Pinx was in no fit state, the rest of the guys were similarly indisposed as The Stone Roses’ Fools Gold pumped out of the living room’s hi-fi. Nasty prowled, all he wanted to do was play some rock ‘n’ roll. He’d find little or no satisfaction today.
Tins of Special Brew and Force Ten, empty and semi-drained, lay scattered about the place – spastically-embraced by consumed litre bottles of White Lightning. The paraphernalia of the habitual drug user littered the coffee-stained table: Reefer skins and roaches afloat ripped cigarettes and loose tobacco, noggins of squidgy black, overflowing ashtrays, a Bible, two dismembered Clipper lighters, a bong fashioned from a plastic bottle and a small plastic bag which, until recently, had contained poorly cut amphetamine.
Evidence of the absent Boozy Bill’s contribution to the night’s festivities flickered on the screen of the TV set. The pirated bluey, The Bitchbikers Guide To Hardcore Lesbian Cowgirls – a mouthful of a title if there ever was one – radiated into the room. Belvoir-Hunter, seemingly in a state of semi-consciousness, appeared hypnotised by the writhing, moaning orgy of extreme close-up coupling taking place before his barely open bloodshot eyes.
Shimble stirred, momentarily. Cocooned upon the sofa, beneath duvet, cushions and blankets, he murmured, “you cunt, he’s gone...”
