I woke with that kind of swimmy feeling you get when the marghueritas come quicker than a tenth grader in a bordello. Somehow, I knew that I was in Kings Heath. I could taste something vile in the back of my throat; Kebab residue maybe or Kababish residue, it didn’t matter. There was something wet around my feet tangling the lower part of my legs and there was a draught blowing right up my naked back. That didn’t matter much either. The banana sticking out of my ass was of small concern. What really mattered was the “blonde” next to me on the floor. At least I think it was meant to be blonde. The cheap peroxide shine job was a glowing testament to the talents of Barnet Fayre – nobody ever came out of THAT place with hair that looked like tarnished silver. This was obviously a home done job. It was set off perfectly by the inch thick make-up that she was half wearing – the other half being smeared on what I could see of my shirt screwed up near my right arm. Panic was starting to set in – I could smell cider now, that wasn’t good. No matter how they tried to hide it, Willie’s boys always left behind that aromatic evidence. I knew it would get worse even before I turned my head. My eyes followed her slack, mottled torso towards the end of the couch, past the black pedal-pushers and the glittering boob tube, past the “Fuk the Villa” tattoo on her ass to the obstruction around my legs. Beer and maybe a little piss drenched them but there was no mistaking what they were, and from the single photo next to my feet there was no mistaking who had been wearing them. As I reached for the photo I nudged my “companion”, raising a fart and a mumbled “Gerruzz a bagga chips luv”, as half a pint of Metzy drool spilled onto the cushion beside her. Turning the photo over I saw what I knew would be there: “We have the negatives, Shell Suit boy, stay out of Moseley”. Nice one Willie. Real nice…
