The N9 stops at Trafalgar Square.
Dave gets off.
Fancy a cuppa in MacDonalds?
I got no money.
I’ll buy you a tea, come on.
I follow Dave into MacD.
Two security step aside to let us in.
Thank fuk for MacDonalds.
Its crammed inside.
Drunk young people, clubbers.
Some effeminate men. Some hot girls.
I remember there’s a gay club round the corner in Villiers street.
Opposite where that bloke gave me a tenner.
Grab a seat, goes Dave. I’ll get the teas.
I find a seat down the stairs.
Taylor Swift is playing.
I don’t trust nobody and nobody trusts me.
Look what you made me do.
I wait for Dave and the teas.
He brings them. Sits opposite me.
There you go, son.
I get up to get sugar.
You want sugar, Dave?
Not for me.
I’m sure he’s my M.
I grab a handful of white sugar sachets.
One of the staff is cute, wandering about cleaning tables.
She’s petite, like Razor.
Big, doe eyes.
Loads of Polish in London, now.
I remember a street sweeper when I was performing in Covent Garden – he was doing a masters degree in international law.
That’s what I love about the Polish.
They’re street sweepers but they do masters degrees in international law.
How the fuk cool is that?
Cute, int she? goes Dave.
I got a girl, I goes.
Back in Cambodia.
Tear open a sachet of sugar, pour the crystals in me mouth.
I got a strange affinity with crystals.
You stayin here? goes Dave.
I’m going for a fag.
I wanna fag as well.
You ain’t got none.
Like a kid told off by his dad.
You stay here. We’ll lose the seats otherwise.
OK. Gis a fag, tho.
Dave gives me a cigarette.
You go out after me. Dont wanna lose our seats.
Dave goes out to smoke.
Justin Beiber’s playing now.
And I didn’t wanna write a song…
I look at the board where the numbers are.
A MacD staff member shouts out 007.
A goofy looking nerd in a long coat and specs goes forward to collect his order.
I wonder if I’ll get a 007 ticket.
That’s just the sort of stunt he’d pull – ol’ Mr. Fox.