They sit in bars according to Jake Burns. Well they used to, but they’ve been priced out of the market round here and have taken to the streets en-mass, cans of strong lager in hand weaving against the flow of shoppers. The Weatherspoons doesn’t want them any more, the Hercules has upped its prices and the spin the wheel happy hour game has long since stopped attracting the bargain booze hunters.
This place is a bowl of shit soup, spiced with wastrels selling fake cigarettes, just out of jail and no-where better to go wanderers, junkies, bent cabbies who’ll commit GBH or rape as soon as ferry you home, struggling honest workers stuck in the rent trap and the new breed of inmates who live in the gated communes – “it’s so vibrant, real and urbane”.
A big London welcome awaits you on the final mange ridden leg of the A1.
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