O for nothing

In taking this shot and some others of the apocalyptic offerings at this industrial estate in the shadow of the Olympic village, I was apprehended gently but cautiously by the west African lads who were sort of hanging around there ("working" would be misleading). One insisted on calling his boss to let him know what I was doing. I cracked on while he satisfied his officiousness.

When the boss, a Phil Mitchell tribute act in unworn overalls, marched out from one of the neighbouring yards, I told him I was just taking photos of the rust and knackered Allegros. He wasn't arsed, and departed saying something about "asking permission". Then he turned to his employees and said "He's looking for illegal immigrants".

It was probably some of that cockney banter they have down here nowadays.

I might go back and spray some "banter" on his gates. That's how it works, right?