‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.’ Oscar Wilde

Somewhere on a park bench near you…

Oi, Danny, give us a mouthful of that cider.

Fuck off, it’s my last can.

Can I have a drag of your fag, then?

No, go and pick up some dog ends and I’ll let you have a Rizla. And what’s that cut on your forehead, you didn’t have that yesterday.

Fell over.

Again?

Last night I had a dream.

Not that one about you becoming the MD of Apple and living in a mansion with everything you could possibly want to eat and drink and driving a Mercedes and with a beautiful wife?

No.

Oh, was it the one where you’re a rock star and spend your life travelling from town to town and screwing a new girl every night and taking all sorts of drugs?

No.

The one where you’re a football star earning fortunes and with all that hero-worship?

No.

What was it then?

It was the one where I wasn’t wearing the same clothes for a month and where I didn’t live in the park.

And where I hadn’t just shit myself.

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