As I lay 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 your loft apartment trashed, your knickers lusted and caressed by my fingers that have horrid line of black scuz under then long nails, 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 shand kidd duvet cover. It's the adrenalin, the rush, the fear of finding someone on nights asleep in the bed, it feels like the night before the happy summer holiday with mum and dad that every kid in the class went on but me.
                           When you've stopped crying,calmed down and rang Tarquin who's in some pub with the office spunk bucket, you'll look and find your jewellery gone, which devastatingly includes the ring your sweet Mum left you after she lost the battle with a cancer that had a sense of humour, going away then coming back just for a laugh, the watch from your dead dad who you think of every day, all the little things that money can't replace, I sell them all for a fiver to Bernie the twat, a man with a wife uglier than his life and a pit bull terrier he calls Harold Shipman. What do I get for the most precious things in your Volkswagen Golf life?  A bag of Smak,one hit, not a lot to you, but the world and his forever weighing herslf wife to me.

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.

                                 It's not easy, pretty or kind. when the vicious apetite comes, it cannot be denied,to quote the fella who sang 'I just can't get enough' when he was a fresh faced pop star,he knows now after meeting H himself that I need a hit. When I need a hit the manners my Mum gave me and any sense of right or wrong go out of the white PVC window Reg Holdswoth endorsed. I say  grimacing like a wanking Jap, 'fuck you and your wooden floors and two hundred CD's, fuck your stuff, if I can carry it, it's mine.' I'll bag it all, strip the duvet cover off and make it my magic sack, filled to the brim with all the expensive Johm Lewis trophies of your posh little life. You're insured aren't you? So I ask, shrugging weightless shoulders,why the moose? 

You'll claim for the Rolex when it was an Accurist. Say your sound system was a new Bang and Olufsen BEO3000 when it was ten years old and silver. You're no more than a bus ride from me. You lot, who hide behind the black shirts, the kisses on both cheeks and the thick black glasses with clear lenses are just the fucking same as me, fucking over decent people in pursuit of what you've seen at Harvey Nichols or in the flat of the Creative Director who has come up north from London.

                                 I've pissed myself now, I think it's piss, can't tell, could be blood, as I can't lift that fucked up head of mine to see, I think it's my back that's broken. I've lost days with the horrors.That was the real head fuck, pains in legs I couldn't feel, sweat pissing like police horse out of a dick that hadn't stood up in anger for many a Welsh moon. My waste of a life mulled over last minute, over and over 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  and who the fuck I am, who I should be and who my Mum tells my aunties I am.This is the real  ME om my back, motionless, unable to move anything below the neck, flat out in the cloakroom of Bunty Bear nursery school.With All the bad karma I admit I  deserve returned with interest. 'Deserverd,' you'd say, for me to tumble through the skylight on Christmas Eve, when there's no fucker back in here for at least another week.

                                I've thought about it and 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, sweating. I was there for one disgusting reason.So I could excuse myself at the table, from people who were giving me yet another chance, creep like the shit I am and go and nick her charm bracelet whilst she dished out the sprouts, full of all the cheer she could muster in her tissue-paper crown. 

                               Still she lives in hope that the little boy, frozen forever 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 lovely handmade 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 and wanted to hug like the Pope she believed in. She thinks it's her fault, the way I am. It's as far away as you can be from not.She's a diamond of a Mum and I'm a stone called diamonique from Q.V.C.

                              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, I worked hard in my Che Guevara t-shirt, paid my rent for the flat that had cord carpet evrywhere. This was 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 in the Merc to PHH clinics and rehab centers. Whereas I was left on my arse, with a big habit and pshyco debt collector banging on the door with a pair of pliers earmarked for my front teeth.

That's surprised you hasn't it, the university bit? You've presumed that I'm some thick fucker from a council house and I grew up on a diet of Jerry Springer and U.K. Living, Or that I was  from a kids home or maybe just from somewhere far away from you, somewhere you drive through in your BMW and press that button that deadlocks all the doors from the inside.A Crim town where no girls have a pony, where they  give lessons in stealing and thieving, in-between tattooing necks with indian ink swallows that never fuck off back to Africa for the winter.

                            Fucking skylights, cheap, shite skylights. Being a like me, 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 what I presume to be a broken back. I'm fucking hungry as well, I'd forgotten what it was like to be hungry, on my way down through the skylight then onto the floor I knocked down a luchbox that was left under one of the kiddies little designer coats. It had been left on a peg marked Portia. Well, Shylock has got his pound of flesh now.

I couldn't reach the little butty without the crust cut off 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 fucker's gonna punch you in the throat - remember that. 

'What a  great sense of humour you Scousers have got,' Bavna used to say. The 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. I can see  the light at the end of this 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