I asked him if he had eaten, he said no. I nipped into Tesco and bought him a cheese sandwich and a bottle of Lucozade. He smiled and for a minute I thought he was Bob Dylan.

I enquired if he was plugged into a local church – but he wasn’t. But then he told me that he did however meet up every week with a group of Christians who “made sure he was alright’. He guessed I was a Christian and showed me his bible. He held it like a trophy. I smiled and left him to devour his sandwich paid for by the poor sod who dropped £20 earlier on.

Five hours later I was humming Bob Dylan songs in London’s most prestigious nightclub (according to some fancy magazine).

It was breathtaking and so were the prices. I didn’t fit in at all. I was surrounded by tory boys with expensive haircuts and pink shirts. I felt like an undercover miner looking for revenge on Margaret Thatcher for closing down the Welsh Valleys. I only kicked off once though. It was after being charged £2 to keep my coat and bag in the cloakroom. “That is a scandal” I said. “This is the best club in London” he said. “Its got nothing on Preston’s Wetherspoons” I said. The security guards glanced over at me. I didn’t say anything else.

As I stood in the 6th floor heated gardens overlooking the nation’s capital, illuminated by night light, starlight and moonlight, I became aware of something which had been niggling at me for about two years.

It was this: I have no interest in earning copious amounts of cash. I don’t want it. I don’t want to be seen in fancy clubs by women who laugh the same, dress the same, eat the same and dance the same. I couldn’t give a toss about the latest Paul Smith range of after shaves. Nothing inside me wants to be known as a friend of the celebrities. I don’t want some idiot pretending to be my mate by kissing me on the cheek whilst splurting out how good I look.

If the best this world can offer is yuppy utopia, then it can shove it right up its arse.

Get this: in the toilet of this a-list club I was told by a stranger that I wouldn’t find anything better. He said, “this is what it’s all about bro.” As I washed my hands under the silver taps I looked at him in the mirror, square in the eyes, and said “no it’s not”.

You could offer me a lifetime membership at this place and I would still choose to spend my Friday nights with my bread-stealing flatmate Mark talking about Jesus. And why? Because the best of the British is farcical compared to the message of Jesus, who says to be free, and free indeed. He says do not to be slaves to culture, do not bow down at the cloakroom of the famous, do not orgasm at the idea of being liked by pretty people with fluffy hair.

Jesus says plant yourself on his promise. Root your heart on the Scriptures and give yourself to loving your friends ferociously. The sight of the homeless Bob Dylan tucking into his lunch, and the knowledge that this week a group of Christian brothers will meet with him to express love, IS what its all about. That’s life to the full. That’s where joy can be found. That’s where freedom can be seen. That’s where hope can be held.

Do not be deceived.