"What's it about?"
"Cuts to nurses" I replied, failing to consider that nurses are probably perfectly capable of taking care of cuts on their own.
"We have three signatures", I continued, "although one of them is you".
At this point I noticed a change in his demeanour. As if he wasn't taking us seriously. I probably imagined this, because it was five minutes to six in the morning and we were clearly three sheets to the wind. This may have already made his quick-witted policeman mind cautious about our authenticity. He giggled, grinned and playfully wiggled his semi-automatic gun.
As we approached Big Ben, gleaming brilliant gold in bright dawn sunshine, he rang. Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bonggg. Hello Ben, it's been quite some time.
We went to visit Brian Haw, but he wasn't up, lazy bastard. We resigned ourselves to talking loudly about the fact he wasn't up just outside his canvas abode.
Because we'd been out with Derren Brown that night, you see. Drinking in the same pub at least. After his show, the first night of his run of 'Svengali' in London. I can't quite place where in the show he gave me the instruction to drink 4 pints and meet him there.
On his way out, he gave me a kiss. 'Nice beard' he said. I think he was trying to manipulate me into choosing the number '4'. And I'll never know what for. Not until I wake up age 63 on a desert island with only the vaguest sense of once co-ordinating a worldwide hacking project and depositing £10 million in someone else's bank account.
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