THEY’RE sidling in from the outskirts, the industrial estates, under cover of darkness onto our cobbles and spires: rival firms patrolling six til late from the gloom of Piccadilly, guns blazing over the Foss.

Or stationed in Micklegate where girls in huge shoes clomp and stagger across the Ouse screaming blue murder.

These are the gangs, the big boys ready to lure you, snatch your cash, jostling for position in fierce competition.

There’s a new one about to emerge hogging the corner by Duttons for Buttons.

True it’s been an eyesore for years: a squat, graffiti covered, urine scented. But I’d rather that than yet another supermarket.

Lyn Langford, Beech Avenue, York