The Square Mile, a good name for a place peopled by gents content to wear pinstripes and a nice pair of churches. Old boys with funny ties and a bowler hat. A bastion of English power, privilege and manners. Bowls on the green, a lunch time a glass of champagne or Pimms in the afternoon.

Leaning over the back of the toilet seat and hoovering up the Charlie. Caned on a Tuesday afternoon in February. I like this bastion of Britain even without the bowler.

Moving out of the pub we steamed up along Bow Lane and into the bar. Loads of girls in there. Five O'clock and half the place was pissed up already. The Polish birds behind the bar were pouring shots straight into the mouth. With the gear kicking in I was firing on all cylinders. Louisa the girl from the back office came in with two other girls that I had seen about before. Dazza winked at me.

In tonight boy.

The girls caught my eye but were playing it cool. They’d be over. No doubt. It’s great this. I feel invincible. On the way up. And the girls new it. Wanted a part of it. 'Mole' on account of the fucking great wart growing out of his face was getting the beers in. Louisa and the other two sidling against him. Amazing what an expense account does for an ugly bastard. Still give him his due, sorted out nearly the whole bar with one.

Nice one 'Mole'.

Nice one bollocks .

The cunt had been up with the senior management all afternoon. Hadn’t spent enough money on his corporate entertainment last month. Can't be seen to be slacking again. Expensive wife in the Chigwell Mansion to support. Still no sign of the missus now as one of Louisa’s mates started leading the Mole faced muppet off to the bogs.

The bar is heaving now. I’m surrounded by shiny, sweaty people shouting and singing. It's like Christmas Eve back home. But every night is like this. Everyone’s got money to burn. Literally sometimes. All the boys in here are 'locals' or on fucking huge expense accounts. All the girls are after the traders. A Moneyed Meat Market, fucking excellent if you’ve got a bit. Rolled up 50’s jut out of hands at the bar trying to skewer the bar girls attention. No one makes any attempt to unravel them. Half the city must be coked up. It's lucky their pink, hides the blood. Very crafty of the Bank of England if you ask me.

Sway over toward Louisa. No point in being all coy with the ladies now. Not with vipers like 'Mole' on the lose. She’s got the sexy city bird uniform on. Long dark hair D and G glasses, Dark blue suit with the all important short skirt. She leads me out of the bar and round the corner into one of the little alley ways that run off of Bow Lane. Quadraphenia comes to EC4. Who needs Brighton.

Back into the bar to get Dazza whose been knocking back a couple more tequilas. Louisa's gone. Heading up west with her mates. Might see her later. Get a room at the Great Eastern. Where now Dazza I yell as he hauls me away from the booze and out into the night.

'Got to sort ourselves out, our man’s on his way.' At the end of the lane the car pulls up, Black golf, nothing flashy. We both hop in and were off. Three grams £180.00. Driving over some of the most expensive land in the world seems to give our man Carte Blanche to charge full whack for the shit he’s knocking out. Still he’s on time and its brass monkies outside. 'Drop us off in Shoreditch and we’ll call it £200'

Nice one. There in minutes and out on to the corner. There is a real weird mix around here. Poor and Rich, Arty and City, Models and Brass. It used to be the arsehole of London, roads leading off to the wastelands of Hackney. Now they will have you believe that you're in New York. Soho, Tribecca and Old street. Still its open late and I’m a thirsty man. Push our way past a couple of Fins to the front of the door. Palm the psycho twenty quid and we are in. No fucking about with that type of line for me. A different type of place this. ¾ of a mile from Bow lane but a world away. Deep funk and hip hop coming out of the wall. No more cheesy classics and Karaoke tonight. Taking the wraps from Daz I move into the bog. Bit of a queue though. Some of the punters are actually using it for a dump, disgusting. Not as disgusting mind as the behaviour of the physco who minutes earlier had pocketed my hard earned cash. Pulling me out by my hair and kicking me onto the street. Certainly no way to treat a gent. Straight into the arms of the City Police. Fuck.

Five weeks later I come out of Highbury Corner magistrates. Every inch the respectable man. Not guilty on the charges of possession or supply of a class a drug. Not due to the brilliance of a brief. Not because of the stupidity of the CPS. Just because our man sold us 3 grams of caffeine pills ground up with a large helping of laxative.

The End

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