Jilly’s. After hours.
The last place like this in the city.
Where everybody knows your name – and hates it.
Look, Robot’s taking his trousers off.
I like being in a pub that let you do that.
And Sonny and Ganymede are singing a duet.
Roy Orbison’s Crying. Nice.
Bartleby, crying and crying on the sofa.
Jezebel, tucking Flint up to sleep on another sofa.
Everyone doing shots together. Even the barman.
Sven, lamenting his penile cancer. Svenessa, lamenting her vaginal cancer.
These are our people. Drunken people.
Inbred people, by the looks of it.
This is the best night of our lives, like every night here.
Work in Progress 