This is Eddie, the legend who works in the local dry cleaners up on Hackney Road.

I spotted this tat on his forearm the other day and asked him what it meant.

He said it was Arabic for ‘prisoner to music’.

You like your tunes then, yeah? I ask.

He stops, no-look hits the off-switch on the enormous dry-cleaner behind him, and stares me dead in the eye. The place falls silent.

I live for beats, my brother.

I smiled, paid and went about my day. Prisoner to music? I’d struggled hard to act surprised. With the amount of Celine and Britney that man pumps out of his speakers on the daily, I’d say prisoner to music is about right. Hey if Chumbawamba plan a reunion anytime soon, odds-on our man Eddie’s headed straight to solitary.


My mate Mim then pointed out his tattoo didn’t even mean anything.

Which made even more sense. When I asked him how it was pronounced he shrugged, said he didn’t have a clue, said he didn’t speak Arabic.