That's all, I don't think of you often...

I always look for you on NEVER MIND THE BUZZCOCKS.
In the identity parade.
You'd be the one with the blonde mullet, shaky piss artist's knee tremble.

Cigarette in hand.
Pay the taxi, you'd say, as you crawl up the stairs.

Then you'd talk about your day.
What was I saying, you'd say, I've lost the thread here.....

You used to talk about your ex a lot.
I used to object to that.
I never talked about mine.
You didn't seem to notice.
She's the mother of my children, you used to sob.
How typically fucking Irish.
All that sentimental slobbering over somebody you tortured for twenty years.

So what am I - I said - just a damp patch on the video?
I meant duvet.
We'd had quite a lot to drink.

Like when I mistook the nail varnish remover for the baby oil.
A lesser man would have been in intensive care.

You used to talk in your sleep.
Quite lucidly.
Well, you know.....
You would even answer questions.

One night as I watched you sleep you seemed particularly troubled.
What is it I asked?
I stroked your brow.
What's the matter?

Suck my dick, you said.

In spite of everything, you had an exquisite body, the proportions classsic, shoulders, hips, stomach, thighs. But only lying down.

Although, your dick wasn't all that.

It was ok, but only ok, as you had observed from numerous prison urinals.

I mean, it was ok for me. But not for you.
If you'd had a bigger dick, you said, you'd have been a male stripper.

So where are you now?

In the Scrubs - or the Bankok Hilton.

Have you been arrested again for posing as an ex-IRA man for the benefit of rich American women.

Or for wandering through a park in Fulham with a samurai sword in one hand and a hurley stick in the other.

Last I heard, you'd found yourself a skinny blonde with big tits.

I couldn't really compete, could I?
Not the skinny, blonde bit anyway.

That's all, I don't think of you often.