First time we clocked “The Pinkster” was in Footscray, Melbourne, in maybe 2002. Helluva place back then… very Demi Monde. It had accreted layers of immigration on top of old school lower working Joe. Post war Greeks and Italians.  After Vietnam it basically mostly became little Saigon. The more recently Ethiopians and Somalians and Eritreans. A real stew, but predominantly Pho Bo.

These days fucking gentrification encroaches. Hipsters, microbreweries and trendy burger joints. Skag dealers and street pros in the wind. Was a time when i couldn’t walk the street without someone threatening to sell me heroin. Don’t know what’s changed more, me or the street.

Any way, me and the Frenchman were just turning a corner when this dude waltzed past. Waltz ain’t the word. He strode with purpose like he owned the sidewalk. Overly tall, overly skinny Asian dude, dressed, I swear to god, head to toe in Barbie Pink He got Barbie Pink brogues and socks. He got a Barbie Pink three-piece. Pants with creases like razors. Thin pink neck-tie with a gold tie-pin.  Pink flat cap. Only thing that ain’t pink is a white dress shirt. Man, he even has shades with pink rims. He’s got a cheroot in his mouth. That’s just regular brown.

Me and Le Guiche just fucking look at each other. It’s like no fucker else has even noticed him. I mean you used to see out there shit in Footscray, but this was next level. I say “Pinkster…”. Le Guiche laughs and says “totally Mbrako!”…

We walk to the end of the block, and fuck me – same guy comes around the corner. We kinda stop agog.

The Pinkster, pauses, looks back and says “You whitey’s coming or not?”

I say “… Ormo Koncept…”.

We follow the Pinkster. It seems like what the situation calls for..

We follow him across the street and in through the Saigon Market. It ain’t there any more. Burned down a few years back. You gotta figure it was an insurance thing. Back then though, you step through that threshold you leave Melbourne. You are straight into a market in Vietnam. Me and Le Guiche were probably the only westerners in there except the odd white guy traipsing round after his Vietnamese wife wondering what the fuck she is buying and thanking his stars that she’s twenty years younger than him…

The market is a fucking riot, in the best sense of the word. It is jam-packed with customers and vendors, but The Pinkster seems to just flow through the crowd like water. Me and Le Guiche struggle to keep up, making excuses and apologies to people who have no idea what we are saying. This ain’t like no regular Australian market with neat rows and tidy stalls. It is a maze of stalls and blanket spreads and clusters of baskets, all overflowing with piles of stuff like vegetables that you never seen before and desiccated octopuses and dried insects and shit like that. And the fucking noise. It’s like the League of Fucking Nations, but all in loud fast gook. Guess I shouldn’t say that anymore… Anyway, no simple price. They gotta earn their discount. Everybody plays the game. Everybody takes it so serious…

By the time we come out the other end of the Market it is clear as day we ain’t in Footscray anymore. There is scooter mayhem everywhere. Also, its night-time. What the flying fuck? I think we are in Hanoi…

– Patrick Johnston