Last Night A Cheesestring Saved My Life

As I lie here on my back looking at the ceiling, I might as well tell you a bit about myself. You'll hate me, for it is me who breaks into your house when you are out on the nine to five, only to come home and find you're loft appartment' trashed, your knickers lusted by my grubby fingers, and wait for it, depending on the time of day, a nervous shit on your floor. I'll shit on your floor where I'm stood, just drop my baggy jeans and dump. I'll then lazily wipe my arse on the nearest material, not giving a fuck if it's your Laura Ashley curtains or your IKEA rug. It's the adrenalin you see, the rush, the excitement, feels like the night before the summer holiday every kid in the class went on but me.
When you've stopped crying, you'll find your jewellery gone, the ring your mother left you, the watch from your dead dad, all the little things that money can't replace, I'll sell them for a fiver to Bernie the twat, a man with a wife uglier than his life and a dog called clapton that can't play the guitar for a bag of Smak.
Oooh, well done Sherlock, that's right. I'm that thieving little scum-bag-smak-rat that they should bring back hanging for. Go on let's hear it, 'decent folk should be protected from the likes of me' - blah, fucking blah,blah, blah.
So what, when the vicious apetite comes, it can't be denied, I need a hit, so fuck you and your wooden floors and two hundred CD's, fuck your stuff,if I can touch it, it's mine. I'll bag it all, strip the duvet cover off and It's my magic sack, filled to the brim with all the expensive moments of your posh little life. You're insured aren't you? So why the moose? Claim for the Rolex when it was an Accurist. Say your sound system was a new Bang and Olufsen when it was ten years old. You're no more than a bus ride from me, behind the black shirts and the kisses on both cheeks you're just the fucking same, fucking over decent people in pursuit od what you need..
Shit,I've pissed myself now, I think it's piss, can't tell could be blood, Can't move my head up to see, think it's my back that's broken . I've lost five days with the withdrawal and turkeyin'. That was a head fuck, pains in legs I can't feel, pissing sweat, my waste of a life studied like a night before a C.S.E .I've been around the world in 90 ways, it's only now I can think straight, only now that I remember where I am, on my back. motionless, unable to move anything below the neck, flat out in the cloakroom of Bunty Bear nursery school. Bad karma returned with interest you'd say, timely, you'd say, to tumble through the skylight on Christmas Eve, when there's no fucker back in here for at least another week.
No one will miss me, apart from my mum, bless her tired face, and hands that always smelt of onions, she'll have done me a crimbo dinner, she has done for the last eight years, I've only ever showed up once though, sweating and pale and that was so I could excuse myself at the table and go and nick her charm bracelet whilst she dished out the sprouts in her tissue-paper crown. Still she lives in hope that the little boy with the fishing rod in the gold frame, who beams local canal delight from above the fire will come back. The one who made her those lovely hand made mother's day cards with the lovely big words. The little boy who crept into her bed every night until he was ten, the little boy who she could never cuddle too much. She thinks it's her fault, the way I am, if anyone's to blame it's those middle class rich kids who came up to Liverpool to go to Uni. I was well on course for an honours degree before Sash and Tarek took me to Bavna's flat for that first hit. It was O.K. for them they'd ring Daddy and get him to bail them out of their debts, get swished away to posh clinics and rehab centers. Whereas I was left on me arse with a big habit. That's surprised you hasn't it, the university bit, you presumed that I'm some thick fucker from a household that lived on a diet of Jerry Springer and U.K. Living or from a home or just from somewhere that criminals came from some crim town where they give lessons in stealing and thieving in between tattooing your neck with a swallow that never fucked off back to africa for the winter.

Fucking sky lights, cheap shite sky lights. Being a thief you get to know a lot about the quality of window fittings. Victorians had it right, solid stuff, but now you've only got to tread on a glass panel and you're through, and down, like I am, soaked with piss and sweat with a broken back.

I'm fucking hungry as well, I'd forgotten what it was like to be hungry, on the way through the skylight and to the floor I splattered a luchbox that was left under one of the kiddies little designer coats that had been left on a peg marked Portia.Well she's got her pound of flesh now. Couldn't get to the little butty without the crust or the Marks and Spencers version of the breakaway, but last night a cheesestring saved my life. There's a song in there somewhere. See us Scousers always laughing always cracking jokes.See the funny side of every fucking thing don't we?
"No Jobs, shit houses and no future except the capital of culture in 2008 when we'll all transform into people who care about architecture. It's hard to look up at the buildings when some fuckers gonna punch you in the throat - remember that. 'But what a great sense of humour you Scousers have got, She used to say that. Fucking Cow, she used to pretend to be from Liverpool when she got drunk it was nauseating.She'd make me say Germans before she'd give me a bag. You couldn't write it Bleasedale - even on the Wirral in your big house. Too real for BBC one, trust me.

I'm rambling now because I can feel it all closing down. Like the light at the end of the Misery Tunnel.

Germans.. Boardman they didn't bomb my fucking chippy.

"Look Mummy Santa's hurt himself coming through the roof

"Oh my God here Portia, Penelope, Darlings, come away.

The End