The groans of fucking from the floor above, the stench of stale booze and boxers that were in desperate need of a wash, and the sunlight that slithered through the shite curtains at eleven o'clock in the morning. The glorious student life.
I hadn't thought much about getting up that day, probably because the alcohol abuse was rendering me unfit to. I wish I had: you know when you have those colossal cock ups, and can't stop going over it in your head until some random, non-descript moment pops into your bonce that makes it all click into place, as if to say 'bang, that's where's it all went wrong'? Today was the day. But I'm not going to blame myself for lack of insight; I'm going to blame myself for paying nine grand to skip two lectures only to roll out of bed at midday with full awareness that I was going to spend the rest of my day fucking around until the routine evening knock came from Fletchy asking me to come out that night. Why say no? That's what university's for, isn't it? Thinking about little moments like that makes me wonder if Fletchy was the problem, but in the end I never truly blame him: it's not who he was, but what we caused that makes me shiver.
There goes the signature triple knock, and at last the cycle of munching matchmakers, masturbating over slightly weird porn that I could swear was getting more extreme by the day, and the occasional James Bond film was broken. Don't ask about James Bond, even I don't know: maybe it was watching Piers Brosnan's atrociously cheesy 'saved by the bell' quip that kept me chuckling, or perhaps it was looking at the Bond girls that got me ready for a smooth transition straight back to my favourite anal compilation. Something like that. It didn't matter what I was doing, he'd still pop his head through the door.
'Alright Doyley,' he said, a menacing smirk on his wide mouth as a single tuft of blonde hair hanged to his eyebrow.
I looked on in confusion. 'What have you done to merit that smile ey?'
'My magic.'
'So you've either pulled some brass, or you've done something to my stuff,' I joked.
'Oh no, far better,' he replied.
YOU ARE READING
The Kings of Hanover Street
General Fiction'Every Friday was the same after that. Fletchy had barely made it out his seminar before they were back at it again. Seven until eleven as usual. 'At least we get reliable hours with dealing, not like these fucking zero hours contracts,' Jonno would...
