Where's Fuckery Lane, bruv? by Al Calm (an ebook reader .TXT) 📖

it was bound to happen, but I really dig me doss job. Sometimes shitty doss jobs can be so pissy, they know people don't really want them but they can be easy. I used to sleep so much at work and get away with it. Shame it's on the cards to get cut to shit, as you can hardly call zero hours a real job. Unless they actually give you real work. But fuck it.

 

I didn't want to rub it in too much. I answer the phone outside the club, smoking terrace vibes. I cup the jay, chuff slow, disperse the funky smoke. Gets me all thinkey, chatting to the missus. She's having issues with childcare. Why don't you come over to me? I miss you Zee, she says. No, you don't you just want to get fucked, I laugh. She sorta laughs. And? She says. I'm human too, she whispers.

 

I mumble, Are you havin a sneaky poon-fiddle while talking to me? The thought just getting me hard. I'm such a perve sometimes.

She laughs and then I realise she ain't laughing; she's crying her fucking eyes out over the speakerphone. I think she lives in Croydon. Ain't even proper London, just a shit experiment in constant building. Constant building and rebuilding that just fucks up and prices poor fuckers out. Fuck it. I do feel bad. I hear the kids crying in the background, probably tearing the place to shit.

I awkwardly say bye, hang up thinking of her tears. Looks like I'm going to fucking Croydon.  

 

 

Imprint

Text: Al Calm
Cover: Al Calm
Publication Date: 11-22-2012

All Rights Reserved