Saw a homeless looking man trying to hustle a street cleaner into buying this sweet single speed for forty quid in Dalston. Forty quid. I'm not saying anything. All i'm saying is this guy had shifty tattooed on his forehead and didn't look too much like your regular bike specialist. He got pissed when he clocked me getting papparazzi on his ass and bounded up, but it quickly transpired he was pushing 4ft tall and flexing less muscle mass than an anaemic poodle.
I've had two bikes do a disappearing act on my ass. These days in central London it's harder to safeguard your bike against theft than it is to leave your house without a raincoat. Even if you don't have a bike. Which is why not so long ago I gave up on locks, and hired some round the clock police protection for The Wheels Of Steel. Check it out, his name is Paul, hers is Sheila. Look out for them and say hi. But mark my words, they're under strict instructions to talk to no-one.
Nobody.
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