Idiots with pork take on The Thunder Bastard. A5, 2016.
Woman outside Charing Cross station tripping balls in the taxi rank rain 6.35am and an extra arm long enough to slap a ham fifteen yards away. In the churchyard behind St Martin’s four lumps dry humping on a tombstone shooting fizzy pop in the knee vein oblivious to the camera men wearing chicken skin face mask. I was followed across Leicester Square by a legless snot-blob with a wizard hat until it was hit by a bus under the electric billboard for Kentucky Fried Shoe-Flesh at Piccadilly Circus. Rough sleeping. Street sweeper. Other than a doughnut hurling itself at my head in Golden Square the rest of my walk to work was largely uneventful.