2001-02-26 - 21:56:14

I�m not really sure what it is about the cut of my gib that attracts the city�s money-seeking loonies, like drunken, badly-smelling pied-piper lead rodents. Walking through certain areas of South London, I keep my head down. I tell you, I�m inches, nanoseconds from the relative safety of the tube station, when there�s a yank on my shoulder bag, and I get that sinking feeling. �Excuse me mate, � (OK, here comes the pitch) �Don�t run away.� As if I was even considering that course of action. No! I want to stay and listen to the sensible, hard-to-refuse business proposition that you�re about to put to me. Of course, I�ll have to run it by my accountant, figure out the tax breaks. I�m just thinking this, natch. �My girlfriend�s just had her bag nicked and you look like the bloke who took it.� Whoa! This is a new one. I�m wearing my �lucky� (yeah, right) Finland hat, and though I figure a good way to get away might be to feign being foreign, my response unfortunately comes out as �But I just got off a bus.� Way to go, man of a thousand voices.

Him: I�m not saying you�re the bloke that did it (tightens grip to level of strangling small mammal). But don�t run away.

Me (not running away): Look�.

Him: I�m not saying you did it, but have you got a pound you can give us for our bus fair.

Weird segue, I�m thinking, looking over to the girlfriend, who fucking WAVES, like we�re being introduced over vodka martinis in the Groucho Club. But a relief not to be in the frame for the handbag theft any more.

Me (holding onto my glasses � I�m wise to THAT TRICK now�) : I haven�t got any money�

Him (thrusting mobile phone at me): Look, take my mobile phone.

Weirder segue, I�m thinking. Not having pinned the handbag incident on me, is he now trying to plant electronic accessories on me? Or is it some kind of present to acknowledge the mistaken identity � after all, there must be a million weedy white blokes in Finland hats and glasses going round nicking the purses of gangsters girlfriends in Brixton.

Me: Er�no thanks (taking advantage of vice-like grip being released and runs into tube station, shouting FUCK OFF in rather stressed out manner to poor ticket tout guy offering a cut price travelcard)

Ah, this crazy city! Like the saying goes, �When a man is tired of London, he is tired of being scammed for small change by drug crazed pituitary cases.� Or something.

Just one machine gun, lord. I swear, it wouldn�t take long.