BLOOD RED PUTIN

 

Cosmopolitan Leicester Square was brimming beyond the brink with commuters tonight when elderly – but nevertheless still-handsome, though rugged-looking – ex-superstar Willie Roberts (as old as 54) played one of the main theatres, The Tinder Box, to a packed house of hand-picked fans and nostalgia freaks willing to let their hair down for the night – for an evening when they could ‘swing when they were winning.’

In fact, Bob Castle, a taxi driver in this district of London working an all-nighter and feeling desperately tired and sluggish (for some unknown reason he couldn’t figure) had actually picked up and given the ageing song-smith a lift in his black cab, the singer having asked to stop along the way to purchase a burger from a street-vendor, and who after a short tour had stepped out of the cab when they reached their destination unfashionably on time. He tipped Bob handsomely! Bob always thought that Willie Roberts was an all-round good egg.

However, the middle-aged bachelor cabbie was not feeling too good and couldn’t pinpoint the problem. It was a chilly evening and he was developing an unusually chesty cough.

Earlier today, he remembered, before beginning his shift on the roads (after a hot bath and a hefty lunch) he had gone outside to find his cat,  only to be bitten by the grumpy little sod whilst bringing him indoors. ‘Biting’ was so unlike Alberto – who incidentally took off like the clappers after the event, like he was in a hurry to be somewhere else. His cat, Bob noticed, did appear slightly and oddly peaky today, off-colour in comparison to how he looked yesterday, yet nifty in his exit – flitting out the back door and vanishing amid the bracken at the foot of the back-garden before taking off into the suburban nowhere.

Right now, Bob could have done with something nice and cooked in his belly and briefly entertained the temptation of stopping for a piping hot mug of coffee in one of the many greasy-spoon cafés.

Bob looked over his shoulder to glimpse his new fare. He couldn't take off for a bite yet, the gentleman had requested that he be dropped off in Kensington and looked – apart from being intoxicated and unsteady on his feet – high on some illegal substance. Bob was no expert on the subject but judging by the fella’s uneasiness and fumbling, Bob second-guessed that the demon coke was in effect here.

“Not long now, fella,” he assured the curly-haired, white-suited gentleman in the back seat. “Kensington here we come. Lock up your daughters!” He continued on in good spirits – even laughing.

The passenger giggled nervously – a kind of rasping, nervy giggle of mild fear and uncertainty. “Sure thing,” he said, “Just get me there in one piece because your display of road sense leaves me nothing short of understanding you’re a bad cabbie!”