For charity, I visit a large bar near Picadilly Circus. There are flashing lights, popular hits and half-price cocktails. The barmaids all wear identical brightly-coloured and tightly fitted dresses with knee-high white leather boots. One of them looks at me blankly when I try to ask my question whilst ordering a caipirinha. I decide it is not worth pursuing.
In the toilets, a man hovers ready to pounce with soap, aftershaves and lolly-pops. I choose the sink furthest from him but before I have turned on the tap he is standing next to me. 'No soap, no hope', he says. I agree that hygiene is important and accept a squirt. 'No splash, no gash', he says turning on the tap. I am not sure whether I have misheard him. 'Take a towel if you're on the prowl'. I realise I haven't. 'No cologne, no one comes home'. The man at the urinal starts laughing. 'No lolly, no jolly. No Davidoff, no suck it off.' There are others but, without a notebook, I knew I would not be able to remember them. I halt his flow with my question. He smiles revealing a filling like a thick paper clip on his front tooth. He tells me the name is Nigerian.
I leave the bar before eleven o'clock.
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