..... this isn't some LA country rock jam reminiscing on the pyschtotropic pot pansies of Haight Ashbury . This is the soot and smut of London mate !

We're all prostitutes sir we're all selling ourselves for something

With him big Phil from Notting Hill an old "face" from the sixties a pin up gangster with a "mars bar" weal scraping his left cheek and of course two "wag" slags in tow trussed up like French Poodles with "Bratz babe" stares and Gucci Handbags

Crime fiction, especially noir and hardboiled, is the literature of the proletariat.

Everyone knew what the night would bring lots of D and A plenty of T and A

T was in a blue mood , his open reflections on the isloation of his life floating like Jazz notes under a "pink moon