I nicked Coal-lite from the petrol station and then pissed over a copper. An hour later in my cell I realised that I had central heating at home and that Kronenbourg and lateral thinking were not best buddies.
Me brother had to bail me out. I looked at his face bursting with grudge. I sat in front of the telly and decided that when I won the lottery, I was going to give that Paris Hilton a right old seeing to. Tom rang and interrupted my heiress hallucination. See ya in the pub in ten.
I swerved the Kroney and went on that Becks 4% stuff but with brandy chasers. You know, that made sense at the time. Tom had a fistful of Visa. We signed them in the Nags Head and went shopping in Next. Superman style quick change in the bogs and we bowled out in ill gotten crisp crease button down shirts. We saw Wendy and Donna down the bar and waved a score in the air. They slid over with empty glasses and we filled them. It’s not the rollover jackpot, but fuck it-I don’t even do the lottery.
Oh yeah-Paris Hilton? I shit her.
