The men all stood in line waiting for their chow. Granny served a mean cobbler with chitterings and stringy pig blood sausage. It was David's very favourite. But fuck me if it didn't give him the runs. Like a dog, he felt.

Stuck in the chair as the models paraded in front with nothing but a pair of flanges between the lot of them. The dogs round the back of Garmer's yelped as Daisy netuered them all. One, two, three.

The girls tickled the soles of my feet with fish and chip wrappers soggy with oil and vinegar. It was some sort of heaven. Ringpiece walked in the room with a checkerboard jacket and a polythene rib-bib. He said,‘If I ain’t the luckiest motherfucker on the planet then fucking roast me now.' The man just dripped it.

He held a matchstick to the moon and declared his love for the juice Johnny served out the back of his truck that had become a bar since the Mayor had decided that, 'Drink ain't got no more place in this here settlement, now that we is pure.' Johnny's truck bar soon became the haunt for all sorts of folk, particularly prostitutes, who fucked men under the engine and round the tail-pipe, a tablet of booze tucked behind their gold teeth.

‘Pull yourself away,’ she called in that bitter chicory tongue. More annoying than taking a trip to the moon only to spin around the car park in an old panda, whizzing round on a perpetual handbrake turn while the dirty blokes dog in the steaming cars set in a circle, the panda at its centre, interminably spinning, headlights flashing, catching the odd globe of flesh, lighting up hunks of sexual butchery.

Before the turn of the last century I became embroiled in a mammoth game of rounders up on the top field. We played over six months, one half of the village against the other; the council estate versus the scoffing homeowners. And when we finished, the dogs stood and applauded, waving their dirty piss-stinks like a bunch of rubber rats caught in the zip of bulging denim jeans that hug the flesh.