Sunday is only an hour and a half old. Greg Baker is unshaven in a hooded top and more crucially, he is drunk. He began the night some six hours earlier, wandering the streets of Bedford Place and drinking white wine from the bottle
But the pubs have all closed now and glass has been smashed against a wall by his assailant Luke Sanderson. Two policeman jump to the scene and Baker, now totally intoxicated by white wine served by the bucket at the nearby Cricketers has taken it upon himself to argue with the law. "Why don't you catch the real criminals," he bellows.
He is told to back off unless he wants to spent the night in the cells, but it's clear their authority is unrecognisable to Baker in this drink laden state. "I've no respect for you," he continued. "No respect."
Baker disappeared into the shadows, to no doubt throw up his Chicken-Land onto the bonnet of a Ford Cosworth and urinate into a letterbox. One can only hope Rottweilers are present. Clearly he is a man not to be trifled with. If female it's advised you approach with extreme caution.