"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...