It was the 70s and all the punks would hang out on the Kings Road. I had the works: tartan bondage pants, the original ‘god save’ t-shirt (printed inside out), a chain from my ear to my nose and a tall orange mohawk. We kept them stiff with soap, no one had hair gel back then.
All the tourists knew where to find us, we were like Buck House or some shit. They would take photos of us and we would then demand a pound from them. We weren’t violent, if a tourist refused to pay, my mate Oaf would threaten to vomit on them.