Chapters 1-5 (the first 5000 or so words)

1
They sat in a silent, self-inflicted stupor, pondering over and working out the answers to life, the universe, and everything, and promptly forgetting them after being distracted by a small piece of fluff on the carpet. In an attempt to break the silence, in which he was becoming increasingly paranoid, he quietly muttered the word “Why?” In doing this, all of his energy was spent, leaving his head bobbing forward and his thick hair falling in front of his eyes, this gave the façade of blindness, which disconcerted him profusely, but allowed his eyes to close without his knowledge. Only awoken from his semi consciousness by his friend’s retort “What the fuck you mean; ‘Why?’” This surprised him, and brought him back into what is often referred to as the land of the living. “I mean why everything, what the hell are we doing with our li-“ at this point he was rudely interrupted by the spontaneous combustion of the piece of fluff that had distracted him before, and he started to wonder if this piece of fluff had some form of vendetta against him, especially considering the combustion was not self contained, and the carpet had set alight whilst he was pondering over the fluffs’ opinions of him. In this instant, he heroically leapt to his feet, exclaiming “I SHALL SAVE US! –Oh for fucks sake Al, why did you have to steal my moment” Al slumped back to his seat, in a wholly unfulfilled way, having stamped on the ever so inconsiderate piece of fluff, that had decided to combust. Back in their seats, they observed the room in an a new light, a light which allowed for the spontaneous combustion of a piece of fluff to be a wholly possible event, and one in which things made more sense, in that they didn’t. Being sat on a boring sofa did not please Al’s mind, so he decided it would be a good idea to pretend he was in a large gothic chair: the type of chair which would be in place in some form of castle in a horror film, but one of those old, bad horror films, not one of the new ones where people get parts of their bodies chopped up. A certain smugness graced Al’s face, as he imagined the mahogany talons looming over his shoulders, and the delicious velvet that rubbed against the base of his spine (from the fact Al’s t-shirts always rode up when he sat down, not on the front, on the back, which meant that the base of his spine had a certain connection to any back rest that it graced. For this reason he was not a big fan of leather seats.) Al’s hands then slid to the arm rests of his beautiful, albeit completely imagined chair, and he felt happy. This happiness faded when he realised he was in fact on a leather sofa, which was becoming increasingly sticky with his sweat, and that his friend looked as if he was about to explode with concentration. Being brought back to reality in such an inconsiderate fashion made Al rather upset. To combat the negative emotions he was feeling, he attempted to start a conversation, he murmured “What’re you thinking about?”, well, this is what he tried to say, though what was heard by his dear friend was in fact “whurereyuhinsinghahou…?” This led to some confusion, and the look on Al’s friend’s face changed from one of extreme, though quiet concentration to one of loud, stampeding befuddlement. “What on earth did you just say Al?” Al decided, as a social experiment, he would now stay silent. The friend stared at Al for a moment (a moment being approximately half a minute.) As part of Al’s social experiment, he decided that he shall completely acknowledge that he can hear, and even possibly actively listen, to make sure his friend does not think Al is either ignoring him, cannot hear him, or has drifted into a state of non-existence in which he is a figment of his own imagination. Al’s friend seems to get frustrated quickly, though this may just be the fact that in his vernacular, swearing was rather prominent, in a controlled tone Al’s friend softly said “What the fuck did you say?” Al tilted his head back and drew a smile across his face. This seemed to annoy the friend to some extent “Al; you prick, what the fack did you say?” the fact his speech had deteriorated (saying fack instead of fuck) interested Al, since his friend was usually rather good at enunciating his words. “Seriously Al, stop being a dick and tell me what you said” Al’s smile broadened. This annoyed his friend. His tone sterner, and the volume increased “I will not hesitate to throw hard things at you if you continue to withhold from me whatever you said.” Al moved himself into a position reminiscent of the position psychiatrists sit in when they say “Interesting…” His smile broadened again, his smile now just like that of a madmen’s, and he inclined his head slightly towards his friend, and he retorted aptly “If you don’t say something I am going to go really… fucking…” Al’s expression went blank, then full of a mocking, toothy smile, his friend raised his voice to say the last word of his sentence “MENTAL!” Al took this as an opportunity to raise his shoulders; since this was the first time his friend had not actually asked him what he said originally. His friend did not take this well, not one bit well, in fact. He leapt up to his feet, grabbed a vase (Al had absolutely no idea of whether or not it was worth anything, but it was pretty and he liked it, and Al’s friend knew Al liked it, so it was the perfect hostage) and shouted, in fact, screeched is more apt “IF YOU DON’T FUCKING TELL ME WHAT YOU SAID I WILL SMASH THIS VASE. ON YOU. ON YOUR STUPID FUCKING HEAD.” He looked at Al in complete seriousness “THREE!” Al didn’t flinch from his disgusting smirk. “TWO!” Al pursed his lips, and just as his friend’s mouth started to open to say that final number, which would seal the fate of Al’s favourite, albeit only vase, he calmly said the words “All I said was what’re you thinking about? There was no need to get so het up about it.” Al’s friend put the vase down in it’s rightful place, on the mantelpiece, took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it with one of those fancy lighters, sat back down, smiled, and from his smile came the most perfect words for this situation “You know Al, you really are a cunt.”

2 – The mental diaries of a piece of fluff
I think I was born today. Birth may not be quite the correct word, since I am more an accumulation of dust and dregs and other things that begin with D. Though I am not considered a sentient or self-aware being, or, in the grand scale of things even considered to be a being, I, from this day onwards, have started to, and wish to continue; being. I have been blown around rather inconsiderately and overheard what I believe was being called a “Hoover” they are strange creatures, I tried to make conversation, but it just seemed to growl a lot. I will sleep for a while now.
In the last few hours (in which I was sleeping) I seem to have grown to some extent, I have passed the very fine boundary between minute piece of fluff (I overheard someone calling me fluff, and quite liked it, it makes me think of nice things) and very small piece of fluff. I am becoming increasingly aware of my own existence and wondering as to why I am, who I am, and whether I am male or female. Also, the concept of me thinking surely connotes that I was not made, I was born and if so, who are my mother and father? I am very confused, and am becoming quite sad; I wish I knew who I was. I’m going to go to sleep again now; it’s a nice place to be, and I have these funny visions, which are like reality except not, I thinks I’ll call them dreams. I will think of a bacronym for this later. Now, sleep.
Again, I am conscious in this ever-loathsome world. I’m becoming increasingly sick of the corner of carpet on which I sit. I can’t move, and sometimes I am stepped on. It seems like nobody will ever love me. I met another piece of fluff just a few seconds ago, and yet, instead of forming a friendship, developing out emotionally connections and possibly spending the rest of our days as a pair, inseparable, and yet separated. Yet, the essence of our beings led to it never being, me, being the bigger piece of fluff, assimilated her into my being, and pushed my over the boundary, into being a small piece of fluff. Another problem in our relationship is that, although I have justified to myself that I think, and therefore am, I have no organs whatsoever to communicate any of my thoughts to the outside world, or any little piece of fluff that caught my proverbial eye. This lack of being able to communicate has made me realize that I am doomed to assimilate anything I ever grow to love. I think this state is called depression. I am not a fan of it. I shall sleep more and reflect on my existence, and life, the universe and everything when I become conscious.
I have come to despise being awake. I totally hate all of this reality around me; it’s all far, far too real. A fly landed next to me earlier, it buzzed in such a peculiar way, so full of life, so full of energy, and here I am, in the same place I was since I started to take form. I’m a failure! A loser! I can honestly say that I hate myself. I’m so puffy, and grey. Why do I have to be grey? Is it not enough that my personality fades into the background, that I must be persecuted with blending in physically as well?! I muster up all my might to make a sound, to scream to the heavens, ask about my creation, but here I am without a God damned mouth, without anything. I have no choice but to give up, my ruler, that ruler who is my creator, who gave me no communicative organs, yet I can somehow still hear, oppresses me! How can this be? Why is this? I have come to the logical conclusion that a creator, God lets say, hates everything without organs, lets us think, dream, sleep, live, but never, not once communicate these things. God is an arse. He created me for his own enjoyment, I am sure, that right now he is thinking of how funny he is. I wish, in my heart of hearts, which is nothing but the centre of my being, my being being a small ball of fluff, that I could have told that fly I loved it. I did love it, in fact I do love it, I am exploding with the joy of love, the pain of love, I just, I just want to express it. I want to scream, I want to-
At this point the small piece of fluff literally exploded with love and set fire to the carpet.
3
Al and his friend awoke, in very similar positions that they were sat in, at the last point they could remember, though, much to Al’s surprise, he was hugging a cushion, and there was drool on it. A large puddle of drool. Al felt disappointed in himself. A familiar, yet not so fun feeling. They both attempted some form of greeting, but their voices had deteriorated into a grumble. They really did try, Al tried to the extent to where he let out a somewhat aggressive “mer-ner-her-der!” this led to a quizzical look from his friend. This was deserving, but all Al was trying to say was “Morning, want some coffee?” In his head he pictured it sounding like a perfect housewife, with one of those pretty smiles, one of those beautiful smiles… He had distracted himself with images of beautiful women, and he was feeling the consequences, feeling them in that a slap had a woken his blank expression. “Al, what did you say? If we go through this again I will set fire to your fucking shoes”
“That’s a rather strange threat…” Al’s distance was still apparent, he was dreaming dreams of dream girls and dream dates and other things to do with dreams. He remembers how much he misses the touch of a woman, not the fuck, he could fuck any girl (this may have been an exaggeration, but this thought process was necessary for Al to come to terms with himself), but the soft touch, the feel of hands on the back of his neck. The thought alone made him shiver, a wave of self loathing struck over him, and he was brought, yet again back to reality. “Al, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
Al retorted, somewhat solemnly “You swear too much, coffee?”
His friend hardly moved, but still, picked up a crumpled, crushed cigarette from the table, and lit it with another one of those fancy lighters he seems so fond of. “Of course I want a fucking cup of coffee, and you think too much.” With that, Al left the room, as he walked the thin, short corridor of his apartment, he inspected the walls, the basic, boring, bland wallpaper, and then noticed the mould in the corners of his ceiling. He carried on walking, it wasn’t a long walk, but, as his friend said, Al thinks too much, and could contemplate life, the universe and everything on a 30 second walk. This walk just happened to be around 30 seconds, he thought about how the mould comforted him, and how this is strange, how it disconcerts most people. This made Al think of how strange he was again, but pressing matters were at hand. The morning drug, caffeine. An awful necessity in the lives of people all across the land, widely available, legal, and really rather useful. It was one noted that America’s productivity would drop by somewhere around 60% without caffeine. Al thought this was bullshit. He thought a lot higher. He flicked the kettle on and decided to inspect this room as well, how it looked, how it didn’t contain a beautiful gothic chair as he so wished had materialised mid way through the night. He then realised the kettle didn’t have any water in “fuck’s sake…” he murmured under his breath, he was only annoyed further when the water refused to go into the kettle easily, and decided to go all over Al’s crotch. Finally, after a frantic struggle with the kettle, the water complied with being heated and being made into delicious caffeine filled nectar. Al again turned the kettle on, and sat, and watched, waited. He looked at the floor of the room and wondered why the floor had to be there, and why humans couldn’t just float, he quickly denounced this as ridiculous, but kept it in his mind for when a conversation is heading for boredom. The kettle started to steam, and, in the inquisitive state of a kitten, put his hand into the steam. He knew this would hurt, but he wasn’t doing it is some form of self-mutilation ritual, he wasn’t doing it to see what happened either. He was just doing it, with no real purpose, and he was not really conscious he was doing it, he felt pain and decided it was best to pull away, and in that instant the kettle was boiled, and Al was suddenly brought out of his melancholy self loathing, and put into a state of contentment. The prospect of drugs tends to do that to people.
Al likes how coffee looks when the milk blends into it, the dark brown turning to golden beige, a shining average, pure, pure loveliness, nothing more and nothing less, he thought. For a moment he thought the now empty kettle said something to him. It doesn’t stop itself; it’s one of those kettles with a whistle that you have to turn off manually, it was for this reason Al thought it spoke to him, as he heard a slight chirp, a whistle of comforting in the back of his mind. This thought was quickly stricken from his mind the beautiful aroma of coffee reached his nostrils. Thy flared in such a cliché way he almost hated himself even more for enjoying it. He looked down, 3 sugars for Al, 2 for his friend. Walking the 30 second back down the corridor, rather than looking at the ceiling, Al decided it would be good to look at the floor, partially because he was now carrying 2 cups of very hot liquid and did not wish to fall over and have them scald his hands. When looking at the floor he noticed all of the stains from when he had spilt hot coffee over his hands, and subsequently the floor. The floor was a mould green carpet colour, with splodges of brown, which, like with the mould on the ceiling, would probably disconcert most people, Al liked them, they gave the carpet character, it was like him, slightly off colour with coffee seeped in. Al came to the door and opened it to his friend smoking another cigarette, and looking awe struck. Al passed him the coffee, he didn’t take it, Al held it there and looked confused, his friend turned to him with the cigarette limply held by his lips, and he smiled. His friend smiled the smile of a man with an idea. He smiled the smile of fulfilment and of a dream. His smile then extended so large that the cigarette fell onto the carpet (it was full of holes anyway), Al had to ask, and promptly did “What?” he felt somewhat strange, as if he had something silly on his face, or that there was a small mammal making rude gestures towards him out of his vision. “You know we do fuck all with our lives?”
Al replied in a befuddled tone “Yes… where are you going with this?”
“We’re going to do something with our lives” He looked like he was about to burst out in a fit of girlish giggles at any second.
Al had mixed feelings about this subject “Really, do we have to?”
The friend stood up, and in a heroic fashion grabbed Al by the arm, looked straight into his eyes, in complete seriousness “We’re going to take our dole money, buy instruments, start a two man band and get crappy jobs, well, they don’t have to crappy, but that’s all that we’ll likely be able to get, and we’re going to do something, we’re going to be something”
“You know you said I think too much?”
“Yeah..?”
“You don’t think enough” By this point Al was wildly gesturing with his hands, well, less gesturing and more flailing “Neither of us have the faintest fucking idea of how to play instruments! I don’t know about you, but I can’t sing for shit, and the confidence thing, we’ll have to play in front of people! Who the hell do you think I am, John fucking Lennon? “ Al stepped on the cigarette to punctuate this sentence. He had gotten himself rather flustered, and had forgotten that he hadn’t yet drunk any of his coffee, he took a sip and felt slightly calmer.
“Look, okay, I know neither of us are musical geniuses, but, I used to sing when I was younger, and playing guitar can’t be that hard, pretty much everyone can do it, we can learn, what would you prefer, do this or sit on your arse all the fucking time?” Al contemplated this and as his friend realized he spat the words “It was a fucking rhetorical question, prick! What the hell have we got to lose?”
“Fuck all”
With a smirk Al’s friend said, in am most satisfied way “Exactly”
“Alright, you’re right, but, I don’t like the idea of coming off the dole”
With an agreeing head nod, Al’s friend said “I know, but, in order to stay on the dole, we have to go to job interviews, and pretend to try, and it takes a fair amount of effort, and if we get jobs, I mean we’ll probably only get £5.00 odd per hour, but, if we work a decent amount we’ll have a good amount of cash, and this way we can have inspiration for songs, the more frustrated we are, the better”
Al frowned a smiling frown and said, “You’re a prick”
“Is that a yes?”
Still frowning that smiling frown he muttered, “I fucking hate it when you make good suggestions”
“You still didn’t fucking well say if it’s a yes or not”
Looking around the room as if money would fall off of the ceiling Al asked, “How much money do we have?”
“Yes?”
“Yes. But you’re still a prick.”

4

They had spent all day scrounging all of the money they could, this included finding things they could sell, over the course of the day they had listed, on eBay: An old printer, 2 broken wireless routers, an original xbox with no leads, a lead for a cat and various clothes. Through looking at past listings they had worked out, that if these things went for decent money, they would have around £70 more, this seemed reasonable to them (they had listed the items for a short amount of time in order to get the money as soon as possible). They had managed to get £200 pounds together, this made them proud, and quite happy with themselves, they had decided it was best to get the instruments first, and then move onto getting jobs, since jobs are difficult, and the longer they are avoided, the better, in both Al and his friend’s eyes. They now sat in front of their shared laptop, and their expressions completely showed what they were both thinking, and what they were both thinking was “Oh dear…” They had either overestimated the amount of money they would accumulate or, underestimated the amount that their equipment would cost, or some combination of the two, as, they were now looking at guitars. A 2-man band needed at least one guitar, they thought. So far it looked like their 2-man band would consist of one guitar and one singer. They had to persevere. The guitars are expensive, very expensive, but, they would pull through. “How are we supposed to make a 2-man band if we can only just afford a decent guitar?” questioned Al, his mind scatty from all of the caffeine in his system, and he was quickly distracted by his thoughts on how they were even supposed to play guitar. “Well…” started Al’s friend “I’ve been thinking, not for long, but I have been thinking in the last few minutes, that, we should get a guitar, and some chord books, as they seem quite useful, and then start writing songs with me singing and you playing guitar to start off with, until we can afford something for me to play” Al was not impressed by this, not one bit, and started flailing wildly as he spoke “What the fuck?! You get to sing, something, which you, yourself said you used to do, and I have to learn something completely new? I never even played recorder in primary school for fucks sake!” Al’s friend was understanding, but did not like Al’s over reaction, since it was usually him that was over reacting. To calm himself down, Al’s friend pulled out a cigarette, from his jean pocket, not from a packet, just straight from the pocket, he lit it with a fancy lighter, this one was engraved with some meaningless shit that was supposed to mean something, and took a large drag, blowing out a huge amount of smoke, more than Al thought a smoker’s lung capacity was capable of, he again sucked at his cigarette and let his words be punctuated by the smoke that come with them “Look, I know it’s going to be hard, but I only sung when I was younger, you know like in a shitty choir type thing… I’ve never written any lyrics in my life, in my whole. Fucking. Life, it’s going to be just as hard for me as it is going to be for you.” Al looked somewhat offended by the prospect that they are going to have the same levels of hardship, and murmured, “I still think it’s going to be at least a little bit harder for me” Al’s friend decided to drop it, and aggressively puff on his cigarette, this consisted of almost forcing it into his own mouth, rolling his eyes as he sucked, and then sneering just before inhaling the smoke. This made him feel slightly better, though, he took slightly too large a drag and was still blowing out smoke once he thought he had already ejected it all from his lungs.
They now pressed onto the matter of what guitar they were going to buy, and their budget. Al decided to be the voice of reason, first prompting, “How much food do we have in here?” his friend jumped up to the kitchen, and shouted out “If we only eat dinner a day, enough for a week!” Al was not happy with this thought, but sucked it up, since, he had become quite enthralled with the idea of making a band, and then remembered his beloved coffee, “And how much coffee?” Al’s friend simply replied “Plenty” Al did not feel that his friend quite understood the importance of his question, and decided to pre-empt it with “seriously” as to show his friend the importance “No, seriously how much?” his friend sounded rather frustrated, but the reply was music to Al’s ears “Four fucking large pot full’s, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Al’s friend walked back into the room, smoking his cigarette, still, even though it was about a millimetre from the filter. “So, realistically, we need to save £50 for food, keep the money we get from the eBay stuff, and get jobs as soon as possible” Al was pissed off, there was no better term than pissed off, as his annoyance was to the levels as if he had been literally pissed on, he had a simple reply “I hate ‘realistically’”, Al’s friend just shook his head and noted “Okay, so, we have £150 budget, and we’ve got to look for jobs tomorrow, right?” Al was still rather annoyed “Fuck’s sake”
“Right?”
“Fine, you utter, utter prick”
“Okay, so I think we should try and get easy jobs, to guarantee interviews, preferably things which will allow us to practice together, and we need to get similar hours, I think we should try cafés that are only open in the day, that way even if we do a full day we’ll be home by around 6 in the evening, and then we can get on with writing songs together” Deep down, Al agreed, but he just had to disagree, it was his nature “But… you know how much I hate people” Al’s friend was sympathetic, and empathetic, he too hated people, but they had to pull through “Oh, come on, you’ll be fine, you’ll actually have reason for misanthropy if you work with the general public” Al gritted his teeth and nodded.
Now they needed to get onto the business of getting a guitar, they browsed the Internet and wondered. Al realised they had to restrict their budget yet again, and expressed it thus “You do realize neither of us can tune a guitar, so we’ll have to get a tuner, and a book of chords, along with the guitar, and from browsing this site, we’re going to need about £20 for the accessories, so, in reality, we have £130 to buy a guitar with, and guitars are big, so postage is going to be expensive… in fact…” Al clicked a few links and his eyes widened at what he saw on the screen, he vocalised his problem “See, on the average guitar, postage is going to be £20, so, we have £110 to buy our guitar. Do you see my problem.” Al’s friend leaned back and pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket, they seemed to just materialise on his being, with no prior warning as to where they may be, taking his first drag, with the exhale he let out a contemplative “Hmmmmm…” he looked around the room, twitched his nose, and rubbed his stubbly face, then stood up in the fashion he seemed so fond of “Then, it seems, we will have to venture into the town tomorrow, not only to get jobs, but to get a guitar, and all of the accompaniments as well!” at this point he left the room, in a very determined “I’ve-got-something-to-do” fashion, leaving Al, as usual, quite confused. He wondered how this was happening so fast, and how his money is being spent, and how he is going to have to work for money, something he had quite happily avoided for the last year or so. Al’s friend returned into the room with a bottle of cheap whiskey and 2 bad quality tumblers, he exclaimed “Celebration!”
Al looked cynical, raised an eyebrow and said “And what, exactly is it that we are celebrating”
“Al, we are celebrating the start of something stupid, beautiful and quite, quite wonderful”
They carelessly poured themselves a large glass each, and smiled the naïve smile of someone who has never before attempted to write a song.

5. The diaries of an obnoxious security camera.
Oi fackin hate bein’ nailed to a wall. I don’t even fink dey used nails, it were probly screws or some shit. I wanna be out there, with the filth, getting roite to the scuum, I juust wannar fackin’ crack heads, y’know? It’s naat that I’m a violent persaan, ya knaw? You try’n be nailed taa a fackin wall, watching all the public litterin and fighting and being faackin disgraces to their local cammoonities. Oo do they faackin think they are. Aand daan’t even fackin’ well get me started on them fackin dole dodgars, ya can see it in they fackin eyes! Scroungin’ scum, givin fack all back! Praabably claim taa be an artist or some fackin shit loike that, whaa did art evaar fackin do far me, loike dem caahnts that claim that faackin’ vandalism is art. Y’know they’re callin it now? I hear they call that faackin “Graafiti” shoite “art” art? Y’know whaat I call faackin art? A noice pair a’ tits. Them real fackin’ firm ones, like Jordan’s or saam ather bitch. Even a poofta’ caaldn’t resist dem. You knaaw what I mean? YOU KNAAAW WOT A’ FAACKIN MEAN? Speakin’ aav dem faackin queer-o-sexual disgraces’ laaks loike a caaple comin’ along naaw. Look at dem’. Jaast fackin laak at ‘em. I say dat, but awl ah can faackin’ do is look aint it! Ahh wanna destroy. YAA KNAAW!? Well yeah… Just take a laak at these pricks, yaa knaaw what I said about dole dodgers roight, these two are aa caaple o’ priiime examples. He’s holding a cuppa’ faackin caafee, and the aaver smokin’ a cigarette loike his shit daan’t stink. Faackin disgusting habit, paalutin’ aar streets and aar air, these cahhnts are. Jaast faackin laak at ‘em, ya see, ah I ‘ave nathin’ agains’ individuality, jaast, as long as they aint freaks ya knaww! Roight. Aaver the years oi ‘ave becaam pretty fackin’ gaad at guessin whaaat people are loike from their appearances, yaaa see, I fink people shaaw their true caalars when dey fin k no one’s watchin’ I’M ALWAYS WATCHIN, YOU FAACKIN’ MAAAAAAGS! Can’t hide fraam me, naa sir, aahm omnipresent, omnipotent, and un-faackin-staapable. Ahh never sleep, aand I nevar faackin rest. Naaw, baack ta these couple a soppy muvva-fackers. Roight, I will disperse ma knowledge of ‘der appearance naaw. Ah’ll start with the lanky facker’ closest tat ha roaad. Tha first fing ah notice is that his jeans daahn’t even fit ‘im, dopey prick, and he ain’t even wahhn ah dem pricks what does it to laak cool, ahhh no, he jaast can’t afford new wahhns, aanather sign ov a dole dodger. Then, roight, E’s wearing a red shirt, aand it laaks faackin’ shit. Y’knaw dat half too big loike look, eh? Yeah, it’s loike that, goart saam fackin’ coat on taa, ya knaaw loike a jacket wot laaks loike it’s made a’ an itchy blanket, wot a prick. Gaart some ripped up trainers taa, laaks a right ol’ mess. Then, ‘is friend, see ‘e’s a bit shorter loike, ya can tell e’s a dole dodger too since he saa faackin’ skinny loike, but e aint built loike that, ya’ can see e should be a fat caahnt, ‘e’s got a bomber jacket, e’s tha wahhn smokin’. Diirty fackin’ ‘abit. Dirty, dirty ‘abit. E’s gaaht tha fag ‘in ‘is maaf and ‘e pulls aaaht saam loighter caas ‘is fag’s gaan aaaht, baaht it aint naah normal loike, it’s loike gold ahnd engraved aahnd shit. ‘E’s gaaht some half tight jeans, ‘ese wahhns are ah taa small sideways, baht plenty ahhn the length, prolly gaaht ‘em in a charity shaap, fackin’ scroungers… ‘e’s wearin a rough ahhld t-shirt taa, wi’ saam bomber jacket, jaast dahhn’t look roight loike. These caahnts get me saa fackin’ riled up loike, ah jahst shake, ya knaah I mean?