Frank was one of those legendary Soho characters: orphaned, petty criminal, a gift for words - and drinking - taken up by the literary parasites, made fashionable, made unfashionable, sank into a slow decline and died.  Forget Adam Faith in 'Budgie', this is the real McCoy.  But you'll have to get used to his style of writing:  'Stand On Me'.  A world of brasses, ponces, tarts, pimps, ponies, monkeys, ducking, diving and sitting sniffing benzedrine in caffs that stay open all night.  A literary Edward Hopper maybe?