Epiphany, part 2 

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Of course, the epiphany, the epiphany, is that we’re all monumentally fucked innit, your sitting there feelin lazy bit drunk bit just not even vaguely bovvered, and you look up squintin into the harsh light of a bright morning come way too early for your likin and there it is, all of it, the whole effin lot of it, your fucked. There aint nuffink left but to grab another pint, a Stella mate. He doesn’t understand half of what your sayin, she’s too scared and too old and too full of a lifetime of feeling ill-equipped and unable and even listenin’s too much it’s just too much mate so there you are on the concrete steps by the bins in your pants and your flatmate’s feckin crocs wiv an empty can and a soddin pink Fred Perry and a great big massive fuckin sigh is all you’ve got and more’s the pity, it’s all you’ve got, you aint got nuffink else mate, nuffink left, i tell ya, its all wrung out like them knickers on the beach you found that day when the tide was out and the tall grasses was rustlin in the seasalt and the Kentish sunshine.