Levy, don't even think about it

Dear Mr Levy,

I'll get straight to the point.

Leyton high road, in-between the KFC and Orient is Coronation Gardens. Lovely place, probably the only place in Leyton where you won't find a bed mattress or broken television every few feet as you walk briskly along. What you will find are some park benches, specifically the ones that face the high road, near the bus stop. And here, on Fridays and most weekends you will see Whiskey Tom. You can't really miss him to be honest. Stinks to high heaven, always intoxicated on Tennents, puking up against walls, screaming at the trees. He's about forty-five, looks sixty. Scruffy beard, stained clothes. You get the picture. He's a hobo, a tramp. Probably has some mighty deep story about how he ended up on the streets, but you'll never get past his ramblings to ever know.

He's a fruit loop. My personal favourite was the time he pissed in his boots and chased a number 357 bus screaming till his lungs burst that 'Satan's seed needed to be purified'. Go visit, he's always there. Not sure what he does for the rest of the week, but probably sleeps it off in some squat somewhere. Or just uses one of the many street-beds you get in that part of east London.

If you want to sign someone on a free, then I suggest Tom. To my knowledge he has absolutely no associations with Chelsea and Arsenal and even though his plight appears to be one of sadness, he's actually quite content with his little kingdom of desolation. You'll never find him sitting in the middle of the street crying. Standing up and urinating over cars, guaranteed on a Saturday night.

Don't say I didn't give you the heads up.