![]() The second was a request for photo approval, which might seem a strange demand from a person who wears a mask. This was one of Kendo's two stipulations: a separate changing area screened by a curtain. Kendo and his friends find the photographer's studio and move straight for the changing room. On this balmy Wednesday afternoon he believes it is as important as ever to keep up appearances. He looks menacing, he causes the traffic to slow. It tightens at the back with those little pop-stoppers you find on baseball caps. It is a soft, worn woollen face mask, black with white vertical stripes, and he pulls it on with alarm. I recognise his manager first, and call out his name: 'Lloyd!' At this moment, Kendo takes something from his pocket. He has three men with him - his manager, his driver, and his website designer. He wears a dark jacket and black trousers, newly shined shoes, a nice fat metallic watch which he consults to find he is a little early. ![]() He has short brown hair, a narrow face with a prominent and slightly pinched nose, and deeply set eyes that squint in the sunlight. Kendo Nagasaki, a man who has earned fame by beating other men until they cry for mercy, is walking around Finsbury in north London in search of a place where he can have his photograph taken.
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