I found where the fence had been sawn through. From the bottom of the hill I could see the paint was in good nick. It had only happened recently. A bunch of Bangladeshi teenage hoods stood laughing around the England shields, pointing at the view. I could smell the skunk. 

These are the Beckton Alps. There was a gasworks here a few decades back that produced a lot of toxic waste. They didn't know what to do with it so they landscaped it into a hill in the 1980s. The planners were enthralled when they discovered the toxic dump had created a panoramic view over Canary Warf and the City. It was decided to refashion the heap into an outdoor dry ski slope that the imaginary commuters from the maquette might enjoy. 

Princess Diana opened the Beckton Alps. Photographs of her were taken at the summit gesturing at the view. She had a drink in the Swiss chalet-shaped bar at the bottom. But then it all went wrong. The slope collapsed in 1993, exposing the toxins and crushing the chalet. 

Local authorities seemed to have realised by then that Beckton was not inhabited with the traders holidaying in Chamonix they had hoped for. The slope was sealed and left derelict. Metal hunks to keep the earth from collapsing were placed at the top where the viewing platform had once been. But, indifferent to this, people kept coming to roll joints or paint the hunks with national flags.  

Two teenage Ukrainian girls from Dagenham in leggings and American baseball caps were taking pictures of themselves suggestively against the sunset. The Bangladeshi boys circled them making macho hoots. But they were too shy to speak to the hot girls. This only seemed to make the Ukrainians more enraged. Their shoot was inching into the provocative. 

This dance seemed to have been going on for some time. I interrupted in the vague hope they might offer me some weed. "What do we think of all these Eastern Europeans?" The boys looked for words. "We are all immigrant, innit? Our dads all immigrants . . . Your lot immigrants then?" I nodded. The boys stared wistfully at the girls.

Dagenham had disappointed these teenagers. It was all pawnbrokers, fried chicken places and betting shops. Dagenham was better than Ukraine. But not by much. 

The girls both wore very white trainers. The rushing water sound of the motorway was not far away. The darker-haired one put her hand on her hip. "You know, there are no young British people round here. It's like this. Russian and Ukrainian people hate Polish and Lithuanian people. Eastern European people hate Indian people. Everybody hates black people. Whites hate everyone. That's just the way it is." 

The weed smelt good. Behind us and over the curving dual carriageway, those ridiculously-named objects lined up dark against a dim sunset: shards, gherkins and cheese-graters. Like the city of Oz.