I was in the Groucho Club swapping self-satisfied greetings with leading hacks when the urge for nicotine became insistent and I stepped outside for a fag. The door hadn’t stopped swinging behind me when I was pounced on by a range of even more heartless, shameless characters. They were literally queuing to con cash out of me.
‘You want some coke, boss?’ ‘No, thank you.’ ‘Very good, very cheap.’ ‘No, thank you.’ ‘Boss, let me give you a sample right here. Blow your mind.’ ‘Go away.’ ‘Only £40. I give you my phone number. Money-back guarantee.’ ‘Get out of my face.’ ‘OK. Give me one cigarette.’
A smoke-blackened man took his place. ‘I need money for a bed for the night.’ ‘How much?’ ‘Nine pounds eighty.’ I felt in my pockets, which were empty. ‘Sorry, fella, but I’ve already given away all my change and smaller notes. If you like I can put you on the waiting list.’
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