For Carl Glover.

Bus stop.

Head in pieces.

Been so damned cold lately.

Tracksuit mum calls her kid a cunt.

Charming.

Still drunk.

Eight till late night.

Left the club around two?

Vodka handbags stag do in drag.

Shooters.

Backwards.

To the Hog's Head.

Ken Dodd's dad's dog did what?

Such a bizarre conversation.

Drink less.

Perfume.

Too much perfume.

Pink tops just don't suit him.

She's not even wearing a thong.

Slapper.

Move on.

Time goes nowhere.

Mixing drinks does the trick.

First one always goes down easy.

Sober.