Cocktails and Records

Place: a suburban London train
Time: a sunny Saturday afternoon
Key characters: shaved headed, large man in filthy white sweater and jeans and a semi-full carriage of increasingly nervous people.

The man gets on the train deeply immersed in a loud conversation on his mobile phone. It goes something like this:

- ‘Yeah, I’m coming over now. But £*%$, I’ll have to be back by 9pm.’
- ‘Because I’m on a stupid £*%$’ing curfew that’s why. That’s what the £*%$ers did, put me back on a curfew.’
- ‘Yes, you £*%$ing  idiot. I have to be back by 9pm otherwise they’ll put me away again.’
- ‘Oh, it was £*%$ing £*%$ed. The handcuffs were on really tight this time, they dug right in. I’ve still got the marks. I’ll show you them later.’
- ‘Well, this time the £*%$er  said that I’d nicked his radio. They’ve got to be £*%$ing joking. It’s a crap radio. If I wanted a decent radio, I’d go and get one from that other £*%$er down the road.’
- ‘I should have £*%$ing kicked their heads in, especially the £*%$ing coloured guy, but I wanted to get off so I could come and see you sweetheart.’

Tags: hell in a handcart, London

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