No-nonsense US stand-up Dave Fulton may be an adopted Brit these days, but one sighting of a Richmond Park deer and he's reaching for the hunting rifle

• Mr Fulton brings his critically acclaimed show to the Soho Theatre on May 25-26

Officially I don’t live in London or the UK. Oh sure, I have all the proper paperwork and I pay the good people at Inland Revenue their fair share, but I own nothing but a couple of motorcycles and some well-worn Specials CDs. Nonetheless, unofficially I’ve been rolling around the capital like an empty beer can in the back of a redneck’s pickup truck for 10 years, give or take 3.

Like most Americans, I never really grew tired of the pub scene, but except the Toucan or the Willoughby Arms or The Marquis of Granby I can walk right by them now and not feel the need to enter and kid myself this is some sort of cultural experiment on my part. Where are these pubs I speak of? I’m not telling, but they are worth the effort you might take to look up on your smart phone, and if that phone recommends someother venue smash it into the pavement and walk into the first pub you see as long as it’s not an All Bar One.

For any other American who might find themselves reading this let me set the record straight regarding the food in London; it doesn’t suck. The British used to own the world, then they blew it but before they pissed off back home leaving the populations they exploited high and dry, they found they had a taste for food something other than the usual meat and two veg. Consequently whenever I’m back stateside, after a while I start feeling the void left by the absence of a good curry. It’s an addiction I enjoy.

The odd thing for me about spending so much time in London is I’m not what you might call a "big city" kind of guy. I grew up out at in an area of America labelled the Pacific Northwest, where there are trees – lots of them – and wild animals and fresh water lakes and snow and cheap petrol and guns, lots of guns. Maybe that’s why I find myself "living" near Richmond Park.

The place is great. When men in Barbour jackets aren’t chasing dogs that are chasing herds of deer, it’s one of the best places to try and get away from all the people my friends back home would rather beat up than hold a conversation with. I like to think that, if the worst comes to worst and some sort of revolution does come about, like all my conspiracy-fuelled friends are convinced will happen, I can forage for food by stealing sandwiches from the middle-class women walking their yappy dogs. And if I really get hungry, I always know I can walk right up to the tame deer with that superior attitude they seem to be born with, and beat it to death like an Los Angeles police traffic stop.

Even the cute carcass of the fallow deer will give me enough to survive on for days. Why would some of this be necessary? I live in Kingston (or Kingston upon Thames if you’re an estate agent) and even though I enjoy Nepalese cuisine from places like Monty’s in Kingston, I’m still from Idaho. And that means you hunt it, kill it then burn the crap out it on an open fire before you eat it.

• Mr Fulton brings his critically acclaimed show to the Soho Theatre on May 25-26