Ah, the Northern line. Ask a Londoner, and I bet they have an opinion of it - and we're usually divided into two polar opposite camps.

First there's the Northern line bashers; the type of people you see standing on the platform at Kennington on the brink of mental collapse, tube map app in hand as they run between platforms in a desperate bid to uncover the many fundamental differences between the Charing Cross branch and the Bank branch.

Then there's the die hard Northern line fans; the Clapham city slickers who calmly surf the great rickety trains day in and day out - gym bag in hand by weekday, and pushchair in hand come Saturday. The type of people who can shrug off a last minute service alteration via Charing Cross, and who take the Stockwell stampede in their bleary-eyed stride.

Aka, myself.

Having lived and commuted on the bitter Tooting end of the Northern line for 12 months now, I'm a seasoned pro at dealing with the soaring highs and lows of what was recently voted London's most unhygienic tube line, and I can safely say I've never been so proud to be an All Black Northern line groupie. Let me count the ways.

First things first, that unreal distance. On no other line can one travel from the picturesque nappy valley of Wandsworth to the equally picturesque nappy valley of Golders Green, without the need to use 2849238 different lines and spend precious time and personal space elbowing lost tourists out the way on the platform of Oxford Circus.

Yes it might take me 60 minutes to make it to Kings Cross, and yes the scrum to get off at Moorgate could easily rival a Debenhams Boxing Day sale, but I rest my commuting bones every night happy in the knowledge that I can get from A to B with ease and more often than not from the comfort of a springy spare seat. Cocktails in Camden? I'll see ya in 90 mins. Hampstead ponds you say? I'll be there within 2 hours!

And if you think about it, it's all rather character building. Between Colliers Wood and Clapham Common (a mere five stops) you can see the true evolution of the Londoner - a beautiful blend of yawning, slightly unkempt Zone 4 Metro-wielding graduates, and those bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Reiss suits fresh from their £2000pcm Georgian semi just off the Common, wielding both engagement rings and hopelessly attractive partners.

And nobody judges anyone. On the Northern line, we're all friends. We're all part of the last minute service alterations, we're all holding our breath and hoping not to sacrifice our seat for pregnant women at Balham, and we're all hoping the hot guy opposite gets off at Bank too.

Yes, it may have been unveiled as London's least hygienic and most germ-ridden Tube line, but in true Northern line spirit we simply keep calm and hand sanitise on.

Because let's face it, if you're going to date anyone in London: date the person who lives within easy reach of Borough market, Waterloo, Chalk Farm and even Mill Hill, should the mood take you. Date the person who always knows which branch to use; who'd never leave you stranded at Kennington. Date the person who doesn't break a sweat through an All Black summer amidst broken vents and poor air circulation. Date the person who can take you bowling for a fiver in Elephant & Castle, onto a boat-cum-club in Embankment for suspicious-tasting beer, and still have you back to Tooting Bec in time for sunset on the common and a curry on the Broadway.

And yes, we'll probably be the last people to get the night Tube, but until then will you hear us complain? Will you heck. There we'll be championing the last train home after our Thursday night work drinks, slumped in our seats with beer goggles on as we ogle our travel companions from Angel to Oval - ever grateful we've got plenty of time and plenty of Claphams to get through before we have to sober up and brave the escalator back to civilisation.

Embodying some of those fundamental characteristics that make British people so great, the Northern liner is truly the best kind of Londoner.

He's the young professional just setting himself up and the happily married on their way to a weekend baby yoga class.

He's the inebriated city worker who's just necked a cocktail of Jager and class A's, and the 78-year-old former lecturer on the way home from an exhibition and fresh cake at the British Library.

He's brave, accepting, wise and patient. He's diverse.

He might let you down once or twice, but he'll probably be up and running again quicker than you can say 'Oval station's Thought of the Day'.

He's unapologetically shabby and rough round the edges compared to some of his newer counterparts, and that's exactly why he's so very charming.

He's always there and he'll always get you home eventually - even if it takes him a few hours.

Isn't it time we all got a bit more Northern line?