Edward Smith is a snowman, based in Kings Cross. Due to increasingly mild weather, he has seen little active snowman service in the last decade. Having been assembled by a gang of children on a piece of wast eground off Pentonville Road during last week’s heavy snowfall, Edward is looking forward to seeing how the area has fared in his absence.

No, it’s not f***in’ Frosty pal. The name’s Smith. Edward Smith. I am a snowman, yes, but I’m not called f***in’ Frosty! You think all Snowmen are named after some form of frozen water, don’t you? Oh there’s Frosty, and there’s Snowy, and there’s Icey… and now we’ve run out of names, so we’ll just have to give them normal ones. Ah Jesus! Look at me! Will you look at my face! In the old days kids had a bit of respect… lumps of coal for eyes, carrot for a nose etc. Look at this? Asthma inhaler for a nose, two bits of chewing gum for me eyes, and load of old dog ends for teeth. Where’s the respect? Kids today? I look like Shane MacGowan.

The Flying Scotsman, right of the station, used to be a safe bet for a cheap pint and a stripper. That’s what I used to like about King’s Cross. Everyone was welcome, drunk, sober, black, white, made of snow, whatever. King’s Cross was like paradise to me, with booze and birds and blow, after years of being in the limbo where snowmen go when there’s no snow. Anyway, some guy on the door goes, “You can’t come in here mate.” And I’m going, “Why? What’s the problem?” And he says, “Because you’re made of snow, and you’ve got dog ends for teeth.” And I said, “Hang on mate, there’s a fifty year old woman with cellulite in there spreading her arse cheeks for a pint glass of loose change and you’re saying this place is too smart to let me in.” And he starts shoving me around and me inhaler nose falls off so I look like some kind of snowman plastic surgery disaster, but I know when I’m beat so I split.

A Chinese bloke at the top of Gray’s Inn Road said to me, “Hey, you, snowman, why don’t you fly off to the North Pole and go to the big snowmen’s party?”, and I say “Because it’s f***in’ melting, thanks to you. And anyway, just because someone’s made of snow, like what I am, doesn’t mean I’ll have anything in common with them. Why don’t you go to China town with all your Chinese mates and talk about China? Now, where’s the Scala cinema?”

Last time I was at the Scala you could pay £3 for a whole night of 70’s Italian Exploitation Cinema, and there’d be all manner of Kings Cross deadbeats nodding off in the aisles and joints doing the rounds up the back, so I roll up and go inside, and there’s some band playing funky prog, and the audience are all scrubbed up and shiny, and the beer’s £5 a pint in bottles. And by two in the morning I’ve had enough of all this so I get up on the stage and nab a mic and start shouting, “What have you done? What have you done to King’s Cross? This place used to be paradise, heaven on earth. It used to be a den of thieves and you have made it a…” And then a big purple light swings round and shines on me and I’m melting… I’m melting… I’m melting… what have you done? What have you done to King’s Cross? Noooooooooo.

Edward Smith was talking to Stewart Lee