You're in Bandit Country now, boy.

I have two friends who live 'down south'. I don't mean Xuhui district, nah nah... That's still downtown. Xuhui is civilisation. Foreigners don't get stared at and people don't drive on the wrong side of the road most of the time. I don't mean Cao Bao Lu neither, although we are entering rough neck county round there. Still not in the zone though.

I'm talking way south past Shanghai South Railway Station. That big dome-shaped building is the cut off point between Xuhui district and Minhang. Minhang is 'down south'. And it be rough down there, boy. My friends call it 'down south' but I call it Bandit Country. As soon as I get to Bandit Country I have this growing sense of unease. Quite wisely, the Shanghai Subway authorities decided to have all subway stations above ground south of the train station. That's to stop people setting up entire shopping districts or bars or ktv parlours on the platforms.

So last night off I go to meet my two Bandit Country mates – lets call them Starsky & Hutch.

Starsky is tall, thin and Jewish, Hutch is stocky, black and obsessed with Bandit Country. Well, maybe not obsessed, but he knows a shit load of stuff about Bandit Country. He has most of Bandit Country coded and marked by gps and has Google-Earthed the shit out of the whole area.

'See that all over there? Used to be a village of whack shacks. All gone now.'

There was indeed a whole cluster of whack shacks (a clusterfuck?); bright neon shop fronts offering hand jobs to migrant workers and other assorted waidis. It was indeed affectionately known as The Village to the locals – Village of what? Maybe Village of the Damned.

I meet them near Lianhua Lu subway station and we jump in a real taxi and head off down Lianhua Lu itself. We go past tons of high rises before getting to one of those cross-sections of activity out in the boondocks where you find some random shops, the compulsory coffee shop (either Starbucks or Costa), a pizza restaurant, a pet shop (?) and a Sichuan restaurant.

As the taxi pulls up Hutch looks at the coffee shop and remarks that he hasn't seen that before. Starsky confirms that it is indeed new and before was another Chinese-brand coffee shop called Tom n Tom.

We eat in the Sichuan joint and we are the only laowais. People look, point and laugh. The table next to us has three mulaohu and their spawn; two young boys of around 12 or 13 and a great Jabba the Hut lookalike, dopey and sulky looking, 15 year old. The mulaohu encourage their young to engage in idle chit chat with us.

We pay up and then get in a fake taxi to head off to one of the many bouncing floor discos in Bandit Country. Everywhere south has a bouncing floor disco. These places are full of waidi, fake booze, loud crap music and a bouncing floor. Muse, it ain't.

The entrance to any of these kind of places is by way of six flights of old wooden stairs, past dodgy looking young punks with spiky haircuts ('The Spikies' as Starsky fondly calls them). Entrance is always 30rmb and for that you get to walk through an electric security gate and get some fake piss.

I can't remember the names of these joints but the first place we go to is dead as the pet cats will be in two weeks in the pet shop we passed in the real taxi earlier.
We stick around for all of ten minutes then clear off.

As we leave, we walk past a bunch of surly looking geezers wearing fake Adidas and Nike, standing in front of their five-year-old Santanas. 'Jiangsu Cadillacs', says Hutch. We jump in another taxi and head to some other place that is packed. Same set up as the first joint; Santanas 'parked' in front, six flights of stairs, xray detector gate, 30 kwai entrance, fake everything.

As soon as we walk in, two girls – one with orange 80's hair – say 'Hello' and greet us warmly. They are dressed like hookers but they are not on the game. They are waidi girls out on the razz. Both of them are smoking cigarettes and not in that Shanghai Princess affected way of smoking ('Look at me, I'm smoking, therefore I am cool, buy me something'), real smoking. Deep lungfuls of fake Chinese-brand cigarettes and then expelled above their heads in a hard-as-fuck fashion.

In fact, it quickly becomes apparent that everyone is smoking. The only person not smoking is me and people look at me oddly as if to say 'What's wrong with you? Why aren't you smoking? You a poof or something?'.

Starsky gets some beers and a fake brand Sprite for me. Hutch points out it's fake by comparing the size of the can to a nearby Coca-Cola can. 'Should be the same size', he says. I drink it anyway.

A group of Spikeys shout 'Hello' at us. Their Waido-Do's are phenomenal. Great big plumed rugs, bouffanted six inches above their heads that look like something out of Barbarella. Some of them look like crash helmets made out of human hair. They are all wearing black, 80's-era, gay Spanish waiter clothing. They encourage us to head for the bouncing floor. We decline their kind offers as Starsky is about ten years plus older than everyone in the room and me an Hutch pushing closer to twenty five.

The place soon gets very crowded. People get on the bouncing floor and just seem to stand there, staring at people not on the bouncing floor who in turn stare back. Dj Sexy Boy (for that is his name) tells everyone that Tomb Sweeping Day is upon us and the crowd whistle and cheer loudly. Seems kind of weird to be so happy on a day when people should respect the dead.

Dancing girls appear. Or should that be 'Dancing' girls. They do the Shanghai Shuffle which consists of flailing their arms around, jerking their head to one side, moving their hips not in time to the music and looking pissed off. They do this for about ten minutes then leave to 'have a good rest' and smoke.

There is a podium with a pole. Guys in gay Spanish waiter outfits and huge hair get up and pretend they're in Las Vegas. Girls encourage us to do the same.

I go to the toilet and there is a trough for urinating in. It is a huge glass tank. I think it was deigned like this on purpose for aesthetic reasons not practical ones. There is an open window and as I look outside I see farms. I look down in the trough and there is a dead crab, his white belly sticking up, floating in eight gallons of Waidi piss.

After being accosted by girls poorly educated, dressed badly and young enough to be my daughter we decide to leave. Hutch has to head off and jumps in a fake taxi. The driver looks at us in complete awe.

Me and Starsky decide to go back to place one. We walk up the road – on one side a load of shacks operating as shops, on the other newly built apartments that no one that lives round here can afford.

We get back to place one and in front the Jiangsu Cadillacs are still there. Along with two cop cars.

A guy is sprawled out on the street with vomit on his face and in front of is head. He looks dead. A cop nudges him with his foot while a girl yells into a mobile phone.

Starsky says 'Hutch will want to know about this' and proceeds to inform him by text message.

We head in to place one which now is heaving full of drunk, smoking waidis. No one is on the bouncing floor but there is a bicycle on a stage. We find out that there is a competition and first prize is the bike. Second prize is a bottle of Great Wall wine and some consolation prizes of cans of fake Sprite.

We get front row seats and are immediately treated like rock stars. We are dressed pretty well though compared to everyone else around us. I am wearing a fabric market finery and fake walking shoes I bought on Fuxing Lu, but I might as well be wearing Armani gold nipple clamps the attention I'm getting.

A host appears, sings a song and drinks a pitcher of brown liquid.

He notices me and Starsky and tell the crowd that there are two foreigners in the crowd. He hands me the mic and I say 'Hello – I am from England' in Chinese. The effect is the same as Axl Rose being in Madison Square Gardens and telling Nooo Yaaawk to start rocking. Everyone in the room wants to 'cheers' with us. Girls give us cans of fake sprite and sweets. Everyone is smoking.

A drunk bloke keeps winning stuff and his waidi princess is very proud. He demands our company. He has rotten teeth and is blind drunk. The waidi princess has orange hair and bits of fake fur glued to various parts of her body. She is smoking two cigarettes.

Eventually the excitement is too much and I have to make my excuses and leave.

Outside the guy is still lying on the floor. The cops are gone. The Jiangsu Cadillacs are still there.

I get in a taxi and go home. It takes 40 minutes and the roads are empty.