I was taking a shortcut to Portobello when I noticed an obnoxious auto-monstrosity trailing behind me though to be honest the deafening beat-box racket emanating from the stereo could hardly be ignored. The driver – a fair-head, shifty-eyed urchin with a coiling snake dotted on his scrawny neck limp under the weight of personalized hardware – looked unfamiliar. I carried on dragging my Chucks when he zapped his window down, appraised my person from every angle, and said: ‘Hey boo, want a ride?’ No doubt in his circles the phrase is considered a business card, accompanied by a letter of introduction and references. ‘What to your yard?’ I inquired, with the faintest trace of mockery in my voice, endeavoring, rather ineptly, to adhere to a vernacular indigenous to Ladbroke Grove. ‘You a smart girl.’ He observed, smiling. ‘Smart enough to get where I’m going on foot.’ I replied. Naturally, and somewhat irksomely, a conversation ensued. He queried me about my age, estimating eighteen, and my name and told me how ‘bubbling’ I was which I believe is slang equivalent for ‘I think you wouldn’t look out of place as Tatler’s Babe of the Month’. Ten minutes in to our chat I prodded lightly as to how on earth he could afford a 4 x 4, because he certainly didn’t look like your typical understrapper-of-a-papa-with-a-Coots-account. He explained that ‘man’s got funds’ and left it at that, which I believe is short for ‘I’m in the business of supplying junk to local school-kids and undiscerning trust fund variety addicts.’ He then suggested we go ‘cotch’, and when I explained I had errands to run he exclaimed: ‘Well give me your digits then innit.’ No not my measurements but rather my phone number. I said I didn’t own such a device, he offered to procure one. I told him he was being preposterous, he told me I was ‘one of dem posh indie chicks.’ Amusing as our exchange was I found myself increasingly flummoxed by the contorted stodge that discharged from his gob and thus departed thinking I’ve got more chance of cracking quantum physics than this mangled lingo of the illiterate, yet joking aside, he really was illiterate but I guess it matters not because he drives a hundred grand car while I am making my way in life in a pair of tattered plimsolls. So, in short, the message is; fuck education, fuck the law, fuck the whole system, and you too can live the lifestyle of a multi-millionaire before you’re out of your teens. Mind the small print though: If you chose this option you will most likely end up an illiterate nob but on the upside you won’t need to express yourself often because money talks.