Got a call from Harry Privet early this morning before I had time to empty my liver of last nights bile. Made some excuse about having to attend a 'planning' meeting with Boakes re some transatlantic venture and unloaded his London schedule firmly in my already groaning in tray.

However it sounded like a good jolly that mainly revolved around getting the rest of the Brinks Mat stock re molded into plates of full english breakfasts. Fuck me this Gold has changed shape so many times from Beatrix Potter figurines, Jewish condoms, busts of Gordon Brown and now fucking breakfasts?

After a my hearty breakfast of raw lamb kidney en croute and a jug of Cognac and goose egg, I found myself in a better frame of mind to meet my commitments. Since my rescue by Dick Spencer from the Congo, Privet and Boakes have holed me up in a top floor flat near Clapton Pond only a short distance from Blind Beggar hostelry in Whitechapel. This would be my first stop before the Directors club in Pall Mall where I was destined to meet Geoff to discuss the liberation of Big Ben.

The Blind Beggar was full of the usual east end hustlers,

I had to make contact with Barry the hat who didn't turn up for several hours which gave me time to get a few down my neck.

I had an endearing conversation with a lovely women Vera, who was a ward Sister just across the road at The London Hospital where they keep the remnants of John Merrick (The Elephant Man) in a large pickle jar. She was telling me stories of how they get him out sometimes and walk him around the children's ward late at night competing in their best John Hurt accents. Occasionally they just put the huge Merrick pickle jar on a trolley and sent him hurtling through the burns unit.

Barry arrived eventually complaining about his septic corns as some lame excuse for his unpunctuality but his mold pressings looked good. Two sausage, three rashers of bacon, two eggs and a fried slice, very realistic, absolute craftsmanship. His wife Doris was going to 'Paint em up to look the business' and he predicted that the Brinks Mat reconfigured breakfast would be ready in a month. The gold breakfasts would eventually be be spread round the greasy spoon chain Privet and his business partner Boakes created known as 'The Buttered Sausage Franchise'.

Business dealt with I remembered a lovely little crack and whore house over Westminster way. I thought a few pipes and letting some high class cracker get her skull round my genitalia for an hour would set me up for my next bloody meeting. Fortunately for me but I knew somehow unfortunately for Privet and Boakes the club also had a good supply of Laudnam. Now crack and Laudnam are a perfect match but one has to sleep the effects off for a little while.

Big Ben struck at six am in the not so far off distance, I awoke under a pile of semi clad west end dancers, had another swig of the liquid valium and thought fuck Privet, fuck Boakes, they can sort the bell theft out some other time.