the point of no longer fucking about has to be reached

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“I know Wally’s not the most perceptive geezer in the world, but I don’t think even he believes the guff you gave him about why you’re here. You’ve been slung out.”

“Oh yes? And why should a nice girl like me be thrown out of a place like that? I mean, it’d have to be something pretty bad to get slung out of an art school these days, wouldn’t it? Anyway, where do you come off telling me how I should carry on? Full of the old-style values, aren’t we?” 

“Remember what I said about smacking your backside?”

“Never stopped thinking about it.”

“Well don’t think it’d be as pleasant as you might imagine, I can tell you.”

“You don’t know about that, do you?” 

“What you been studying, for Christ’s sake? Do your thesis on Medieval Flagellant Engravings, did you?”

She could hear a Durex slipping on at fifty paces

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“They’re a lot of piss artists. Before this, to hear them talk, you’d have thought they were all fucking Prime Ministers. ‘I did this, I did the other, when I was on so and so’s firm, and with that I said ...’ All that fucking cobblers. But they’re a fucking joke. They don’t know how to handle fuck all. They’re just winding themselves for nothing. They’ve convinced themselves that they’re in control. There’s no reality to them any more. They’ve done too much bird. Even Walter’s acting like a fucking infant.”

Howard picks up his glass. “To our aberrations. Whatever they may be.”

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IN BED, WHILE WE were making love, Jean began to talk to me, the way she often did, about other people, about what she’d like to do to them, in fantasy, what she’d like them to do to me, what she’d like them to do to her, would I like it, would I like that, would I like to do something like that, would I, would I, and I would say yes, yes, to elevate her excitement, to help to lift her mind and her body, to help in opening the floodgates, and this time, it was Mickey. Would I like to do that to him, she’d like to see him do that to me, what would I feel like if I did that to him, would I, would I, really? Christ, would I, God, my God, would you, Christ. Christ.

“Listen, you cunt, try and fit me up all you want. There’s a filing cabinet through in the office; go and have a browse through. Feel free. But don’t come here playing the Shepherdsons’ game. It doesn’t suit you. You’re like a sardine in a trifle. You couldn’t pull off a fit-up if they kitted you out to look like Vince Hill, instead of wearing that clerical grey—you must spend hours on getting it to shine just right. Stick to your rules, Parsons. Stay within the guidelines of your striped suit. Have a get-together with the Inland Revenue, or the VAT boys, go after me that way. But don’t come in here in a haze of the Sheps after-shave and try and play that game. You are strictly not headline material. It must have been the helmet. All those years carrying it around on the night shift in Paddington. Irreversible brain damage. That’s what must have caused it. You are just a thick copper with nobody and nothing in your pocket. Except for your highly scrupulous expenses chitties, which are no doubt neatly folded and are sometimes not even cashed over the counter.”

The lift smells like the inside of a stripper's G-string

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The four of them struggle into the booth, Walter and Maureen with their backs against the wall, Eddie and his wife Shirley on the low stools opposite them. Five seconds after they've sat down Walter says, "All right, then, where's the fucking drinks?"     

"Fucking place this is," says Eddie, lighting the wrong end of his cigarette.

"Coming, coming," Maurice shouts from beyond the throng at the bar.

"That'll be the day," Maureen says and they all fall about laughing again. Maurice ponces over again and apologizes for the poor service and Walter blows him a kiss and there's more laughter.

Then Walter focuses on me again and says, "So how's your governors keeping then?"

"Nice and fat, like you two," I tell him. "It's only people like me that keep slim."

"Up the bleeding workers," Maureen says, crossing her legs so you can see right up to the maker's name.

"No good flashing in here darling," Walter says. "The dirty looks won't be the kind you're wanting." 

"Don't you fucking believe it," Maureen says and swivels round on her seat and places her elbows on the table behind her and lifts her legs in the air and opens them wide. Shirley nearly pees herself and the crowd at the bar all have heart attacks.

"Here, you fucking ponces, don't you know it's rude to ignore a lady when she winks at you?"

This is too much for Shirley who slides onto her side on the booth seat. Walter spins Maureen round in her seat and says, "All right, keep them on. We've all seen it before."

"Not bloody lately you haven't."

"I'm the only one then. I'm telling you. Pack it in." Maureen starts swearing at him but she's interrupted by Maurice arriving with the drinks.

"That slag behind the bar," Maurice says, dishing out. "She'll have to bleeding go."

I've got a story for you, involves blue films, a killing, bent cops, drugs...

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I'd been on my way home from the pub and I'd bumped into Muriel and two of her mates. They'd been pissed as farts. They'd had a hen party on the strength of Muriel's coming wedding. When I'd bumped into them they'd been full of it. Talking dirty, swearing, having me on. There's nobody muckier minded than a pissed-up bird. One of them had lived nearby. She'd said why didn't we all go back to her place for a cup of tea? I'd said all right. I hadn't been sober and I'd quite fancied my chances with one of the birds. When we'd got back there the bird had brought the drinks out and the talk'd got filthier.