The Shacklewell Harm was heaving.
Nigel sweated angrily while the barman chatted to his mates, before turning and walking towards him with a smile.
“Two pints of Doom, please, and a JD and Diet Coke.”
But the barman wasn’t smiling at him.
Nigel’s friends looked on, nonplussed, as he shouldered a hipster and forced his way to the exit.
Dalston was getting out of hand. It was time to take the power back.
“Is this man bothering you?” asked the tubby man in the Nacho Libre costume.
“Fuck off,” replied the dishwater blonde.
Nigel sat down and waited for his kebab.
“Chilli sauce, boss?”
“No thanks, I’m watching my weight.”
Nigel removed a tenner from his underpants, hygienically worn outside his tights, and placed it on the counter.
“Keep the change.”
Sucking the juice out of a chilli as he patrolled Kingsland Road, Nigel drew the attention of kids outside the barber-shop.
“You look like a fat, gay Batman, blud.”
“Battyman, more like. Oh my days.”
“Allow him, pecking his kebab like a pigeon.”
“All in a night’s work,” thought Nigel, grimly. He washed down the last of his doner with Diet Coke, farted and took a deep breath.
It was now or never.
Time to announce himself to his public.