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Smoke
By Clive Davies-Frayne
© Filmutopia Ltd. UK
The last but one train of the evening has rattled down the north bound
tunnel, taking a handful of drunken Londoners to Epping and all points in
between. The sound of the train has all but gone, but the tidal wave of air it
created, still dances through the ancient, tile covered walkways… where,
eventually, it finds, picks up and cavorts with a discarded crisp packet. A crisp
packet who skitters down tunnels and round corners; tumbles past the feet of the
station’s late night buskers; and, who after a brief but heady ascent up the
escalator, lands on the toe of Nathan’s highly polished Transport Policeman
boots.
Transport PC Nathan Hunt bends at the knees, not from the back, to scoop
up the wayward crisp packet. “Fourteen,” he thinks “Just one more today.”
The best part of the job, this is. Just one southbound train to go. One final
tour of the station. Just a stroll to wish the buskers a good night and send them on
their way… time to point lurking vagrants towards the Hackney Winter Night
shelter and most importantly of all, to pick up fifteen pieces of litter. In the last
nine months his blood pressure has come down to almost normal levels, without
medication… and all he’s had to do is give up bacon and the Daily Mail,
replacing their artery choking sludge, with walking and picking up fifteen pieces
of litter a day. Be part of the solution. That’s the way forward. You can make a
difference.
Clive Davies-Frayne - Smoke - clive.frayne@filmutopia.co.uk

Between Nathan’s forefinger and thumb, the crisp packet retraces its epic
journey, back down the escalator and finally finds a home in the station’s only
wall mounted litter bin. A little bit of order has been restored, an act of chaos
undone, the tube is a little bit nicer than it was a minute ago. Or is it?
Being a British Transport Police Constable on London’s Underground
network prepares you for most of what life can throw at you. Nathan has dealt
with suicides and junkies; he’s arrested daytime muggers and late night, lady-
boy-copulators… but none of this has prepared him for the psychological
weirdness of finding a perfect, full sized, black and white portrait of himself,
smoking a cigarette, with his old chap in his hand, pasted for all to see, on the
wall behind the bin.
“I don’t smoke!” he thinks
“Does my moustache really look that much like Hitler’s?”
“Why would anyone draw me with my dick in my hand?”
“And, surely, that’s the wrong hand!”
It’s not just in the wrong hand, the drawing of the cock, pasted onto the
wall is enourmous… not like the ones he used to draw on biology text books in
his school days, this one just goes on and on and on, all along the wall and
round the corner.

Like a polyester clad Sherlock Holmes, Nathan follows his graffiti phallus
round the corner… bloody hell! The damn thing goes the entire length of the
next tunnel as well!
The flat cap in front of the Buskers is respectably full of coins. The Ukelele
combo are popular with the commuters… ironic enough for London’s jaded
media whores and cutesy enough for the occasional tourist. That’s why the
buskers like the tunnel between the platforms… tourists have to take this tunnel
to get back into proper London, when they realise that they’ve accidently gone
one stop too far. Sure, they’d make more money at other stations, but this is
closer to home and the acoustics in the older, un-modernised stations are better.
The last song of the night. This is their favorite. They’ll wait for the distant
rumble of the last tube and then break into “Down in a Tube Station at
Midnight” by The Jam. On a good night, some straggler, rushing to catch the last
train, will get the deliberate aural joke. Someone will leap on that last
southbound train with a big grin on their face. On a great night, some fifty year
old, will get off the last train and fueled by a mixture of sentimentality and
alcohol, will break out a fiver. Then PC Transport Plod will come, politely
remind them it’s time to go and ask them shyly, if they know any Coldplay.
They don’t.

The last train approaches. They let the rattle and rush of it build… and then
kick into the intro of the song, just as Nathan Hunt pokes a bemused head
around the corner.
Nathan has heard the buskers perform “Down in a Tube Station at
Midnight” any number of times. Personally, he doesn’t care for it… after all, it’s
his job to make sure that anyone with a take away curry, gets it safely home to
his wife and absolutely does not get duffed up by right wing, ex-convicts. That
whole song, implies he’s not doing his job properly, doesn’t it? He’s mentioned a
few times that “Yellow” by Coldplay might be a better alternative, but it’s fallen
on deaf ears.
Tonight, however, Nathan isn’t worried about the musical slur on his
professional integrity. No, he is both baffled and increasingly alarmed by this
seemingly endless graffiti cock. A cock he’s now followed all the way through
the station’s tunnels to the buskers, where it breaks its uninterrupted journey
along the wall, to instead make a crime scene style detour around both the feet
and the cloth cap of the buskers… and then back onwards and wallwards to the
platform.
The last tube of the night pulls in. The tired, the drunk and the disillusioned
spew out onto the platform and clatter towards the exit.

Behind the late night travelers, at the far end of the platform, Font sticks his
half smoked Marlboro between his lips and frees up both hands, to dig ring
encrusted fingers through the battered, paint spattered rucksack. He fishes out
the last of many pieces of paper. Unrolled, it reveals the graffiti cock’s final
piece… a bell end with a clown’s face painted on it. Font, coats the back of it
with Spray Mount… holds it to the wall, turns to face the other chain smoking,
urban bandito, Paul.
“Get a shot of the Humphrey going on, then we’ll get some chips”
Paul flicks his cigarette butt onto the empty tube tracks and lifts his
camera. He is a man whose life could be measured by the number and the styles
of Parkas he’s worn. This one is paint stained and twenty-first century retro. It’s
not the Parka Phil Daniels vespa’d to down to Brighton, it’s the kind Liam
Gallagher would have had designed for him, after watching Quadrophenia…
only cheaper. It’s designer, movie inspired clobber, as worn by rock stars… and
then knocked off by Chinese slave labour, sold by some geezer at Camden
Lock, worn by a middle aged Hackney pirate, who has occasionally passed out
in it, after over strenuous drinking in dubious company.
The dubious company, paper bell-end in hand, spots PC Nathan at the
platform entrance. Unfazed he casually bellows down the platform.
“Nearly done, fella… Just got to paste Ripley’s revenge on the end and then
we’re done”

Font slaps the Humphrey onto the wall… poses… flash… picture done.
PC Nathan is confused. His highly trained policeman senses tell him
something very wrong is happening… but what? These blokes aren’t acting like
wrong-uns. No running, or screaming or shouting of “It’s the pigs, scarper!”
Maybe it’s another one of the Lord Mayor’s art on the Underground schemes…
but something about these two just isn’t right.
Paul slams his camera into his shoulder bag. “How many?”
Font slowly bags up his gear. “One fat bluey… but, he’s between us and the
exit”
Paul sneaks a glance.
“Fuck, have you seen who it is. It’s the guy! The copper… it is big cock
police guy!“
Font grins at him… “Awesome-o”
And then the penny drops. Nathan Hunt knows exactly what’s wrong.
“Oi… you two. You can’t smoke down here!”
Much has been written about the effect of drugs and alcohol on crime. Less
on the bio-chemistry of evading arrest. The booze driven alchemy of not getting
nicked.

According to Font, somewhere between being wankered and totally munted, lies
the holy grail of the urban desperado… a nirvana of booze and adrenaline he
refers to as “The Shoreditch Slammer.” That state of grace which lets you to do
shit sober people won’t, can’t and shouldn’t when confronted with Police
Officers, baliffs, ex-girlfriends and low rent security guards.
Nathan Hunt senses the shift… these are bad lads who care nothing for the
rules, he is alone and out numbered. He reaches for his radio and calls it in.
“This is Foxtrot Oscar Charlie, request back-up in platform zero-niner…
Southbound”
Paul is at least two drinks shy of grace, and so, adrenaline rich, he has the
fear… but Font was a boy scout or a brownie or something disturbingly para-
military in his youth; he was and is prepared. So, even as the last faint
reverberation of PC Nathan’s rebuke echos down the tunnel, he slaps an open
bottle of peach snaps into Paul’s hand. Two Popeye style gulps later, Paul is
ticking nicely.
“What’s the plan?”
Font laughs, he loves this shit, kisses the scorpion tattoo on the back of his
right hand and hurtles, screaming towards the fat copper, the exit and all points
out of here. Paul, who only goes along with this shit, tosses the snaps bottle up
and onto the tracks where it shatters… then he runs… another night in Hackney
and one more charge of the Shite Brigade.

The smash of the bottle; the banshee screams of the maniacs; the loneliness
of the midnight transport policeman… Nathan Hunt throws his jumper clad arms
over his face, as the baying miscreants tear past him. Ironically, his life doesn’t
flash before his eyes, instead he remembers he’s not had a chance to see the last
episode of Battle Stargalactica or really known what true love means.
And then they are gone… a scuffle of Converse down ancient concrete
tunnels… so, shaken and slightly stirred, he lifts the handset again.
“Two vandals headed for the South exit. May be dangerous. Please detain
and inform local Police of the arrest, over.”
It’s a cold autumnal night in the East End of London. Three burley British
Transport Policemen have mobilised… well, they are standing in a line across
the station exit, watching their breath turn into visible vapor. Tonight, finally,
they are going to nick some vandals, probably a couple of teenage hoodies.
Testosterone, banter and confidence are running high.
From the bowels of the station a barely human roar reverberates towards
them and three police sphincters experience involuntary twitches. The lads in
blue exchange glances and hunker down for the inevitable ruck.
And then, nothing. Silence. It is as if all of the East End, is holding its
collective breath.

Nathan Hunt trots through the tunnels he knows so well, he reads the
silence as evidence of collars successfully made and relishes the ride up the
escalator to witness the glorious arrest. In anticipation of paperwork to come he
pats his breast pocket, to ensure he is fully armed with an appropriate pen.
At the entrance, the lads in blue hold the line and visually scan the ticket
hall for lurking rapscallions.
“Did you get them” hollers PC Nathan Hunt, as he trundles towards the
entrance.
Obviously not. A line of shrugs and bewildered faces tells the whole story.
Somewhere in his precious station, the maniacs are still at large.
And then they are not… in an almost silent, but frenzied burst of
recklessness, the perps hammer through the ticket hall and slam through the now
loose affiliation of coppers, a couple of whom topple like pensioners.
Paul and Font sprint for the alleyway opposite and leg it into the night…
and as he helps dazed transport bobbies to their feet, Nathan Hunt hears distant
laughter, receding urban footfalls and a bellowed…
“Laters, toss weasels!”
BTPC Nathan Hunt spots a lone carrier bag wrapped around the station
railings.
“Fifteen” he thinks, “That’s me done for the day.”

#
Their ongoing “stopping for chips whilst being chased by the law” debate,
has raged off and on for about two years now. It is well complex. Paul’s tried
and tested theory is that when you’re running, you keep on running. Font’s
counter argument is that a bold urban ninja can confuse those chasing him, by
joining the queue in a chip shop, which means you have escaped and you also
have chips. Paul is prepared to accept the concept in theory, and he is awfully
fond of the post-caper chip supper, but on balance, he isn’t yet willing to
commit his liberty to the testing phase. He strongly suspects that upon arrest, the
Police will take the chips… and possibly eat them themselves! Which means
sleeping in a cell and no chips.
And so, it is only after a minor and good natured scuffle outside a late night
chip n’ kebab emporium, that they finally escape North from Bethnal Green, to
the cul-de-sac.
In the late 1970’s this row of Victorian terraces, was so completely
abandoned, no one really gave a rats chuff when a motley diaspora of punk
rockers, aging stoners and nihilists took them over and randomly transformed
them into dwellings.

Now, it is a place where it’s literally impossible to lob a semi-noshed kebab
without spattering an enraged vegan/freegan or someone who is organising a
festival. There are more jugglers here than probation officers. The probation
officers all live the other side of Vicky Park.
It is into this cul-de-sac that pork pie hat fetishist, gangsta of the paint and
professional skip diver, Font, wheezes, closely followed by Paul.
Paul glances back down the alleyway… he can see nothing, except a
prowling moggy, purple spots and wind tossed Monster Munch packets. They’re
home and dry… ish. Something achieved in no small part, due to the incredible
J-Cloth like abilities of the parka, it seems to absorb sweat ad infinitum.
“Fag?”
Outside the front door of “Chez Font and Paul” Font has thrown himself
onto the garden sofa. You can tell it’s a sofa, because it has the word “SOFA”
stenciled on it… in 2400 pt Helvetica. To avoid confusion, behind it is stenciled
the word “Wall.”
Paul plucks a ciggie from the proffered packet… fishes out his battered
Zippo. Fags get lit. Wheezing inhalations occur.
One midnight al fresco smoke later, Paul drags himself to his feet and
wrangles open the front door.
“Sorry about the chips”

Font shrugs it off, rises from the sofa, but is struck in mid-elevation by a
heinous thought.
“For the love of Steve Jobs!”
“What?”
“I forgot to sign it!”
Before he can reach for it, Paul snatches up Font’s bag and clutches to his
chest.
“Oh no… I don’t think so, fella. It’ll be all locked up now and I’ve no taste
for being arrested tonight.”
Which, of course, is when the Panda car pulls up, slap bang in front of the
house.
“I told you we should have stopped for chips.”
Font throws himself back into the sofa. Paul hastily closes the door. If
they’re going to get nicked for vandalism, no need to add growing weed and
possession of other heinous shit, to the list.
“Mr. McAlister? Mr. Paul McAlister?”
“Yes, that’s me”
As fast as whippets, Paul and Font both light fags. Past experience tells
them it is vital in these moments prior to arrest, to get as much nicotine into
your system, as humanly possible.

“I’m afraid I’ve some bad news. May I come in?”
“I’d rather you didn’t… the place is a mess.”
“OK. … I’m afraid it’s about your Uncle. I’m sorry to inform you, he was
discovered dead in this flat about two hours ago. Is there any chance you could
come with us to identify the body?”
And there it is… life. You think it’s one thing and then something totally
random reduces the rules and the game of it to nothing. The Copper stands there
like a regular bloke, being all concerned and supportive, Font is up, a steadying
hand onto Paul’s back. A brain that is working and not working all at the same
time. And, after what seems an eternity, Font speaks.
“Sorry mate. Want me to come with?”
“Nah”… “I’m alright”
Font pulls Paul into one of those “in times of emergency” man-hugs, the
kind that get saved for deaths, messy break-ups and 9/11s.
“Yeah, of course you are matey-boy.” Font doesn’t let go. “Just give us a
minute, mate”
The Police Sergeant nods and wanders back down the path to the Panda…
and then it’s just Police Cars, mugs of tea, mortuaries and dawn taxis rides back
to the last old school anarchist stronghold in London, where there will be better
tea, sleep and a new day.

#
His uncle’s funeral policy includes the non-negotiable or refundable cost of
a limo, to take grieving family members, to the fully paid for, but minimum cost
funeral. Paul’s uncle must have assumed when he bought this policy, there
would be more of them left alive, or maybe he just didn’t read the fine print…
which is more than likely. Had he know just how decimated the family would
be by now, he could have hired a unicycle or just left a twenty under the mantle
clock, to cover a cost of a mini-cab.
The last time Paul rode in the back of a limo, was the last time he’d been
hired by that scrawny, coked out Sloan ranger who briefly owned “Smeg,”
London’s 3rd hippest urban culture magazine. He’d been sent to cover a Serbian
Urban Art Festival and had somehow ended up on the VIP list. Being a VIP
meant being whisked across the Hungarian/Serb border like a Russian general, in
a huge black limo, with tinted windows. His limo that time, was driven by the
heavily moustached, Goran; a guy who’d offered to sell him a nearly new AK47.
That limo hadn’t been like this Bentley, though, and there seemed very little
chance of accidental illegal arms shenanigans, on this trip. Although you never
could tell in Golders Green.

Paul wonders whether the next time he rides in a Bentley, it’ll be
horizontally, just like his uncle is riding now, just ahead of them, as they make
slow, commuter infuriating progress, up Hoop Lane, towards the Crematorium.
Font had offered to come along and fly the flag, but actually, Paul decided
he wanted to be alone for this. Alone feels like the right way to see off the last
but one McAlister… which, he’s come to realise, in this week’s hell of
infuriating bureaucratic phone calls, charity shop suit shopping and binge
drinking, now makes him the last living McAlister, what ever the hell that
means. He’s still not sure. He’s not sure what any of this means… except
perhaps that a man he’d loved as a child, but not really spoken to as an adult, is
now dead.
The back of the Bentley is comfy mind you and God bless them, is one of
the few cars where a huge ashtray comes as standard. Paul fishes through
pockets of his parka and the foreign recesses of this charity shop suit, which,
ironically, is probably the contents of some recently dead man’s wardrobe. Paul
hopes to Christ, he finds his cigarettes and lighter, before he discovers the
unknown donor’s shopping list or a last ever cinema ticket. The dead man he’s
related to, is more than enough for one day.
Marlboro are found, lighter is cocked, ashtray is flipped out, only to reveal
a cruelly placed “no smoking” notice. Cigarettes and lighter are rammed back
into the safety of the parka, but he’s not sure where to stick the craving for
nicotine and the weirdness of this car.

And then, they are there.
The hearse indicates left, turns into the Crematorium and Paul’s limo
follows it.
A funeral of sort, happens. The rent-a-vicar does her best, Paul Billy Braggs
one hymn loudly, because he can and because he’s the only person there. Once
the curtain is drawn and the coffin has disappeared, like the most depressing
magic trick ever, Paul slouches out of the crematorium, into the damp, grey
autumn day.
The walls of Golders Green crematorium are covered with plaques to
commemorate the great and the dead. Paul spots tributes for Marc Bolan, Tubby
Hayes, Ronnie Scott. He undoes his tie, pockets it and, at last, fires up a smoke.
Mr Wilson, the Undertaker, shuffles over to him. “Not much of a turn out.”
Paul flicks him a glance and shrugs in reply. Mr Wilson leans in,
conspiratorially. “And I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke, here.”
Paul takes a huge, rebellious, drag and points to the last smoky evidence of
his uncle’s existence, as it curls out of the crematorium chimney. “Tell him
that.”
Mr Wilson stares at him blankly, Paul sighs, before letting loose a weary
reply “Look, just sod off, will you?”
And he does, Mr Wilson wanders back to his people, who gather and then
head off, taking their cars with them.

Paul stares at the plaque dedicated to Marc Bolan and pats his dead man’s suit
trousers, to see if he brought out enough loose change to pull together the bus
fare for a ride home.

#
The “Ordinary World” is a London pub, full of dry, warm, happy Londoners,
drinking drinks and chattering like monkeys about the mildly entertaining
doodads and gegaws, they discovered on the inter-web. Many of them have
iphones, so they can tell other fabulous people on the inter-web, what a fabulous
time they’re having, how lovely it is to be dry, how toasty they feel in the warm
and how really, really awesome the fabulous company is. You wouldn’t want to
be outside, not in this weather.
Paul is outside. His parka is set at a full rain defeating snorkel… but despite
its wind stopping powers and the un-quenchable flame of his Zippo, he just can
not get a bloody cigarette to light. It has reached the point where his only option
is to make a rain proof seal, with his snorkel, against the pub window. It’s
looking semi-promising, if he doesn’t set the fur alight. It’s a high price to pay
though, because even if he manages to spark up, he’ll still be forced to watch
the dry, happy people and the no smoking sign stuck to the window, mocking
his miserable fucking existence. Some days he really wonders whether smoking
is worth the bloody effort! And then, the magic happens… Zippo creates fire,
parka keeps the driving rain off the ciggie and bingo! Nicotine is delivered.
Paul inhales greedily, in rapid short gasps… a small cloud of smoke billows
from the snorkel and order is restored to the universe. Two minutes later, Paul
chains another.
The door of the Ordinary Life swings open.

“Sebastian, hold the door will you sweetie, it’s positively hideous out here!”
A Prada umbrella explodes from the doorway, followed rapidly by a five
foot, power dressed attitude problem in a tailored suit, all Jimmy Choos, Chanel
mac and overpriced Milan accessories. She clatters into Paul, almost taking his
bloody eye out with her umbrella.
“Hey!”
She barges past him, fanning her hands like a maniac, to disperse the three
mgs of smoke, which has somehow survived the rain’s onslaught. Paul throws out
a hand, to stop himself falling. He accidently catches her shoulder. She glares at
him.
“You’re fucking joking, aren’t you?” he mumbles.
“ I DON’T WANT YOUR CANCER!” she screeches right into his face.
And with that ringing in his ears, she totters away… and something in Paul
snaps. He spits the damp fag onto the pavement, lopes up to her, snatches the
fucking Prada umbrella and completely fucking mangles it. She screams and
skitters off down the street as fast as her Jimmy Choo’s will carry her.
“And I don’t want to live in a city full of pig ignorant, sour faced, git
monkey’s, so I guess we’re both having a shite day” Paul screams after her.
Paul turns towards the pub, where a terrified, floppy-haired Sebastian is still
holding the door.

“What a fucking bitch, Sebastian. You must fucking hate her.”
“She’s my boss.” Paul pats him gently on the shoulder and passes
unhindered into the golden land of warmth and booze.
Font is at the bar, he throws Paul a cheeky grin, signals to the barman that
it will be two pints, not one, whilst simultaneously pointing to a table in the far
corner. Who says men can’t multi-task! Paul weaves through the happy punters,
throws his sodden parka over the back of the chair nearest to the radiator and
lowers himself into a seat.
Font, elbows out, negotiates two pints through the throngs of “quick drink
after work-ers” and slams two unspilled pints on the table, and then launches
himself into the seat opposite Paul. Pints are raised.
“To the dead and the drying.” Font has a way with slogans.
“To the last but one of the McAlister clan, he died with a fag in one hand
and a bottle in the other!” Paul responds.
They clink glasses and each knock back a third of a pint, like they were
dying of thirst, which in a sense they were.
Many pints, many hours and several miserable trips outside to brave the
elements later, their table is strewn with empty glasses. The pub has thinned out
to just the hard core drinkers; more tattoos, fewer Gucci clutch bags. All except
for Hard Mary, he sports both.

Paul clambers unsteadily to his feet and struggles half into his coat. Font
drunkenly paws at his sleeve.
“If you need a hand tomorrow, etc. etc”
Paul plonks himself down again, still half out of the parka. “Thanks, mate.”
The pub doors explode open, almost taking the damn hinges off. Paul
automatically spins his head to see what’s going down. Not a good move,
because it feels like his brain has decided to move half a second after his head
did. When he manages to regain focus, he sees a furious, scary woman bearing
down on their table… she’s drenched, inappropriately dressed and judging by the
way she’s stomping, she’s not the happiest bunny on Dalston Lane tonight.
“You fecker, you dirty rotten fecker!” she screams at Font.
She’s bit of a sight. Water running off the end of her nose, her black shiny
PVC jacket glistening with rain-drops and her heavy, black mascara making its
break to all points south.
Paul cowers. Font just shrugs.
The red headed hell cat turns on Paul, whips open the mac to reveal two
generous, heaving breasts, decorated with bright scarlet tassels.
“Do you see?”

Paul sees, but for the life of him doesn’t comprehend. Shouting women turn
his brain to mush at the best of times… and so do tits… and beer, when he
comes to think of it. So, in all honesty, he can’t for the life of him figure out an
appropriate response… although, he’s fairly sure “nice” isn’t the one she’s
looking for.
Infuriated, she spins on her heels and gives the rest of the bar a highly
memorable flash of tassel whip lash. She grabs the first pint glass she can lay her
enraged hands on and flings its contents over Font. It was damn near empty and
in her fury she misses anyway. The next pint glass, however, is full to the brim
and she hits the lad full in the face. Which makes hardly any difference at all.
Font just goes from grinning to smirking and is now dripping in beer. He raises
his right hand, flashes the scorpion tattoo at her, points to it with this left index
finger, as if to drive the point home and just carries on grinning.
Her face goes from purple, to white, to red and back to purple, she literally
stomps her foot. And then like the flick of a switch, she flips from raging to
bawling… she spins on her heels and face buried in her hands, she sobs out into
the night. At the bar, some wag starts a light ripple of applause.
After the dust has settled and Font has dried his face with a casually tossed
bar towel, Paul asks the only question he has.
“Was that Paula?”
“Nah, her sister, Device.”

“The post modern stripper who does the thing with the weasels”
Font nods. “I might have put super glue on her tassels, when I was monged
last night.”
“Really?”
“If you run after her with some solvents, she might just let you feed her the
weasel.”
And for a second, Paul drunkenly considers it… but it’s been a fucker of a
day, so instead he just wrestles himself into the warm busom of his parka… and,
as he staggers to the door, he catches Font’s banter with the barman as he hands
back the bar towel.
“She could have at least offered to give is a twirl, the least we might have
expected.”
Paul snorts… Font will be hours yet, you can sense he’s angling for a lock
in. Not Paul, not tonight. He’s a warm bed waiting for him and has grown up shit
to do in the morning.

#
Everything shoved through this flat’s front door for the past six years, has
been left to form a natural impediment to the door ever being opened. Paul
struggles to create a gap large enough to squeeze in and wonders how the hell
the police got his uncle’s body out; maybe through a window or perhaps they
wedged the door open with some arcane piece of Police equipment, designed
for such grim events. However they did it, getting in, even for a slim man like
Paul, is no picnic.
No flat in the concrete miasma of the Wenlock Barn estate could ever be
described as quiet. The walls are breeze block thin and occupied by people who
like Trisha and hip-hop at equally full on volumes. And yet, his uncle’s flat
remains deathly quiet, for London. Maybe the several hundred, dust covered,
water damaged cardboard boxes stacked in the hallway, are acting as sound
insulation. It is darn quiet and un-belivably disturbing... although maybe
disturbing isn’t the right word. Paul really doesn’t have the vocab for what he’s
feeling, right now. Somewhat removed from the real world, maybe. The flat is a
land unto itself, a kind of crap anti-Narnia. Then there is the smell, a musty
smell of old everything, mixed with a lifetime of cheap cigarettes and
something sweet Paul can’t put his finger on. This place is a fortress of detritus…
stuff that the outside world no longer wanted or cared about.
Paul nervously rips open the nearest cardboard box, releasing a cloud of
dust.

Every episode of House he’s ever seen, flashes through his mind and Paul
wonders whether this very breath will be the one to give him some kind of life
threatening fungal infection. Paul imagines CGI spores racing towards his feeble
smoker’s lungs and shudders at their potential weakness to handle any assault,
which ironically, makes him crave a smoke. The box, which some time long
past held many packets of Cheesy Wotsits, is stuffed to bursting with cellophane
wrapped plastic Christmas toys, circa 1979. Their cellophane all yellow with
age and their designs unsettling. A Plastic santa from a Christmas long past, a
strange yellow giraffe in a scarf, horror story doll angels.
Paul fishes out his camera, he photographs the hall, the open cardboard box
and the tiny Santa… and then, he tucks a small selection of the aging toys away
in a pocket. Strange keep sakes, for sure, but he feels compelled to do it.
Paul picks his way over and around the maze of market trader remnants and
onwards to the kitchen. A nightmare. Old tin cans in heaps, plastic bags of
unidentified food waste, more cardboard boxes and on the kitchen table, a half
stripped Ford Cortina engine, with a spanner rusted to the top of it. Paul
photographs it all. He gingerly opens the fridge door and instantly regrets it. On
top of the fridge, half a carton of Silk Cut. Paul sticks them in his bag… waste
not, want not.
Next to the table, one empty wooden chair. Paul plonks himself into it,
grabs an empty tin can and lights up.

On the table, next to the rotting engine, Paul discovers an entire, pristine sheet
of pencil erasers, all locked in little plastic packets. He hasn’t seen one of those
since he was a child. And, as he wrestles one out to look at it, sniff it and feel
it’s rubberiness, he feels a small wave of grief. This oddly out of time object,
brings back a flood of memories of his uncle’s once a year, childhood Christmas
visits. Dinner would be cooking, the Great Escape on the tele and then a
battered old panel van would pull up on the driveway. His mum would rush to
the door and uncle would swagger in, his arms loaded with a hundred obscure
toys, the oddest the local cash and carry had to offer: strange chinese flapping
birds, bows and arrows with sucker cups, cap guns and bizarre unbuildable kites.
Then they’d eat and the adults would work their way through a crate of Pale
Ale… all the time uncle smoking like a barman and telling strange tales of the
money to be made in recycled cardboard and the vintage motor cycles he
intended to rebuild.
For a moment Paul wishes he’d brought Font to see this, because the place
is a post modern artist’s wet dream. If Tracy Emin had done this as an
installation, she’d take the Turner prize, no questions asked… but again no,
that’s exactly why he didn’t bring the rapscallion… this time and this place are
his alone. They’ll be time for banter and art later.
Paul stubs out the fag, hauls himself upright and steels himself for the hard
part. He heads into the bedroom. The place this recent family drama had all
kicked off.

Again, it’s stacked floor to ceiling with rotting cardboard boxes. Except for
the centre of the room, where an old single bed has been stripped to the
mattress. By the side of the bed an overflowing ashtray. On the edge of the
ashtray a cigarette, which was lit, didn’t get smoked and has burned all the way
to the filter. Last fag… fuck.
Beside the ashtray, a half full pack of Silk Cut. Paul picks them up,
examines them and then places them precisely where he found them. Even with
the price of cigarettes these days, those eight lads are going to stay exactly
where they are.
Everything about this flat, from the old welding gear on the sofa to the
ancient cassette player in the bathroom, is sad in ways Paul has not experienced
before. This isn’t his first family death, but in comparison, all the others were
sanitised, hospital deaths. What Paul can’t get his head around, are the decisions
his uncle made in his life, which led to these dusty, garbage filled room. His
uncle had friends, other market traders and folk at the pub, but it’s obvious no-
one else had been past his front door in many, many years. Between the dust
and the pathos, Paul decides it’s time to step outside and get some air.
The view from the flat’s third floor walkway, shows London as usual:
women in shell suits push buggies; a care in the community tramp shouts
random incoherent crap; and, a lone traffic enforcer stalks the parked cars, an
urban predator praying for an out of date tax disc.

The clack of grown up shoes on a concrete stairwell forces Paul’s attention
to the pin-striped weasel baring down on him, hand outstretched for an overly
masonic, manly handshake..
“Mr McAlister?”
Paul looks the guy up and down and doesn’t like any of it. From the huge
knot in his overly fashion conscious tie, to the stupidly smart laptop case, the
guy radiates - I am a wanker of the highest order.
“That’s me. You must be the Estate Agent.”
The weasel throws him a false grin. He undoubtably doesn’t like what he’s
seeing either. The weasel probably doesn’t even own a parka.
“How did you guess?” he chirps, with just the slightest of edges on it.
Paul dies a little inside every time he has to deal with wankers. In his
experience, only sarcasm can fend off a relentless weasel, so he reaches deep
into the sarcasm cupboard.
“Sometimes my psychic powers allow me to look at someone and just intuit
what they do for a living.”
Paul points to the traffic warden below “You see that guy?” The weasel
looks over the banister at the traffic warden, as Paul gives it his best Derren
Brown “My intuition tells me he is some kind of traffic warden.”

Paul holds the weasel’s gaze and dares him to try for a witty come back…
he doesn’t, instead he unzips his laptop bag, flourishes some papers and some
low grade sarcasm of his own.
“I can tell you’re a busy guy, so here’s the bottom line. Your uncle bought
this flat from the council in 1978 for cash. Got it for peanuts.” The weasel flips
to the last page of his papers “And this is what it’s worth now.”
Paul looks at the figure. Looks at it again to make sure the decimal point
actually is where it appears to be. He is surprised by the amount.
“This is a prime down-sizing property Mr McAlister. Which as I said on the
phone, is my speciality.”
“Look, fella, perhaps you should have a look at it first. It’s… well, it’s a
mess.”
The weasel forces his head through the gap in the semi-open door.”
“And it’s all like this?”
“Yeap.”
“No biggie. Not even the worse I’ve seen today.” The weasel pulls another
A4 sheet out of the case, hands it to Paul and then leans in past his shoulder.
Paul gags slightly on the overpowering scent of something expensive, wafting off
the weasel like designer sarin.

“When I get back to the office, my girl will call this guy at Environmental
Health,” the weasel points to the first name on the typed list, “they’ll chuck out
all the garbage. Then this guy here…” the scented digit moves to the second
name on the list “…he sends out a Nigerian with an industrial steam cleaner.
Then a couple of Albanians give the place the once over with Dulux white and
Bob’s your uncle.”
“No, Frank was my uncle.”
The weasel is bullet proof, not even the slightest flicker of the rebuke
registers. Paul sees clearly, just how effortlessly this carrion crow will throw out,
skip and erase every single trace of the idiosyncratic life of Big Frankie
McAlister, just to ensure he’s got the money to make this month’s payment on
his Audi. More depressingly, Paul realises that he’s going to let him. One more
time poverty and lack of options has led him to side with the weasels.
“How much is all this going to cost?”
The weasel already has the paperwork out, he sticks it in front of Paul and
shows him where to sign.
“It all comes out of the commission. Bottom line, 4%… but we handle
everything. All you do is have to do is sign here.”
The weasel pushes a pen Paul’s way. Paul takes it “Sorry, uncle” he thinks
and then slaps his John Hancock onto the paper. Before the ink is even dry, the
weasel has the document safely stashed away. Ker-ching!

“Excellent. Any idea how you’re going to spend your windfall?”
Paul doesn’t have any idea. “There’s a bar in Covent Garden that sells
Tequila for £1,000 a shot. I might go there for a while and then buy a hat. A
really nice one.”
Again, not a flicker. “And what do you want to do about the property in
Italy?”
This time Paul is stunned… “The what?”
The weasel pulls another sheet of paper from his bag. Thrusts it into Paul’s
hand.
“It’s a traditional stone built house, on three floors, in the beautiful,
medieval village of Triora, Italy… suitable for restoration.”
Paul snatches the papers out of his hands and looks at the photograph of the
semi-derilict house, clinging to the mountain side in some kind of fairy tale,
Italian village. He pulls out a packet of Silk Cut, un-wraps, offers one to the
weasel, who declines, he lights up.
WTF! He owns a house in Italy. Totally random. Well, for a guy who gets
excited when he can afford to shop at Lidl, it is.

#
Hoxton Square N1: galleries; media start-ups; magazines and two thousand
varieties of uber trendy marketing consultancies with oblique, one word names.
Hoxton Square: fashionista central; Mac snob central; art whore central; or,
to those from the gritty end of Hackney, weasel town… central-a-mundo.
Step into “The Square” any weekday at 11.12 am, just as the marmots get a
craving for Frappuccino and you’ll find yourself ciao-ed and air kissed, half to
death, before you can gainfully travel five feet.
The distance from Hackney proper to Hoxton Square is geographically
insignificant; a short but annoyingly fruity bus ride. The real distance though, is
huge. Hoxton Square is where you end up if you made it big in Hackney… or if
you want your Kensington born company to have a wafer thin smear of
Shoreditch credibility, but make no mistake, if the talent is pure Hackney, the
money is all Tarquin, Rupert and Helena. Font bloody hates Hoxton Square, so
Paul figures if he wants to hook up there, he must be hurting for cash. Hoxton
Square is where Paul pimps out his mates for miniscule amount of folding
money… and, until the probate gets sorted, it’s still where food gets put on both
his and Font’s table. And today, that means calling in at Bricks.
Bricks, a brand management consultancy, where cutting edge urban culture
gets santised and packaged for Armani clad, iphone fetishistic brand managers,
in their relentless effort to flog slave wage produced gimcracks and gegaws to
the world’s disaffected youth.

A disaffected youth, who haven’t quite grasped that their anti-heroes are all
pushing the hard end of forty, from both ends. Paul knows, without a shadow of a
doubt, that in person the graffiti elite couldn’t sell a low mileage Mondeo to a
mini-cab driver, let alone designer sneakers and hoodies to a fifteen year old
tagger. In person, these guys all look like railway tunnel garage mechanics,
well, except Font, who looks like an out of work Oasis roadie. Not that Paul’s a
picture himself. Today, he looks like a bag of shit, with a hat on.
Paul shuffles into Marisa’s office, an ever evolving shrine, seemingly
created solely for the worship of uncluttered, contemporary, design. This week it
is stripped bare of everything, except her new Florian Kallus desk: one single
sheet of wood, folded back on itself like an origami Barbie accessory. It’s a
stupidly expensive piece of designer furniture. There is nothing on its pristine
surface except the top of the Mac laptop food chain… the Mac Air. A laptop,
which like Marisa herself is defined by its thinness, its expense and any lack of
tangible connection. Not even the power supply is visible and it wouldn’t
surprise Paul in the slightest, if Marisa had paid some Slovak genius descendent
of Tesla, to embed some kind of wireless power supply into the desk itself, just
to avoid ruining the aesthetic.
Marisa herself, looks like someone tossed Lindsey Lohan carelessly through
Amy Winehouse’s wardrobe. Paul has no idea at all about how long it takes her
in the morning to look so professionally disheveled; bloody hours, he imagines.
Not that he ever imagines her getting dressed. No, sir.

With the deference of a minimum wage wine waiter, Paul plonks his
camera on the desk and something fussy with bluetooth occurs, to connect the
two gadgets, narrated by sub-aural posh girl mutterings.
“For God’s sake, take a seat!”
For a moment Paul considers the possibility that his hangover has rendered
all the seating options invisible. He peers around the empty space, hoping that
something chair like will de-cloak, so he can sit on it. But it’s an effort made in
vain, there is nothing chair like, bean-bag like or even shelf like, on which to
perch. For a second he considers slipping the merest edge of a buttock onto the
desk, but without even taking her nose out from behind the laptop, Marisa stops
him and points to the far wall. On which, Paul spots what looks like a cardboard
cutout of a chair, resting on two wooden pegs. He slouches over to it. Inspects it.
Is none the wiser for the inspection.
“This?” A fair question, he thinks. If it’s a sculpture, he’ll look like a cock if
he actually touches it.
Marisa scowls at him. A scowl which conveys the full force of her rightful
irritation with anyone who has no appreciation or understanding of contemporary
Japanese furniture design.
“Yes! Yes! The Flexible Love.”
Gingerly Paul takes the cardboard shape from the wall and places it on the
floor, where it unwinds like a cardboard slinky.

Say what you like about Marisa, she’s always had a knack for finding the best
toys. And, after a certain amount of twatting about, Paul figures out how to
make a chair out of it. On which, he perches, nervously, hoping to God it won’t
deposit his arse onto the floor, whilst making an expensive ripping sound.
Marisa is oblivious, her head full of the new photos being uploaded from
Paul’s camera, new graffiti styles, new outbreaks of London urban art, straight
from the street. Marisa loves the shit Paul finds for her. Quite literally, Paul can
see the writing on the wall. It doesn’t sound like much, but to her, it is. Most
people only see the noise, the millions of scrawny spray paint gifs thrown up by
hormonal teenage taggers, or “The Toys” as the graffiti illuminati mockingly
refer to them. Hidden in this pubescent noise, is the real shit, the stunning shit,
the stuff that trends are made of. “Arrow” the guy who places painted arrows all
over the major cities of Europe, a graffiti walking tour for those who know it’s
there, Sickboy, or the “Cut Up Collective” who cut up billboard posters and
transform them into things of humour and beauty… and then there is Font,
London’s urban art Joker to Banksy’s more self-righteous Bruce Wayne.
Paul’s learned over the years that in situations to do with money, silence is
golden. The more he shuts the hell up, the more likely he is to earn. Many
scuffles whilst being escorted from buildings in The Square, by surly rent-a-cops,
has taught him this lesson. So, he sits, Buddha like, assuming Buddha spent a lot
of time under that tree considering the relative strength of hangovers… which
would, of course, explain the fat philosopher’s pre-occupation with suffering.

On the screen Marisa ponders over Paul’s photograph of a mockney circus
poster. It’s a clown. Artist unknown. “Oh, post-comedia, Barnum-esque, men in
make-up… he’s worth it!” She chuckles, sub-vocally, at her own joke.
Next up, a poster for an obscure Hackey electro-band’s gig. Marisa’s never
heard of them, how cool is that - and they’ve all got cardboard boxes on their
heads - double coolio. “Where’d you find this electro pop, old school, paper
mash-up thing?”
“I was having a slash in the Gent’s of the The Dolphin, looked up, there it
was.”
Marisa looks up. Looks through Paul, rather than at him.
“The Dolphin! I would have guessed it was more a Jaguar Shoes thing.”
“Nah, straight from the bogs of the Bobby Sands lunch club, that one.”
She dismisses the band poster, but with the next picture, hits pay dirt. A
billboard of Amy Winehouse has been doctored so it reads “I think Duffy is
selling Coke.”
Marisa lets out a little mouse-like squeak of delight, which Paul suspects,
quite strongly, is her orgasm noise. Not that he’s thought about that, much… and
especially not whilst in a masturbatory frenzy. No, sir.
“Oh, wow! Is this a Font?”

It’s pretty hard to explain how emotionally confusing it is, for a hungover
man to hear his flat mate’s name, at the precise moment he’s thinking about
wanking. It’s right up there with getting a phone call from your Mum, whilst still
mopping up with a tissue.
“The Winehouse, it’s a Dr. D.”
“Are you sure?”
Paul sighs… of course he is sure. Font would have just painted a giant cock
on it!
“It’s because I know all the people who do this shit, that you occasionally
pay me pitiful amounts of money… talking of which?”
Marisa takes the hint. She stretches out to the wall behind and in a move
straight out the Wizard of Oz, opens the door to a skillfully concealed cupboard.
Two faux fur coats, a massive Prada knock-off bag and seven folders of loose
paperwork fall out of it, and in their desperate bid for freedom, reveal all the
stuff you’d actually expect to see in a working office: printers, faxes, stationary,
binders and a million cables of various denominations, all stuffed in, like
someone’s been playing jumble sale Tetris.
“Cock!”
Marisa leaps out of her chair and tries to stuff it all back in.

Eventually, it does all goes back in and the door is wrestled shut. The Prada
knock-off bag is dumped on the desk and its contents rearranged, until two
heavily dusted and overly curly £50 notes are fished out and scrumpled into
Paul’s outstretched hand.
“Ta”
Paul opens his bag and mirrors the search, a process than involves dumping
some of its contents onto the desk. A process that puts his Uncle’s little
cellophane wrapped Santa on temporary display. Marisa sees it, grabs it, coos
over it.
“Oh, wow! How positively kitch-tastic… Jeff Koons made small… micro-
koons! Grand-mamma just adores Koons.”
Without thinking, Paul rips it from her hands. Thrusts it into the bottom of
his bag.
“Just leave it. Please!”
The social discomfort hangs in the air between them. Paul shifts his feet
nervously. Marisa frets her lip with perfect little teeth. A line has definitely been
crossed.
“Sorry, Marisa. Low blood sugar.”
“Right now I’m interested in Font, more Dr D and I hear Blek Le Rat is in
town.”

“No problem… sorry.”
“That camera does slo-mo video doesn’t it?”
“Yes, er, it does. Definitely.”
“Get me lots of 300 frames per second footage of tramps in hats… autumn
colours only”
Paul tries to make eye contact, to smooth over the chilly space between
them, but Marisa is back at the laptop, tip tapping away at something more
important than him.
“Nike’s Asian brand team! Radical juxtaposition as metaphor. You know the
drill.”
She waves him away from the desk. So, he heads for the door. Fuck it.
Thank Christ his Uncle’s money will hit the bank soon, because this has all the
scent of one more Hoxton Square bridge, burned to a cinder. He’ll never see that
slow motion tramp money, not now. You never get fired in The Square, not when
people can just cunt you about for the next six months, with tinsel covered
promises of the Earth on a stick, which just don’t ever pan out.
Paul’s been here many, many times before. It’s the Austin Cooper PR “Cool
for Cats” cat food fiasco, all over again. The gig that got both him and Font
banned from Battersea Dog’s Home and into a nasty Shoreditch monkey-rumble
outside of Jaguar Shoes. Which in itself, was a cake walk compared with the
infamous year of the virals.

Those raggedy arsed viral advertising punks, had almost bankrupted everyone
South of the Empire, on their turd infested sea of over inflated claims and
promises of riches to come, in return for work invested now. Ho hum. Life in the
fast lane! Fuck Marisa, she can stick her skanky designer-nonce, pony-cock-
munching agency right up her furry ringer.
Paul is photophobic at the best of times, so the laser bright autumn sunlight
means chunky Oakley shades hit his nose, simultaneously the Marlboro hits his
gob. At that exact same moment, the ice cold, crisp air slams into his sinuses
like a fucking anvil. He’s instantly drowning in a tsunami of his own mucus and
coughing like a docker. These sudden changes in temperature are a fucker to the
sensitive sinus. So, it’s three fully entertaining minutes of hacking like a dead
man, blowing his brains forcibly into whatever scabby tissue comes to hand and
a real fight to administer the warm smoky balm of Mr Marlboro, before he’s
good to go. And, because this is London, nobody even notices. You can cough
yourself to death in Hoxton Square and the only outcome will be your iphone
captured appearance on Youtube, your death rattle mixed and beat matched to
the Benny Hill Theme tune.
When he regains his poise and the air begins to flow again, he sees Font,
leaning against the railings, waiting.

Ominously, he has a pizza box under his arm and already has his hoodie up.
Tits! This day is just getting betterer and betterer.
“Nice tune. The middle eight was blinder. Mind if I join in?”
Paul lobs the packet of fags to Font, who sparks up.
“How’s Coke-arella?”
Paul grins. Font doesn’t give a rat’s about Marisa, he just wants to know
whether she ponied up any cash. Paul slaps one of the crusty bank notes into
Font’s hand. Font is ADD fascinated at the tubular fifty. He runs a spit soaked
finger along it and licks off the residue.
“Whose nose did she steal this one from? It’s still got half of fucking Bolivia
stuck to it.”
“Don’t spend it all at once, I think I just got cunted.”
“Really?”
Paul nods.
“Awesome-o… ho ho ho.”
And, before Paul can even ask what or why, Font whips out his Leatherman
Skeletool, flicks open the blade and whilst giggling like a pixie, neatly slices
one small wire of the “Bricks” blue, neon logo. A small portion of it blinks out of
life and in that instant, all of Paul’s doubts and worries dispel.

There is no ambiguity or doubt about whether his relationship with Marisa is
done and dusted. Font has cut through the ambiguity and made their position
totally frigging clear.
The lads step out onto the road and admire Font’s handiwork. Paul just can’t
for the life of him fathom how Font resisted doing this for so long. It must have
been like a permanent itch he wouldn’t scratch, incredible, really… and, like so
much of Font’s work, so bloody obvious, when you witness the end result.
The blue neon that once said “Bricks” now says “Pricks.” Perfect.
Font skips off towards the park, laughing like a hyena. He’s riding the
shenanigan high, wreaking havoc with the park inhabiting art house lunch
monkeys and media marmots. Paul laughs, this is why he loves the hairy assed
bastard. In these anarchic moments he totally and fully gets it. Why it’s perfect
that he’s outside in the cold and they’re inside cuddling their money.
Shenanigans are better than sulphate. All you have to do is cut the blue wire.
Paul chases after him. Watches him wrestle a cheesy baguette from an
emaciated gallery bunny, all mad hair and faux geisha make-up.
“Hey! What the Fuck!”
But, Font is running manic, full bore “Don’t worry, Ling-Ling, I’ll sick it up
for you later. You’re just delegating, my lovely”
He bellows to the rest of the park’s inhabitants “Anyone else want to sub-
contract their eating disorder.”

A few benches down, a stick thin smack chic model sticks her lightly
nibbled panini aloft. Font scampers over to her. Font gives her the Hackney
twinkle. Font strokes her hand as he takes the hot sandwich. Font, seductive.
“Oooo. Cute and superbly dysfunctional”
Paul catches up, has a Panini thrust into his hand. Font whips out his
Sharpie, takes the girly’s hand and scrawls his phone number on it. He draws a
little scorpion on it. Flashes her his hand tat.
“Do you know the story of the fox and scorpion?”
Paul’s spider sense tingles and for no good reason, he flips a casual glance
back towards Pricks. He spots Marisa. He senses her inevitable proprietorial
glance back to her lovely office. He senses the coming shit storm. He nudges
Font, nods towards Marisa.
“Time to scaramouche!”
Font gets it. Pulls his hoodie further over the pork pie hat and Flash Harry’s
it out of the park. Totally St Trinians. Paul bites a chunk out of the panini and
scuttles after him.
Back at Pricks, Marisa does indeed check the facade of her fairy castle, she
does indeed spot the witty urban re-branding, she does indeed dig out her big
pink iphone and, does indeed make that call… and yes, the names of Paul and
Font do both figure quite prominently in that rancid conversation, coupled with
some incredibly fruity and guttural colloquialisms.

Neither Paul or Font witness this and even if they had, neither of them
would have given a rats… and anyway, Font has picked up the pace. Font has
the walk of a man on a mission. Font is making a bee-line for the Hoxton Square
Holy Grail… and, Font still has that pizza box stashed under his arm. Paul is just
about keeping up, both literally and conceptually. He gets a sense of what’s
coming and gropes blindly into his own bag for the camera. This is going to
happen fast.
It does.
Font skids to a halt. Pizza box slammed to wall. Box lid flipped open.
Stencil revealed. Spray can from pocket… rattle, rattle… hiss.
Paul lifts his camera. He feels like he’s running in slo-mo, 300 frames per
second. He sees each spray paint droplet make its epic wall-ward journey.
Font reveals. A serious-shit smirk on his face. Paul presses the camera
button home… Flash! Flash!
Banksy’s iconic “Maid sweeps up” just got Font’s trademark scorpion
sprayed onto her back. The sting sticking brutally through her painty face.
“I declare my personal Banksy Jihad, officially open.”
Paul feels his legs go slightly weak at the knees. Font has just declared war
on the Banks-meister!
Fuck-a-doodle-do!

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Smoke

tunnel, taking a handful of drunken Londoners to Epping and all points in

escalator, lands on the toe of Nathan’s highly polished Transport Policeman

Clive Davies-Frayne - Smoke - clive.frayne@filmutopia.co.uk

Being a British Transport Police Constable on London’s Underground

wall behind the bin.

“I don’t smoke!” he thinks

“Does my moustache really look that much like Hitler’s?”

“Why would anyone draw me with my dick in my hand?”

“And, surely, that’s the wrong hand!”

round the corner.

Clive Davies-Frayne - Smoke - clive.frayne@filmutopia.co.uk

next tunnel as well!

Clive Davies-Frayne - Smoke - clive.frayne@filmutopia.co.uk

around the corner.

Nathan has heard the buskers perform “Down in a Tube Station at

professional integrity. No, he is both baffled and increasingly alarmed by this

Clive Davies-Frayne - Smoke - clive.frayne@filmutopia.co.uk

urban bandito, Paul.

in it, after over strenuous drinking in dubious company.

The dubious company, paper bell-end in hand, spots PC Nathan at the

platform entrance. Unfazed he casually bellows down the platform.

Clive Davies-Frayne - Smoke - clive.frayne@filmutopia.co.uk

PC Nathan is confused. His highly trained policeman senses tell him

wrong-uns. No running, or screaming or shouting of “It’s the pigs, scarper!”

but something about these two just isn’t right.

Paul sneaks a glance.

Font grins at him… “Awesome-o”

“Oi… you two. You can’t smoke down here!”

Clive Davies-Frayne - Smoke - clive.frayne@filmutopia.co.uk

Officers, baliffs, ex-girlfriends and low rent security guards.

“This is Foxtrot Oscar Charlie, request back-up in platform zero-niner…

reverberation of PC Nathan’s rebuke echos down the tunnel, he slaps an open

“What’s the plan?”

and one more charge of the Shite Brigade.

Clive Davies-Frayne - Smoke - clive.frayne@filmutopia.co.uk

episode of Battle Stargalactica or really known what true love means.

and inform local Police of the arrest, over.”

Testosterone, banter and confidence are running high.

Clive Davies-Frayne - Smoke - clive.frayne@filmutopia.co.uk

escalator to witness the glorious arrest. In anticipation of paperwork to come he

hall for lurking rapscallions.

Somewhere in his precious station, the maniacs are still at large.

loose affiliation of coppers, a couple of whom topple like pensioners.

laughter, receding urban footfalls and a bellowed…

“Laters, toss weasels!”

“Fifteen” he thinks, “That’s me done for the day.”

Clive Davies-Frayne - Smoke - clive.frayne@filmutopia.co.uk

sleeping in a cell and no chips.

In the late 1970’s this row of Victorian terraces, was so completely

them into dwellings.

Clive Davies-Frayne - Smoke - clive.frayne@filmutopia.co.uk

without spattering an enraged vegan/freegan or someone who is organising a

officers all live the other side of Vicky Park.

professional skip diver, Font, wheezes, closely followed by Paul.

J-Cloth like abilities of the parka, it seems to absorb sweat ad infinitum.

stenciled on it… in 2400 pt Helvetica. To avoid confusion, behind it is stenciled

the word “Wall.”

Zippo. Fags get lit. Wheezing inhalations occur.

wrangles open the front door.

“Sorry about the chips”

Clive Davies-Frayne - Smoke - clive.frayne@filmutopia.co.uk