Ethan "Po Boy" Pinnock

Ethan "Po Boy" Pinnock didn't choose the hustle — it chose him. With a last name that sounds more like a bourbon brand than a bloodline, no one's quite sure how “Pinnock” ended up in East London, let alone attached to a guy who runs a fish and chips shop with Cajun soul. But one thing's for sure: the nickname “Po Boy” stuck after a now-infamous night involving three dodgy bets, two dodgier shrimp deliveries, and one drunk American tourist who asked, “Mate, you ever make a real po' boy?”

That tourist's credit card? Declined. But the name? Eternal.

By day, Ethan runs Pinnock's Kitchen, the half-dead restaurant his father left behind — a crusty little joint with a flickering sign, a broken fryer, and loyal locals who swear the chips cure hangovers and heartbreak. But when the last plate's been scrubbed and the neon finally gives out, Ethan trades the apron for action.

Because by night, Po Boy becomes something else entirely — an unlicensed betting broker, late-night match manipulator, and all-around streetwise middleman in the underbelly of UK football. Need a second-tier match moved? Ethan's your guy. Looking for a ref who owes favors? He knows who drinks what. Want to bet on a Bolivian club game at 2 a.m. with odds that just don't make sense? You're probably playing in Ethan's backyard.

He doesn't fix games — not exactly. He just nudges them. Subtle. Surgical. Like seasoning a dish only he knows the recipe for. And the funniest part? He still uses the kitchen as his front — backroom bets logged in an old delivery ledger, coded calls made between fry cycles, and one battered TV in the corner that's always on football, no matter the time zone.

When people ask how he balances both lives, Ethan just shrugs and says, “It's all grease, innit? Some of it's from the fryer… and some of it's from the game.”