Mexico CityI was in gangland, a terrifying quagmire of narrow streets, pretend beggars, and sinister characters lurking at every corner.

The bag I was carrying had enough dope in it to get me killed, and I was scared, more so than at any time in my miserable life of pusher.

They appeared from nowhere, three big thugs with hand guns: I was done, and as I was about to hand over my bag, expecting my end was nigh, I saw them.

They were two of them, in T-shirts and shorts, in any other circumstances I would have said: a sexy pair, but the submachine guns they carried were for real.

“Hands up everyone, nice and calm!” the girls said, adding unnecessarily: “Policia Federales” – I sighed, feeling secure at last.