten boy bands and dance compilations, I found one disc that interested me: it was called, '1957 - when skiffle was king'. I picked it up and wandered further back into the store, as if to join the back of the queue.

Despite there being an almost zero possibility of being caught, I was still nervous. I wandered over to the Pick n Mix and ate an Everton mint and sucked on it while I hatched a plan. I was wearing my beaten-up suede jacket. It has a ripped lining on the right front, and was a place I had secreted the odd can of lager onto the bus over the years. I went over to the CD rack at the rear of the store, looked at a Hank Marvin double CD, and whilst picking it up, slotted the skiffle CD into my jacket.

Even at this late stage, I had an attack of nerves or conscience or something. Whatever it was, I thought perhaps I had better buy the Marvin disc, to even things out. I started to queue up, and had every intention of buying the thing, but the queue was so long that I gave up. I put the thing back on the shelf and made my exit.

Leaving Woolworths, on that final day of trading, I felt that rush of excitement that can only come from nicking something petty from a big company. It was an act that had been echoed throughout Woolies' 99 years of trading in the UK. Generations of children had grown up, gone out on a Saturday and thought, I'll go to Woolies and do a spot of shoplifting. I felt good that I had concluded my relationship with this great store in the right way, leaving the shop with a CD in my pocket and my heart beating fast in my chest.

George the barber shop

I used to leave the barber shop with a quiet sense of disappointment. I know I have not the most sculptable head of hair, but still. It is a case of entering with hope, and leaving without it.

But now I go to George the barber shop, on Streatham High Road. It is a father and son place, and I am pretty sure neither is called George.

On entering, one is stirred by the fact that here is a barber shop with all the essentials. By this I don't just mean the chairs and the washbasins and the hair on the floor. I mean the faded pictures of bequiffed '80s models, with Princess Diana in pride of place. The smell of hair gel; the sound of an overworked electric razor and football on the radio.

The old man leaps up from his foreign newspaper and offers me a seat. He thrusts the protective gown around my neck a shade too tight, like all good barbers should do. He does not have much chat - he leaves that to his son, who is waxing lyrical about Streatham ice rink - but he is attentive. His thick lips chew away in time with his scissors as he tames my thinning locks. He takes enormous care of trimming around my ears and even bothers to take a cutthroat razor to shave what little neck hair I possess.

When the job is completed he pulls out a mirror and shows me the back of my head. This is never something I enjoy looking at, it being a reminder that, despite my age, I still essentially look like a schoolboy. However, given the fact that I am in barber shop heaven, I give my wholehearted approval.

He brushes the cut hair from my face and unties me, and we totter over to the till. We go through the elaborate procedure of him asking for eight pounds, and me giving ten and refusing change. At this he gives me a handshake and a pat on the back and both men wish me well. I wish them both every good luck, and leave feeling happy despite my hair being the underwhelming sight it has always been.

The House of Bottles

Walking down Coldharbour Lane, in search of booze, I decided to visit Brixton's most vibrant off licence, The House of Bottles. This Friday evening the place, which seldom closes, was shuttered up. Not only that, the Bottles' accompanying phalanx of black-attired black men standing outside it, drinking bottled lager, was not there.

I considered the possibilities. It was Good Friday. Perhaps these people have a religious streak, and are off at evening mass. On the whole, unlikely.

Moving closer, I noticed a sign outside the lonely shop from Lambeth Council. The House of Bottles had temporarily been relieved of its licence to sell booze, because of 'serious criminal activity' on the premises. My first thought was - there might be some truth in this. My second thought was - why take action now?

Surely the local council had always been aware that the place had a certain subterranean charm to it. I thought these kind of premises were allowed to thrive so that Brixton retains its distinctive flavour and keeps those Claphamites from roaming down Acre Lane. What signal does this send out to the rest of the folks trying to do business in Brixton in these times of economic strife?

There was at least one beneficiary from this punitive strike: Liquor Supply was doing a brisk trade as I popped in for four Heineken.