John,

Thanks for your comment. Hoover and Tolson are buried in adjacent graves. So, I'd say its True Filth. (Or, at lease as true as can be curently determined.) Hoover started out as an innotative lawman, but became a creepy character later in his career.

You have a couple of strong contenders here.

When I met Reggie
 

I had a close personal encounter with Reggie Kray one Friday 16th April. He had escaped captivity (leaving his twin Ronnie behind bars) and been sighted roaming the local golf course. He even brazenly appeared in its club house, then decamped, only to be spotted lurking in my parents' garden.
There, he proved to be a gentle creature, not averse to being manhandled nor biting or scratching at all when we detained him (first) in a cardboard box and then (when he looked like succeeding in his persistent efforts to escape) being transferred into a somewhat sturdier wicker basket. (Apparently, though, he and his brother had been wild in their youth.)
We rang the relevant authorities and in due course a warder and driver arrived to take him back; which Reggie assented to readily, even eagerly, after obligingly posing for photos.

Of course we hadn't known all the back-story till then. Meanwhile we had simply enjoyed this unexpected encounter with an altogether-amiable young runaway ferret.

I started several pieces on London department stores, but found most of them had attendant rhyming difficulties. Debenham and Freebody . . . Swan and Edgar . . . Marshall and Snelgrove . . . You see what I mean? Much scope for inventive thought -- but time is short.

So, reluctantly, I went downmarket and settled for Arding and Hobbs (slightly desperately teamed with "blobs.") Few on the other side of the Greater English Channel will ever have heard of it, and I dare say some Spectator readers will prefer to deny their Clapham Junction roots.

But even as I write it is on its way to becoming an instant transfer to Lucy's recycling bin. What the hell! Write about what you know, say I.

I have a poem set in Arding and Hobbs. Won't do for this, though.

Ann,
But I can be confident that yours does not sink to the depths of rhyming it with blobs! Can't I, please God?

I parked it in the middle of a line, to avoid blobs.

Ah, such skill. Would that I were a proper poet.

For what it's worth, I much prefer you as an improper one.

Then, for what it is worth, I shall continue as such. But the Clown's yearning to play Hamlet is unlikely to rest no matter how many bells may adorn the motley.

Some suitably doggerely stuff from an ex-educator:

I have an ancient firm in mind, devised by Thring and Gabbitas;
They specialise in sourcing Beaks and do it with much gravitas.
Providing staff to teach the boys of Eton or of Kazakhstan
Their offices, off Regent Street, have welcomed Waugh and Betjeman.