Nick

Nick was my customer. He is an architect. A bi-polar architect. A homeless, bi-polar architect. He takes the train to Terminal Five to spend the night in a Richard Rogers building. He tells very funny and very dirty jokes.

A middle aged man walks into a doctors surgery for a check-up.

The doctors says: "You seem to be in good shape but you have to stop masturbating"

"Why?" asks the worried man.

"Because I am trying to examine you."

A man goes to a fancy dress party with a condom on his face.

A young girl comes up to him and asks what he has come as.

"Fuck nose."

He cackles a lot. Drinks Stella. Draws pictures of what my van should look like. He wears wellies with the heels cut out. He chats up every girl on the street and tells tales of lost loves. He was Asbo'd out of Wimbledon for riding a bicycle naked to entertain a crowded pub. I told him to go away recently because I needed to "focus". "OK. You focus and I'll fuck off!". He trudged off cackling away. I haven't seen him since and I miss him.

Holloway car boot

"I'll give you 70p for a coffee."

"Sorry they cost two quid."

"But I can buy one over there for 80p."

"Yeah but that's Nescafe."

"Coffee's coffee mate. You aint gonna sell any at that price."

A nice Scandinavian bloke bought me House of Flying Daggers on DVD though.

The Birth of the Bean Machine

Some pics and reviews!

Pics by a lovely bloke/photographer called Steve Forrest

Nice words that make Brewed Boy feel a bit better about the last couple of weeks:

The Cafe Hunter

Greedy Diva

So... that was interesting.

So there I was full of bravado and high expectations and here I am now sitting on the couch when I should be on the street making coffee. Two weeks in the coffee business is a long time but I had no idea it would involve homeless architects, caffeine over-doses and industrial sabotage - perhaps I was being naive?

Problems with my "silent" generator meant getting the cart running required an electricity supply. In the eleventh hour the local mini cab rank stepped up to the plate. Witness my haggling prowess:

Me: I want to use your electricity.

Boss: What are you offering?

Me: Twenty quid a week.

Internal monologue: Shit. That was too much.

Boss: Thirty.

Me: Deal.

Internal monologue: Shit.

Boss: I'll tell you what - let's call it twenty five.

Me: Thanks.

Internal monologue: Damn you're good.

The first days rolled passed pleasantly. I made a few coffees, made some new friends and was generally having a ball. But then things started to go wrong. I turned up one morning and my power was switched off. Despite claiming to be a 24 hour service the cab office didn't open until 11am I sat on the pavement and sulked as my few regulars walked past sheepishly clutching a rival cup of joe. And this kept happening.

Now I am not accusing anyone but the arseholes in the local greasy spoon were definitely behind it.

This all came to a head when the taxi boss got out of his blacked out Range Rover and said he was pulling the plug. Apparently the local greasy spoon had put the hard word on them and they crumbled (I knew it was them really).

Me: I pulled a dead rat out of your toilet damn it! Where is the loyalty?

Boss: Really? That is disgusting!

Me: I know. Wish I hadn't done it now.

So to cut a long story short... another business gave me power only to pull the plug under similar circumstances while others "didn't want to start any trouble". I know this is Soho but I am making lattes not trying to muscle in on the local prostitution scene.

So that's me until I can get my little Ape running independently with the help of some gas and some big-arse batteries. But on the bright side I made it work and even without me there the local greasy spoon can't. As I drove out in temporary defeat I couldn't help asking the greasy spoon a question:

Me: So where are all these customers I am supposed to be stealing off you?

Internal monologue: Damn you're good.

Tale of Nick the Homeless Architect to follow.