-Sidewards running, is what ye call it. Ye sort of just run at a wall then start doin’ pure matrix shit. It’s easy, take a go.

-Okay. You’re sure this is safe?

-Absolutely, mate. Fully regulated.

-Cheers, Murphy-us. See ye on the other side.

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It can be hard to get something together, this end of the year. One minute you’re shopping like a Kardashian, next thing you know it’s running head-first into a brick wall for kicks. Still, there’s worse things you could be at. As tempting as it might be to pluck from the steady stream of nonsense our betters foster, it’s actually advised to drink heavily instead. Such are the dictums of a soaked state whose peerless consumption of alcohol plunges us daily further into a depthless hell.

I’d written previously on one of my many other blogs, taking advantage of a short break from my rap/folk/newspaper-cartoonist/wall-running side-hustle, yeah so I took advantage of this guy, and wrote up about his pants. I wouldn’t have mentioned them at all to begin with, but he insisted on hanging them up in public in varying states of decay. It was only after several hours contemplation that I began to see the point in this unholy endeavour. It was art. Not to my tastes really, but it was his thing, so I abided by it. I’d just like to see another pair, preferably his female-housemate’s, but I could be pushing it there. Anyway, I’ve another podcast-date today, wouldn’t ye know, so I’m just gonna have a quick cry here then I’ll see ye later, right?
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Billy Sprocket. Labourer extraordinaire. Adaptable to most situations, really. Ye’d just to hand him a brush. Billy described himself as ‘an experienced drinker,’ required only a minimum of interference to see that he remained upright throughout any shift. He was something of a hero, well known around the sites, so to say. He was fit for fuck all most mornings, but he always brought along a bag of cans. So all the boys got a wee sip, and a habit; and the name Billy Sprocket was never far from the missus’ lips.
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