Every big city in the West has a Chinatown. A place to eat Cantonese dim sum and spicy Sichuan cuisine, buy Sandalwood incense, paw-waving lucky cat figurines and study Kung Fu.
Fear, hate, want and suffering. The four things that led me into learning how to fight.
And marbled clouds go scudding by the many-steepled Atlantan sky.
I go walkabout most every day.
Old nak muay never die, they just fade away.
A Black Lives Matter chapter down the road in Louisiana just printed up a batch of t-shirts with a quote from yours truly in the Huffington Post.
Blooming Russians. They're like rats in Londongrad. You're never more than six-feet away from one of them. I'm in Notting Hill (sometimes). Loads of 'em round our way. But who are they? What are they? What do they want? Are they dodgy or are they kosher? These are some of the basic questions that I will be failing to answer.
Built in 1912, the Krog Street Tunnel in Atlanta is a vital artery for pedestrians, cyclists and vehicular traffic. But that's not all. The interior of the tunnel itself is a chaotic collage of graffiti art and something else to behold.
Back in London after two years in the colonies (North America), it was time to check out the shops and bag some new mufti.
After a cramped eight-hour flight on the red-eye from Atlanta, I touched down in London's Notting Hill.
