sticky up in the morning and all thick with vegatables and crushed beetles I stumble into the den and with a swift half of John Bull I’m gawping at Bomb Jack for 3 and a half hours until I’m round the clock and Dave is getting very grumpy sat on his spike in the corner where the others are blowing smoke rings into the night with ginsters and mccoys on tap. I don’t know what was in that stuff but it did the job, even in the rain, when it all dripped down your back like a spikey duck with nails in it’s boots and an old lumberjack shirt with the sleeves pulled off. remember theatre of hate? go on, just shake your fists out at right angles for a bit while you stomp around Pennies with a crowbar down your trousers which are halfway up your leg and then turned up for good measure. 17 rum and blacks and I never felt a thing. it was only when I wasn’t allowed to put my head on her antimacassars that it struck me as ridiculous, but now of course I’d kill for it even though I could do without the Camels and Coke.
I do have a picture of it somewhere that’s far too scary for small children which is probably festering in another life somewhere under a pile of old plastic nameplates from Watchmoor Park and business cards with japanese on the back that I never used having never been there or met any japanese on business although I was assured at the time it was really the thing to do. that’s probably when it started going, being the sedentary sloth in the call centre while British Gas were poking thier Ultra 2 with a stick and I was secretly passing it onto hardware support in CMS and running off for a 32plus.