Vladimir Shokov

Vladimir Shokov finally crosses the Tamar Bridge in his search for refinement and winds up in a squat in Hackney....

Stimulated by my recent adventures in the skateboarding haven of Larkside, I decided to get the Morris Minor out of the garage and head for dear old London. Stopping for fuel I was forced to shake my cane at the ruffian garage owner who would only allow me to purchase my petrol requirement in those French litre measurements. Eventually I made the capital in good time, about nine and a half hours and proceeded to the Kings Cross in search of board after my weary travels. Having heard all sorts of sale mots about the Big Smoke I was pleasantly surprised when a somewhat fancily dressed woman standing outside the train station invited me to her flat. What splendid hospitality from a total stranger. Taking the odd smelling lift to the seventh floor of her building we ventured inside only for her to demand the sum of 500 bob for her 'services'. I appeared to have been hoodwinked by a so called femme de la nuit at only 7pm. Thinking of Mrs Shokov back home I made my excuses and left. Outside on the landing I was approached by a dribbling young man with a nervous tic and rolling eyes who asked me if I was 'up for some crack'. Due to my research I knew this was a vernacular for some kind of merriment so I followed Dribbler to his flat and thanked him for his kind offer of allowing me to 'crash' as youth parlance put it. Instead of rugs on the floor they were positioned around the walls and in the absence of a three piece suite I was forced to sit on a shapeless item known as a 'beanbag'. Dribbler appeared to be some sort of freelance scientist for there were powders and test tubes scattered about and pipette type apparatus everywhere. He requested a cigarette from me so I handed over a Woodbine but instead of smoking it he simply flicked some ash from it into a plastic milk carton with silver foil on top and a biro sticking out the middle. I guess the complexities of his experiments were beyond my limited knowledge but suddenly he handed me the apparatus and told me to smoke through the biro. Very queer indeed but as something of a tobacco product connoisseur I was intrigued to sample this new super strength white rock form of tobacco.
The next 15 seconds were like nothing I had experienced before even at the hands of the Swedish au pair I used to employ before Mrs Shokov told her to pack her suitcase. Even the heady highs of Jizz Club could not compare to this. Ten seconds later I requested a further sample only to be told 'It's £10 a rock mate' and was persuaded to hand over my wallet to Dribbler for safekeeping which was a splendid gesture. As added security I gave him my PIN number and passport for as he warned me 'There's a lot o' dodgy geezas about in Landon mate'.
How we smoked! How we laughed! During our bonding Dribbler oscillated between monosyllabic mumbling and bursts of self righteousness where he educated me on the dangers of meat, tap water and foolhardy recreational pursuits such as the newly decriminalised marijuana. He appeared to be somewhat deaf as he needed to turn the wireless up to it's maximum power output and seemed unable to hear me other than when I requested yet another of those 'rocks' as I now knew they were  called. My attempts to return his kindness by taking him to a modestly refined eaterie were rebuffed in a somewhat contemptuous manner and suddenly I realised I was in the company of a confirmed vulgarian who knew nothing of sophistication or the finer things in life.

Jizz editors note: This article is incomplete as Vladimir Shokov will be off work for the next two years or so.