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Robin Quinn was born the ultimate cockney. None of this piss-weak, "within the sounds of Bow bells" rubbish for him - he was born a child of the bells themselves. On a stormy night filled with promise and mystery, a bizarre combination of the bells ringing, pearly kings and queens getting Mrs Brown's knees well up, and a pile of discarded whelk shells, this child of the East End was brought forth.

Never without his chimney sweep's brush and a twinkle in his eye, Quinny brought hope and joy to the vagrants of olde London town and led them in a Faganesque way for many years until this growing underclass army brought terror to the streets and a gentleman could not leave his house for fear of being left handkerchief-and-pocket-watch-less.

Finally the government had to take action. The manhunt lasted for weeks and the country was gripped in a state of fear. It was during this period that the song "The Mighty Quinn" was first penned - although seemingly about an Eskimo, it was a thinly veiled commentary on this man / beast cockney abomination. Eventually he was cornered with soapy rags on sticks and herded onto a boat headed for the colonies.

Without the powers granted him for being within 5 miles of Albert Square, he has settled down in the Antipodes - only the healing blessing of beer brings back a shadow of his former self and he can still be seen on a weekend staggering down Brunswick St in full pearly king (or queen) regalia, singing Chas and Dave tunes and being as chirpy as the day is long.