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Now available for preorder:
The San Francisco Panorama.
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Pub Crawl.BY EDWARD BARKER
is yet another diesel with a 0-60 an egg whisk would be proud of. As for springs, they put in sods, know what I mean, sponges a Caribbean diver could sell to Club Meds in a market stall." "Hey, did you check out Rupert's stall at Camden Lock? Some poor dosser's complete estate; broken specs, a Bakelite radio, 60 rubber bands, a tin with the label rubbed off, not to mention the eggcup complete with dried sog. I hit the three cherries natch: check out this diver's watch. Two hundred meters, chrome bevel." "You only dive for the remote, mate. Truth is, if you stall a Mitsu on your local council estate yer friendly piranhas will strip it clean in 60 seconds flat. I mean: desirable, though of course the four-wheel image is just for sods like you." "What is this thing with calling me a sod? Like what the fuck have I done?" "Go take a dive in the crapper, mate. You're like a stall on the proceedings. Anyway, there's this estate up the end of my road with tower blocks 60 stories high. It's amazing they don't jump off and stuff their miserable lives. What pisses me off though is the way no one gives a fucking sod— 'hey, mate, fuck off, this ain't a truckers' dive'— about anyone else. So I pull up and stall at the light. OK, it's like the entire estate is looking at me but nobody helps. Sixty fucking people with two fucking hands. Sixty but no one could be arsed to get off their fucking bums and their fucking sodden lives and help out. One asshole takes a dive out the door and makes a run for it. I'm still stalled watching him run round the back of the estate— drug run prob'ly—and fucking 60, 65 seconds later the sod makes a dive for me with a flick knife like he's off his head. I stall him; of course, the whole estate's still watching and ..."
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