Under a damp, piss-stained bridge over the Thames, where even the rats had moved on to stablecoins, sat Nigel — the undisputed king of London’s crypto hobos. His blue tent was so full of holes it was basically just a fancy raincoat. His black socks had more holes than his portfolio, and his fingerless gloves looked like they’d been chewed by his ex-girlfriend’s cat back in 2021.

Suddenly, Kevin crawled out from behind a concrete pillar like a true degen. He was wearing a faded “This is Financial Advice” T-shirt that now read “This is Financial Suicide.” On his head sat a greasy McDonald’s bag instead of a hat, proudly displaying the words “I’m lovin’ it” — the only thing he’d loved in the last five years.

“ Nigel, my brother in Christ… and in red candles!” Kevin wheezed, plopping straight into a puddle. “I brought you a gift!”

He pulled out half a cold, soggy french fry and offered it like it was a 100x airdrop.

Nigel’s eyes lit up with pure emotion.

“Kevin… you absolute legend. Sit closer to my solar panel, bro. It generated a whopping 1.2 volts today! That’s almost as much brainpower as I had left after the 2022 crash.”

Kevin nodded proudly and began:

“Dude, I overheard some normies talking by the dumpster today. Parliament just passed another crypto law. Now you have to KYC your wallet even if you’re just sending five quid on Binance. No KYC — £5,000 fine!”

Nigel burst out laughing so hard he nearly dropped his precious solar panel into the Thames.

“£5,000 fine?! Mate, my entire net worth is 47 pence and three dusty USDT! What are they gonna take — my holey socks as collateral?!”

Kevin raised a finger (the only one still visible through his glove) and said with dead seriousness:

“I’ve got the perfect solution. We need a new law called the ‘Crypto Hobo Protection Act.’ If your portfolio is under £50 and you live under a bridge, you become a VIP. No taxes, no KYC, and the government has to give you free Red Bull and fresh holey socks every month.”

“Brilliant!” Nigel clapped his dirty gloves. “And add a clause: anyone who bought Solana at the top gets lifetime rights to any bridge in England. It’s emotional damage compensation!”

They both stared at the grey Thames in silence. A weak ray of sunlight finally broke through the clouds and landed on Nigel’s solar panel like it felt sorry for him.

Kevin sighed dramatically:

“Remember 2021, Nigel? We were young, dumb, and ‘rich’… on paper. You were screaming ‘Lamborghini or nothing!’ and I was yelling ‘Private jet or rope!’ We drank Moët, girls were everywhere, everyone shouting ‘We’re all gonna make it!’”

Nigel looked down at his disgusting socks and smiled sadly:

“Now we scream ‘We’re all gonna make it… to the next food bank.’ Instead of Lambos, our biggest dream is finding a pair of socks with only one hole.”

Kevin raised his dented Red Bull can:

“To the old days, when we thought -90% was just a healthy correction. Now -99.9% is our daily lifestyle.”

Nigel clinked his can (this was already his third today):

“And to the fact that we’re still HODLing… even though we don’t even know what the fuck we’re holding anymore.”

Suddenly, Nigel’s solar panel flickered and died completely.

“Oh no…” he whispered. “Even the sun has rugged me.”

Kevin patted him on the back with his holey glove:

“Don’t worry, bro. Tomorrow is the next bull run. Definitely. Or maybe the day after…”

And the two crypto hobos under the bridge over the Thames laughed their ugly, broken, perfectly cringy laugh together.