Dinner with Swedish king

Love, love, love! Sudden and unexpected strikes of passion - isn't it what human nature is all about? "Sex and violence" - was the song from The Exploited. The lyric succinctly, however very accurately indeed, describes what humans like to do the most, when off duty. A lot of booze is also (not) to be (v)omitted. When everything goes smoothly enough, there's no need to throw up nor fight. Winner takes all. That may even include a lost, lovely bird willing to spend the rest of the night with you. A hotel room is all you need.

Unfortunately that is the root of all problems. London town is a busy one. No matter day of the week, hotels are always full. A rickshaw rider is very often asked for help. I am never overenthusiastic about this kind of a challenge. It takes ages to find a vacancy and not every customer is generous enough to appreciate your efforts. And as the wind blows emotions grow cold... You not gonna believe it but there are some jokers out there who dare to offer one a "no room - no fare" deal...

Sometimes there's no choice left. Something is better than nothing. It's always a long journey and we talking here about visiting about 15 - 20 hotels minimum. Often a customer believes that he possesses some magic powers and insists on doing the talking himself. That leaves you alone with the pray for a while. One lady once kept assuring me (and probably herself as well) that: "He's not seedy, you know?" As if she knew him forever. But that's exactly how we click, isn't it? The short lasting feeling of "it seems like we've been knowing each other forever" is a key factor.

Another night I met that couple. That guy was Swedish, really cool and well spoken. He informed me right away that in case I find them a room he will get me a dinner with the Swedish king. How could I refuse? It wasn't easy. Journey was long and challenging. I was even stopped by the police who performed some routine check on me. My passenger kept shouting that he will pay all the fines, even though the officers assured him that there were no fines whatsoever. Finally we found a place. Object of his desire had the highest high heels I have ever seen in my life. I'm sure he deserved it. He was a gentleman and he knew well how to prove his appreciation in terms of money. At least that time finding a hotel for my customers was a good fun.

Dickhead

I just came from Beak Street. Right around the corner, on Regent Street, I saw a black cab. A guy with two women were getting on it (one female was already inside). That instant some other, well boozed fellow came quickly towards them. Suddenly I realised that he was some drunk boor, especially when shouting something unintelligible, he strongly pushed the other gent. I heard the other one asking in puzzlement: "Are you serious"? The drunkard started to shout insults and push both the other guy and first woman. Second one emerged from the cab only to be pushed too. It seemed to be a kind of an argument over who was first to flag that taxi down, but cabbie took no parts and was just waiting. I stopped behind the taxi and watched, wandering if that lunatic would really start punching them. The attacker was mad and drunk, red-faced , his eyes frenzied. He was ordering those people to get on that cab and be gone. They kept trying to reason with him for a while, to no effect though. He was constantly threatening them with violence, rising his fists and counting to three. By the way, I doubt he could count any better than that. "GET ON THE FUCKING CAB!!! I'M COUNTING! ONE! TWO! THREE!" Eventually those women persuaded the other fellow to actually leave that place on that cab, immediately. All of the sudden there where just two of us left. As he got closer I looked him in the eyes, smiled and asked quickly: "All right mate?!" "FUCK OFF!" He screamed and walked around my trike. He crossed Regent St and kept going towards Hedon St. There are some cash machines in the corner. I followed him wandering what would happen next. There, by the cash points, stood three smartly dressed gents and a lady. That ruffian approached them briskly. Again fists up, foam at the mouth, counting to three, he pushed one of them, then, repeatedly, another. They were regular people so just asked him to stop it and go away. He wasn't up for it at all. God only knows what would have happened if, suddenly, a police car hadn't arrived. That instant the wolf turned shepherd... As I was about to leave, that bully, smiling innocently, started to talk in a very friendly manner to questioning him police officer. I hope they didn't fall for it...

Where is left?

"Hey boss!!!" - a tall British lad shouted at me loudly and rudely. I stopped, as usual in that case, out of curiosity what the cat brought in this time. "Boss!" - he carried on shouting in the same manner - "Where is Leicester Square?" I answered boldly, imitating his tone: "You go straight and there is a big crossroads. You need to take a left into Charring Cross Rd. Then just carry on walking!" His ability to sense a sarcasm was clearly underdeveloped. On he went: "How long boss?" "About five minutes! Just take a left over there!" He seem to consider what was just said for a while. Then he looked at me and asked seriously: "So where is left, boss?"

Oyster card

Imagine this: I stand on the corner of Old Compton St. and Frith St., right by Cafe Nero. Some guys come from my left, some others arrive from my right. They see each other and greet each other enthusiastically! Around five-six people are standing in front of me, hugging, cheering and shouting merrily, like if they haven't seen each other for years. And then that girl appears. She holds an oyster card and starts tapping one of those on the shoulder. "Sir! Sir! Your oyster card! You dropped your oyster card!" That guy doesn't hear her. He doesn't even feel it when she is touching his shoulder. He's in the middle of an euphoric encounter. "YEAH! YEAH!" - him and people around him shout happily, blind and deaf for the outside world. She doesn't give up. "Sir! You just dropped your oyster card! SIR!" Those guys carry on for a while, as if nothing else mattered, but finally that fellow realises somebody's patting him, he turns around, looks down at her and says: "I don't do Oyster cards!" And everybody starts to laugh. And she stares at him perplexed: "But... But..." And then her boyfriend just drags her away...

Long lost civilisations

Night wasn't that young any more. Incredible stories were peeping through fissures in reality. Ghosts of the past were walking side by side with the mortals and nothing at all was certain. Those two fellows appeared out of nowhere. One of them was a stocky chap. The other was very, very short. They didn't want a lift. At that time of a night strangers seem to be like brothers, so those two basically stopped for a bit of a friendly conversation. After a while somebody asked them where were they from. "Peru!" - explained the stocky one. Then sniggered, pointed out his very, very short friend with a finger and added jeeringly: "Inca!"

The Connaught Mayfair

It was raining. I looked for a shelter inside my trike. Suddenly I was approached by two, smartly dressed gents in their fifties. "Take us to Connaught Mayfair. We want to pass by Bentley salon." - They politely ordered. I started to pull down the rainshield. They said they didn't want it. "You'll get wet." I warned. "We'll get wet like you guys!" I smiled internally, thinking that to get wet together is a great example of solidarity... There was something unusual about them. They spoke English with a very thick Atlantic twang, however between themselves they used French. It was a very bizzare French though. Were they some exceptionally snobby morons or, maybe, they came from Quebec? We will never find out... They asked me to stop by the corner of Bruton St. and Berkley Sq. to take a look at those fat Bentleys inside the salon. They cheered and shouted like little boys. Both of them produced their mobile phones and started to take some pictures... After a while they got enough of that and sat back on my trike. "Let's go to the hotel." Then, very unfortunately indeed, I got cofused. I couldn't remind myself where that bloody hotel exactly was. I was going in circles for a while. They didn't mind much, clearly enjoying our little journey. Finally I stopped by Chesterfield hotel on Charles St. and asked at the reception. Those very kind people who work there gave me directions. My destination was near by. I got there quickly. Believe me - The Connaught Mayfair is a VERY high profile hotel. I felt quite guilty so I said quickly: "Gentlemen, my apologies. If I were a Japanese I would commit a ritual suicide." They laughed. One of them asked: "How much do we owe you?" "20 quid." "20 what?" He didn't get it. "20 pounds." "Nooooo! This is too much!" I was soaked, sweaty and felt pretty humiliated. I just wanted to get over it quickly. "Okay then! Pay me whatever you like..." They exchanged a few phrases in their grotesque French. Then counted some change, one of them passed it to me and they were gone. Some say rich people live too far from reality to be human but "it occurred to me that, like most of the very rich people I had known, he was trying to save money" to buy a new Bentley, I suppose.

Corridors of power

One hundred six years ago was born Lord Charles Percy Snow, Baron Snow of City Leicester, English writer, physicist and politician. His political fiction presents a fascinating vision of influential academics, scheming politicians and lobbying businessmen fighting tooth and nail, amongst somewhat dark and narrow corridors of power, to carry off the palm. On his birthday I wonder what the highly privileged protagonists of his novels would think about rickshaws on the streets of London. Would they notice them at all? What would they say to people who spend a fortune on "Ban! Don't license!" campaign?

For ten years we've been patiently trying to set clear and fair rules for the industry and to get licensed. In exchange we've got only a tedious waiting game, abusive publicity and repetitive repressions towards rickshaw business. Repressions will not change anything. Simple and just rules can do it once and forever. Here we are - hard working, serious people. We are part of this city. Be responsible and let us do our job responsibly. Everyone will benefit from that. All we need is to get licensed. As a result all the fuss and misunderstandings will basically disappear.

Strange animals

Another night, passing through the streets I spotted two drunk, young girls. Those were not of that disgustingly-vomiting-while-their-tits/arse cheeks-are-getting-exposed kind. They were just innocently frolicking and I don't mean by this any lesbian foreplay. One of them was actually resting on the pavement, clearly overcome by a transitory weakness. The other looked at her from above and suddenly joined her. There they were laughing out loudly, cuddling like kittens. Smiling I watched them, thinking: "What a strange animals we are!"

Stealing

So I'm going down Regent St. and there's that douche bag, with two girls, flagging me down. As I stop he says they want to go there and there but can only give me a tenner. I thank them politely and advise him to keep his tenner for later. Off I go. I keep going slowly down the road. By Piccadilly Circus a rickshaw passes me by. There they are, all three, and that smartass smiles at me triumphantly, nods towards that Bangladeshi rider who's carrying them and says: "You see - he went for a tenner!" "You are a tight cunt and he's just silly!" - I answer quickly. And then that Asian lad turns around, looks at me askew and asks: "Stealing?! What am I stealing?!?"

Next time make more money!

On Saturday night Diego, El Summer Boy a.k.a. El Chiko Verano, left the base late. He went up Charterhouse St., passed through Holborn Circus and followed Chancery Lane. A young black male stopped him soon after he passed Chancery Lane tube station. At first that guy seemed to be interested in getting a lift from Diego. All of the sudden, though, he produced a large kitchen knife and pointing it at Diego's belly asked: "How much money have you made tonight?" Now one should know that El Summer Boy, however a truly great chap he is, is not a very big and scary looking fellow. On contrary, he's rather small, skinny and a very peaceful lad too. I am sure, somehow, that it helped that thug in choosing his victim. Diego assured him that he just left the base and therefore had no cash on him. Nevertheless the attacker searched his pockets and stole his cheap mobile phone, a decent mp3 player and a fiver cash. He must had felt a bit disappointed for before he left he spoke those words: "Next time make more money!" Diego was quite badly shaken by that intense experience of getting mugged at knife point. We contacted the Police. Officers were very concerned, helpful and friendly. That criminal left some evidence behind. We truly hope that they will get him!

...

Night was dramatically shitty. There was absolutely nothing to be done about it. First I was going in circles to no effect at all. Then I stopped to chat with Monty for a while. Next I got a puncture. When I finally got a lift, two German lads produced £50 note by the end of it. I spent about half an hour desperately trying to change it. At least they were patient. Somehow I got another lift. Then nothing and nothing at all... Finally I decided to help a fellow rider to fix a flat tyre. It was on Cambridge Circus. Soon on my left a bunch of white chavs started to pick on some Bangladeshi riders. They tried to take away one of their rickshaws. We stopped them. Then they chose one of the smallest opponents and they were right about to beat him up. I managed to talk some sense into them only to realise that on my right some black guys were trying to pinch my trike... I rushed there. One of them was already sitting on it. Fortunately his friends were smarter than him. Together we convinced him to leave it and walk away. All that done we got back to my mate's puncture. The inner tube was too damaged. We didn't manage and he ended up walking his rickshaw back to quite a distant garage...

End of Ramadan

On Regent St. an Asian guy waved at me saying something. I got closer. "How is your business?" "Ups and downs." "I'm a rickshaw rider too." - he explained - "For me it was very quiet today." I looked at him and asked: "Aren't you a Muslim?" His answer was quick: "I am a Muslim!" "Then why have you been working?" -I asked - "It's the end of Ramadan today!" For a little while he seemed to be pretty perplexed, then he laughed: "I know boss, but I need money!" He looked at me: "Are you a Muslim?" "No I'm not. But I need money too." We laughed and I drove off.

He's black!

First day of Notting Hill Carnival, seen from perspective of a rickshaw rider, was nice and easy. In comparison with last year there were much fewer people around. Recent riots on streets of London might had been the cause. Monday was different. The whole area swarmed. One could see many more Police officers around. Standing on top of a hill I was waiting for potential customers to take them to a tube station near by. Crowd around me was peaceful and in majority very friendly. Every now and then groups of hustlers could be seen too. At some point a black couple, both in their forties, asked me for a lift. As they got on my trike a number of black youths approached me. Some of them started to shout: "Big man! Give us a lift!" They saw my customer then. "He's black!" - they cheered loudly and walked away...

Toy boy

Late at night Leicester Square area is full of interesting and exotic individuals. As the night grows elder every hustler starts to feel lonely. Time comes to look for some squeeze. Apparently no chat up line is too bad when a pair of tits is at stake. Wolf packs of hustlers persistently chase flocks of lasses. Winner of another night was definitely a teenage boy showing off his ripped abdomen to some girls walking on the other side of Coventry St. "Princess! Hey! Princes!" Girls didn't seem to be impressed. "Princess why don't you take me home?!" Girls were clearly all about going away. The young wooer though, wasn't about to give up. Pulling his shirt even higher shouted: "I could be you toy boy! Look! Look! I could be your toy boy!"

The mighty elbow

I have been a rickshaw rider for years. I remember that guy since the very beginning. I guess he must be a crackhead. Through all those years I've been seeing him practicing the same thing. He must have reached a perfection long time ago. He blocks those payphones inside the red phone booths around Soho, so people can't get their change back. Every now and then he checks his "snares" out. He walks around fidgetingly and always seems to be in a hurry. One by one he gets into phone booths and, cursing loudly, inexhaustibly bashes them up with his elbow until the trapped coins fall out. What a punch he must have after all those years...

Ying Yang

Some nights basically catch me by surprise. I can only watch and smile gently. It wasn't even a fullmoon...

I picked up a very drunk customer from Carnaby Street. First we haggled for a while. Then I lowered my price a bit and on we went. When we got to his hotel he paid me the price I initially named and said: "You know, my girlfriend is not very sensible. I really wish I could tell you more about it... She's MY girlfriend but she still thinks it's all right to dance with other guys. You know she plays those jealousy games. We broke up previously but then we came back together and now we decided to visit London. I just left. I didn't want to make a scene." I assured him that it was much better to go away rather than to do something really stupid, thanked a lot for a tip and pedalled off.

A bit later I saw a fellow rickshaw rider. "You know I tried really hard to avoid her. She wanted to chat with me on Facebook, a few times, but I kept disappearing until today. Guess what? She said she spent last two weeks in France to avoid English rainy weather... (not bad, huh?) ...and now she's off to Cuba and I told her! Finally I told her! I said... " - He was very excited. - "I said that to make enough money to come back to her I had to work in a car park! And in my country it's a very dangerous job! Some car thieves can just come and shoot you down on the spot... So I put my life to risk only to be treated like a dog! And I told her that now I don't expect anything from her anymore..."

Night went on. Streets got emptier. Stories got crazier. Suddenly some figure started to wave at me on Old Compton Street. "Man! Everybody is looking for you, man! Where have you been? Everybody is looking for you!" After a moment of puzzlement I recognised another fellow rider. He was clearly off that night and well boozed too. "Look!" He showed me a couple kissing passionately on a pavement near by. "I really hope she will give him some pleasure! I really hope so!" His expression saddened. "It's only me who always ends up alone... It's because I'm too polite with women. Women hate it! The more polite you get the more they laugh at you..." "Maybe I could get you anywhere?" "No thanks! I know exactly where I'm going, what I'm gonna drink and how long I'm gonna stay there..." We shook hands.

In a meantime one more fellow rider arrived. He smiled at me with satisfaction and said: "Something happened yesterday!" "Did you score or something?" "Man! It has been nearly a year! I could hardly remember what a pussy looked like..." "How did you meet her?" "It's a long story..." "Is she much elder than you?" "She is. Anyway it's just sex, you know..."

Follow the willy!

Women on hen nights are always a phenomenon worth seeing. No matter if it's gonna be a straight or a gay marriage the circumstances are the same corny. Cheesy and usually pink outfits accompanied by wide range of sex toys bring a peculiar vibe. A few days ago I saw some women in Soho celebrating a hen night. One of them had a large pink penis in her hand. Apparently it was a lash and any bypasser was welcome to whip her bottom up with it. There was much rejoicing. Hen nights originating from sexual revolution of the 60s and fully exercising gender equality surely could be fun. At least as long as its participants don't get too wasted...

Once, when in Granada, I saw a future bride riding a donkey (burro taxi) which actually might be a nice reminiscence of an ancient tradition.

Another night I met a large girly squad wondering through the streets of West End on a hen night mission. They seemed to be a little lost. There was a moment of confusion and then one of them rose her hand high, wielding one of those little-prick-ended sipping straws, to indicate direction and shouted: "Ladies, follow the willy!"

Prey

I was getting through Dennman St. on my way to Leicester Sq. One fellow asked me to take him there. He was talking on the phone as I was slowly getting over a set of speed bumps. It was about 4.30 am, full daylight. Dennman St. seemed to be completely empty. Suddenly on my left I spotted two guys of that dodgy lot (they usually hang around that pizza place by the end of Shaftesbury Ave, pretending they sell drugs). They stood closely to a young lad, clearly a foreigner. That youngster had a luggage with him. Probably just left that hostel on Sherwood St. on his way to an airport. As soon as I saw those two talking in low voices to the lad I realised they were actually trying to mug him. I stopped and ask: "Are you all right mate?" He looked at me and I saw sheer panic in his eyes. That instant those rats went like: "Of course he's all right! What's your problem!?" Fortunately that boy didn't lose his head completely and quickly moved on towards me. I told him to keep up and slowly pressed the pedals. Muggers were quite disappointed. We didn't go too far before something hit the edge of my trike's roof and fell on the floor. It was a broken in half bottle (probably the same one they were threatening their victim with seconds ago). I was lucky. They were aiming at my face. They walked away quickly.

Incredible Adventure(s) of Superman Alex

Superman Alex arrived to the base very excited. He left his rickshaw in the middle of the passage, came to the office and started his story: "I just had a lift to Fabric. Then that guy gets on my trike's saddle and he has hands full of some drug. He puts his hands to his face, clouds of white powder floating around him. He looks like Tony Montana. And then he just freezes there. I want to go, so I ask him to move over but he just ignores me... I try to lift him up gently but he's just completely rigid and he falls down... And he just stays there, his body all stiff. Ambulance arrives and then some other guy comes over to me and starts to shout..." "Who's this rickshaw?!?" - Suddenly we heard impatient voices. "Go and clear the passage Alex! You will finish the story later!" But he never came back, probably sharing the word in the depths of garage...

A persistent gay demon

One sunny afternoon I was in the corner of Long Acre St. and Drury Lane. People kept passing by indifferently. "Will you take me to Soho?" I looked up. There was a guy next to me. He was gay. And he was drunk. "I've seen those people giving you funny looks but I respect you!" He sat on my trike. "Look at me! I'm not as good as you, but trust me, I'm a demon!" I sighed. I needed a lift. I named a price and he showed me cash. On I went. "Stop! Stop!" He shouted as soon as we got to that pub in the corner of Neal St. and Shelton St. "Tell me what would you like?" He asked. I gave him a questioning look. He carried on: "A pair of jeans? Any other clothes from those shops around? I can get you anything!" "That's very kind of you, however, I basically want to get you to Soho and to charge you for the lift..." He paid me the fare right away and that time I managed to reach Wardour St. before he stopped me again. "I just came from Spain. I've got three businesses there. I'm half Spanish." He announced in his very thick London accent. "Are you half Spanish? Do you speak the language?" "Sure!" "Pues habla conmigo!" The gay demon got quite confused and decided it was about time to change the subject. "Listen!" He went on. "I worked very hard lately, just want to relax. Could you take me to any good brothel?" "Definitely! Let's go!" I moved on but very soon he wanted to stop again, that time in front of GAY Cafe. "So how much money do you want?" I looked at him in puzzlement. "You already paid me. If you want to go to that brothel I'll charge you that much when we get there." "I think I'll stay here. Come for a drink with me." "I can't drink now. I'm driving" "Come for a cake and a coffee " "Thanks but I'd rather be working now." "I see. Take my phone number." I did, just to get rid of him. "Now give me a missed call." "I'm Pay As You Go and out of credit" "Call me tomorrow then! I'm having a big party. You could earn a couple of hundred pounds!" "What a nons!" I thought and deleted his number as soon as I got around the corner.

"Some people wear suits...

...cause they think they look important." A guy in his early forties looked at me with drunk seriousness, a hat, rather nineties-boys-band-style, put backwards on his head. "I'm much more important then any of them... You know, I've got a gun here, in my rucksack..." He moved like if he wanted to show it to me. We were standing in front of a five stars massage parlour. "I believe you!" I said quickly. "You don't believe me a shit! You don't know who I am! Even if somebody calls Police I'll be fine!" There was a very fat car parked next to us (clearly some customers from Dubai or Saudi Arabia). "Ask that guy how much did he pay for this car... I will buy it from him right now!" He was swaying gently. "Are you all right?" - I asked. "K'mon!" - I added - "Take a seat. I will get you somewhere else." "Ok! Let's go to eat something! I invite you!" There was nothing open, except for a McDonald's. He didn't seem to like it much. "Is there any Arabic food around here?" "It's half four already, you see? Everything is shut by now..." We got in. "It's the second time in my life that I eat at McDonald's... I like real food, you know! You don't know who I am... I doesn't matter though, cause practically I'm the same like you..." I asked him what was his job. He smiled and said: "Just being a crazy drunk and hanging around, in the night like now..." We ate quickly, standing, and went out. "You've got to visit me, we need to meet again!" We shook hands. He got in a black cab and drove off. Charlie Chaplin smiled.

You ugly cunt!

After some time spent in Soho you realise that nothing really changes there. Same touts, same crack whores, clippers and junkies. Same nasty transvestite and transsexual prostitutes. There's one guy who puts a heavy make up on his face and stuffs his cloths with something that forms ludicrously exaggerated hips and breasts. He possibly goes by the name "Tanya". Another night I held my mobile in front of me writing a text. "Stop filming me!" - Shouted somebody. I didn't pay attention. Suddenly I saw that crossdresser right by my side. "Stop filming me, you ugly cunt!" Very surprised I told him quickly where to go. "Stop filming me or my purse will land on your head" - He lifted it up menacingly. "Fuck off! I'm sending a text!" Finally he got it. Nevertheless he started to frisk around giggling foolishly and exclaiming in high pitched voice: "STOP FILMING MEEEE!!! STOP FILMING MEEEE!" I sent my message and answered a phone call. As I was talking he kept approaching me quickly, shouting in my ear: "STOP FILMING ME!", and laughing like if it was a great prank...

Why don't you stay with me?

Night was quiet. In vain I kept going on and on in circles. Finally I stopped in empty Barclays bikes stand in front of O Bar. A Scandie guy came to me asking for a lift to Strand. My first mistake was that I didn't realise how pissed that fellow got. My second mistake was not to understand quickly and clearly that "London's best kept secret hotel" Strand Continental is not exactly in the same league as Savoy or even Strand Palace... Naively on I went while my customer was producing soft suckling-like sounds, a bit like if he was trying to sing or to learn how to speak again. Probably that was the case and I got it pretty straight as soon as I stopped not far from Waterloo Bridge, asking if he knew where we were. Readily he fell off my trike, repeating quietly "one four three... one four three...". Impressed by that profound numerological analysis I got him directly to the door of his hotel (nr 143), where we found an imposing pool of urine. Unlike Moses he didn't wait for a strong dividing wind and just stepped in the middle of that sea of piss. The worst of all though, was that he had no money on him. Nolens volens I followed him to his room but he had no cash there either. He was acting like a little lost child. I don't really think he was pretending. He was basically a living dead at that instant... I took his mobile and made a missed call to my number. Suddenly he stepped forward, rested his head on my shoulder and uttered: "Why don't you stay here with me? We could sleep together..." My enthusiasm wasn't there. Next day I kept calling him. He never answered. Finally he texted me complaining about a huge hangover... Once I told him what happened he quickly lost any interest... Ungrateful cunt!

Jacuzzi Jet

On that night somebody got killed on Regent St. Judging by the number of tents set up on pavement and partly on the road (I guess over the dead bodies) even two people... My problem, though, was of a different nature. I got a puncture that I just wasn't able to fix. It took me two hours in pouring rain before I was able to drive away. I went around hunting for a lift and just couldn't get anything at all. As usual I didn't want to give up. I carried on and on in circles. On Oxford St., just by Oxford Circus I saw F. talking to someone. I waved at him and went on. As I approached those spooky tents, being guarded by three or four police officers on Regent St, something very strange happened. I heard a loud explosion. It sounded like a shot. Alarmed cops looked out from between the tents. I felt my trike slowing down. I got no doubt. My wheel just burst... Boys in blue realised what happened, sneered and disappeared. I squatted by my trike to examine the damage. It was serious. Not just the inner tube exploded, the tire was torn out too... God knows why... There was nothing I could do. To push it back, walking, all the way back to base, was the only option. Then F. suddenly appeared, just like a guarding angel! He saw me and stopped by. "I felt something happened to you!" He looked around. "Somebody got killed, eh?" We set my trike's front wheel over the back of his rickshaw. He sat down on the passenger's seat and I started to tow my poor, punctured baby. Policemen watched us curiously as we entered Great Marlborough St. "You know, I visited that sauna again." - Started F. seated comfortably. It was a way better than walking but still quite hard. "First that woman was wanking me in jacuzzi..." His saddle was much too low for me. "...and then I asked her: Do you want to go to a private room?" Also his rickshaw wasn't the smoothest going machine I had ever tried. "And she says: I'm ready to do this right here, right now!" No doubt, I could gain some momentum by lifting up the saddle. Unfortunately... "So, as I was fucking her..." ...it seemed to be fixed permanently. "...a jet was massaging my balls. It was NICE!"

Banksy

He approached us suddenly, right in front of that cafe on the corner of Old Compton St. and Frith St. I was tired and rather upset. In my pocket left nothing but two coins: one pound and one pence. So he came right at us and he went: "Five pence guys! Please, spare me five pence!" I noticed his worn out face. Those crackheads always look elder then their actual age. A sleeping bag hanging over his shoulder screamed about homelessness. What could I do, though? One pence was not enough. One pound was too much... Dryly I offered him a lift, meaning that I'm only a poor street hustler too. He looked at my mate beseechingly and uttered: "I'm Banksy!" "What?" - My companion looked at him in puzzlement. "I'm Banksy!" "Yeah! Right!" - Said I - "I'm Banksy too!" That said I turned my back on him.

Eighty percent of celery

After work we sat down in our base. "You know?" - F. was in a talkative mood, as usual - "When I was fifteen I studied for two years to become a builder..." "What?!" - somebody broke in jeeringly - "You studied to become a builder?! I used to be a builder without any studies at all!" "You are Polish!" - protested A. - "Everybody knows that Poles are born builders!" All present nodded their heads in assent. "I studied for two years!" - F. carried on with his storey - "Meanwhile I was paid monthly eighty percent of a regular builder's salary!" "What?!" - somebody either didn't hear him well or basically didn't get it. "He was paid eighty percent of celery." - explained A. "Yeah!" - added somebody else - "Plus twenty percent of tomatoes!" "Yes!" - said F. solemnly - "They kept paying me that money for two years. College was quite distant from my home though, so I had to take a bus and that bus was quite expensive! However" - F. looked at us cunningly as a shithouse rat - "there was another bus for free, going through my city picking up mentally handicapped. So every morning I had been waiting on a bus stop till that free bus arrived and then I was boarding like that!" Pulling faces he advanced twisting his knees and feet towards each other. As we were close to roll on the floor laughing he smiled broadly and added: "I used to talk to driver every time and he liked me. He kept giving me some food and soft drinks. And you know what?" He lowered his voice dramatically. "Once a month prostitutes from Marseille used to come to have sex with us! For free! Government paid for that! You know, it was in France!" - He explained and looked around proudly. "Oh yes! I got many blow jobs from them and sex too!" - He added yearningly.

Good bum loving

That British born Asian lad appeared out of nowhere. There were two of us, me and Alex, just standing on Old Compton St. That boy was soooo high, you could tell by his eyes. He wanted to go to Victoria, then to Leicester Sq, then pretty much anywhere... The problem was that he wasn't really into paying any more than three pounds... He didn't want to fuck off either. So he was there talking bullshit, his eyes even more loquacious than himself... He looked possessed. "I'm scared of you!" I told him. "You are a demon!" "What?! Me a demon!? Look at your earrings! 666!" He started a sophisticated solo on his air guitar. "Sweet Jesus!" - Was my answer. "Fuck Jesus" - He exclaimed. "I'm not gay!" "What!? I'll give a good bum loving!" - He assured me moving his hips back and forth energetically. "Where are you from?" - He asked all of the sudden. - "Are you Hungarian?" He started to utter some basic, bullshit words in Magyar, visibly proud of himself. Alex tried to talk some sense into guy, to no effect though. Lad looked at him at asked: "Where are you from?" "He's a Hungarian too." - I answered quickly. He started to repeat same bullshit as before... Some people wanted directions, asked for a price of a lift. We named it. He pried abruptly: "No! NO!!! It's three pounds! Don't pay any more than three pounds!!!" It was too much. I pedalled off...

Make money

By the end of Saturday night two youngsters stopped me on Oxford St. "Boss! Take us to our car! It's parked two blocks away. K'mon! Good price boss!" First of all I made sure where I was supposed to go. It really seemed close. "Ok guys! Give me a fiver and I'll take you." One of them had some change in his hand but the other passed me quickly a lovely, brand new 20£ note. Smoothly done. One of them got on my trike already... The note look impressively true. However when I touched it I didn't even need to look for a water mark. "I don't want it guys." The seated got off quickly. "What?! Why?!" "It looks too new... Too good... And the paper when you touch it..." "What?! Too new?! To good?!" The "bad" one looked at me with a scowl. "Ok. Leave him!" - said the "good" one. "You don't want to make money, maaan!" - exclaimed the "bad" one. I always admired a doubtless acting skill those people possess. They could, honestly, use it better than that...

Never mind the money!

Late at night I was getting through Brewer St. There was a smartly dressed gent in the corner with Upper John St. He flagged me down. Even though his clothes looked decent his face was livid and swollen. He was clearly well soaked. He held a mysterious wooden box. "Hey! Can I sleep in your rickshaw for five minutes?" "Excuse me?" "I need to wait until that shop there is open." It was about 4am. "So would you let me sleep in your rickshaw, for a while?" "A brilliant idea!" - thought I. Now, it was a pure conjecture of mine, but I thought he might be a compulsive gambler waiting for some antique shop to open, so he could sell everything except the kitchen sink of his own or even somebody else's. Anyway my rickshaw had never been a hotel and I felt good about it. "Look! Let me take you to Balans Cafe on Old Compton St. They are open 24h. It would take us two minutes!" "Ok! How much?" "Just a fiver!" "What?! You said it was only two minutes away! A fiver to go there and bring me back here!" "I'm sorry but I'm not gonna wait for you there... I'm just trying to help..." "Oh! It's all right! I will survive!" He seemed offended. "Well, your life is not in a danger."- I agreed - "Have a good night!" "Never mind the money, mate!" He shouted after me reproachfully. Surely he didn't...

Urinal

Once I stopped in Cambridge Circus to use that urinal there. (Btw it's a great touchstone! One can tell newcomers from London dwellers straight away, while peeing... First ones giggle and try to take a picture of you. Others just pass by or join in...) So I left my rickshaw behind and approached the "touchstone". Much relieved I let my mind to drift away for a sec. All of the sudden, out of the tail of my eye, I spotted a rickshaw passing by. There was a customer sitting on it and a driver... "Hey, wait a minute!" - I said under my breath - "No way that guy is a rickshaw rider!" I took a closer look. The trike already moved on from Cambridge Circus and actually was crossing Charring Cross Rd., heading for pavement leading down Shaftesbury Ave. It was nearly on that paving when I realised everything. It was my rickshaw!!! Those bastards were basically taking her away! I dashed in pursuit of my lovely baby! They moved on through Shaftesbury Ave's pavement. I got them quickly. They were drunk, friendly and very proud of their prank. We shook hands and I offered them a lift.

Underestimated

In Old Compton Street, right in front of Balans Cafe, someone was exercising his tenor. I was impressed, for he was doing pretty well. A group of minicab drivers, gathered on a corner nearby, didn't share my views though.
"Shut up!"- shouted one of them and they laughed loutishly and loudly. You could tell that they really felt self confident and important, standing like that, on that corner, together.

Healing prayers

Late at night one can see an Asian woman around Old Compton St. Is she a spooky K-Horror female ghost or a Yūrei? Maybe! However she seems quite alive and rather interested in money. She holds a notepad and a sheet attached to it says "Healing prayers". "I'm a Christian." - She explains. - "I used to be an alcoholic but God helped me and now I want to help other people. As anybody else I expect a reward for doing my job." She has a strong accent but nevertheless her English is quite good. Thus for just a little consideration we can get blessed and our burden can get alleviated. Alternatively one can set oneself free by offering her some healing chocolate coated raisins. After an instant of indecision she will probably partake them with a smile. No healing prayer will be bestowed upon thou, though.

SCOOBY DOO!!!

My customers - three Englishmen in their late forties, fancied some Subway sandwiches. Two of them went to buy food, while the third one was waiting outside. Suddenly appeared a bunch of young people shouting something unintelligible. One of them approached that customer of mine. "I'm frrrom Basque Countrrry! Do you know Basque Countrrrry?" The asked moved his head in denial. "Basque Countrrry!" Young man didn't give up. "Euskadi! Do you know? Pais Vasco!!! It'a a countrrry between Spain and Frrrance!" Englishman watched him in puzzlement. Finally answered him with question: "Do you know Scooby Doo?" "What?" Now the youngster was surprised.
"K'mon! You must know Scooby Doo! That big dog from a cartoon..." After a while both young Basques and Englishman were shouting loudly and enthusiastically together: "SCOOBY DOO!!! SCOOBY DOO!!!"

Occupied

A fat car stopped in red light next to my trike. A cute black girl asked me: "Where you from?" "Where YOU from?" - was my answer. Two black guys sitting in car with her found it, for some reason, very funny. She seemed a bit confused but answered: "I'm from Eritrea. What about you?"
"I'm from Zimbabwe." Guys inside the car burst again in a boisterous laughter. "You are lying! You are from Algeria!" - said she. I laughed. "You smart cookie! How did you know?!? You are not just beautiful, you are smart too!" She was watching me closely. "Your boyfriend must be a happy man!" - I added. "I haven't got a boyfriend..." "She will be occupied with a man soon!" - driver exclaimed quickly. She poked a face. Lights went green. I wished her good night...

Three crazy Froggies.

I started late and that time I coudn't get anything at all. Finally on Coventry St., right in a corner by Prince of Wales Theatre, where they show Mamma Mia, I spotted three lads in their mid twenties. They were pissed, frisky and French. Fortunately one of them spoke quite good English. Soon I had to take one of them mischievous creatures off my trike and put him on the floor as he was about to drive away by himself. There was a lot of laugh but we couldn't agree a price. They wanted a very cheap lift. I refused, they went towards Piccadilly Circus. Passing through China Town I started to reproach myself. "What kind of a salesman are you?!?" I asked myself and decided to give it another try. I went around quickly and entered Coventry St. again. I found them sitting on a fellow rider's trike. He looked very unhappy and clearly didn't know what to do. Apparently he didn't want to take them anywhere and they didn't want to get off... They saw me and came running. This time we found a compromise and set sail. Unfortunately two of them were all about fingering my arse. I had to stop twice to put an end to it. Next they focused on pulling my poor, old and worn out canopy up and down... They kept shouting some bullshit in French and did their best to rock my rickshaw like if it was a boat. Neither my rickshaw was a boat though, nor I was Bob Marley. Soon one of them jumped off and started to push the trike from behind. He was so energetic that I could hardly stop in red light by Shaftesbury Ave. Immediately he pulled out his willy and started to pee on the street right behind my rickshaw. Three plain clothes policemen got him then. I wonder how did they manage to tell him off, for he wasn't a linguist. His two mates, somewhat uneasy, passed me a couple of quid. We have never seen each other again since then.

Take care darling!

A gay boy and a lesbian couple asked me for a lift to Heaven the club. I stopped by Charring Cross station to let them out. While I was getting paid the "female" lesbian was all sweet to me. She kept chatting and chatting and smiling at me. She enjoyed the lift sooooo much and I was soooooo strong and she wished she could help me somehow to pedal and this and that and God knows what else. Her large and rather slow butch companion finally paid and as they were going away the sweet one smiled widely and uttered loudly: "Take care darling!!!!" Butch one seeing that gave her a dirty look and repeated snidely: "TAKE CARE DAAAAARLING!!!!"

Do you know who my father is?

I was working hard that night. Started early and carried on like a horse. I came out to make money and I wasn't picky. Everything has it's limits though. Those three lads stopped me on Charring + Rd. Some people flag you down only because they are bored and want to take a piss at someone. "How much to Kings + ? ...What?! You charge more than a black cab!" No matter I've got no engine - right? "Well, you don't have to hire me... Take a black cab!" "Listen, listen!" - one of them gave me a dramatic look - "Have you got all the papers to do this job? Are you legal?" I looked at his funny cut eyebrows and goldie looking round signet rings and laughed loudly. Oh! He didn't quite like it, did he? He looked at me askew and asked: "Do you know who my father is?" Now I have to point out that I had been already working for quite a few hours that night. I wasn't exactly into being questioned by some dickhead. On top of that his silly question opened a torrent of sparkling ideas due to what his father would be. And as I was about to suggest that, to start with, they probably hadn't ever met each other, I reminded myself that I was there to make money and not otherwise. I looked at him with an ostensible concern. "I bet he's someone important!" He smiled. "You know what?"- I added - "Bless your father! Let me make some money! Have a good night!" Beaming he wished me luck.