Mad about town

But who’s this, spotted on Saturday taking tea in top Walworth watering hole, the Star Café? None other than celebrity thug “Mad” Frankie Fraser, taking time out from his hectic gangster schedule to relax with his mystery lady friend. He paid his debt to society—but we wonder if he paid a tip!

This isn't the first time I've found myself in the erstwhile Kraynik’s presence. Seven years ago I was with a group of school-leavers and foreign students being given a tour of the London College of Printing with a view to doing a foundation course, when suddenly “Mad” Frankie appeared at the back in a camelhair coat, along with a girl wearing a frankly amazing leopardskin. He interrupted the lecturer gruffly:

“I want this young lady to learn to type,” he said.

The lecturer kept his irritation on the leash. “Well, she should see someone at reception on the ground floor,” he said levelly. “They should be able to tell her who to speak to.”

“Mad” Frankie was wary of being fobbed off. “And she can definitely learn to type?” he said suspiciously.

“Of course,” said the lecturer. “They'll be able to help at reception.”

I had recognised him as soon as he turned up. I have rarely felt so alone as at the moment I realised, being surrounded by seventeen-year-olds and foreigners, that I was the only person in the group—barring, I presumed, the lecturer—who knew who the hell “Mad” Frankie Fraser was. I ended up having to hide behind a pillar, biting my knuckle to stop myself laughing, as “Mad” Frankie led his—daughter? niece? companion—downstairs again.

The London College of Printing does a lot of graphic design courses, photography, film, animation etc. It really, really doesn’t do typing courses.

From the vaults

June 2003

Yesterday I met the worst pimp in the world.

I turned the corner into Rupert Street and he lurched into my path. I began to sidestep him as he started his spiel. “Mate, mate.” I shook my head as he carried on. “Just stop a minute.” Then he grabbed my arm. I looked at his hand. “Can you let go?” I said. “I’m just talking to you,” he said. “No you're not. You’re holding my arm,” I replied.

Undeterred, he showed me the wares he was offering. “Look at that!” he yelled, jabbing his finger towards a nearby standard-issue, seen-too-much, gets-older-with-every-glance ghetto courtesan. “Are you telling me you don’t want...” “No,” I assured him. “What? Why? Are you scared? Are you a poofter?” He tightened his grip. “Are you a batty boy?”

“Just let it go,” I suggested. “You have not made a sale.”

“No, I’m arksing you,” he continued loudly as people started to turn and stare. “Are you a shit-stabber? Do you fuck arse?” I debated some options (e.g. Noel Coward voice: “Ah, dear boy...”) but swiftly decided by far the safest was just to look him in the eyes and say “No”.

He flung away my arm in disgust, muttered “You must be”, and stormed off.