CIDER WITH CANNEY - PART 1
The air was still and infused with the putrid smell if stale sweat and dry sick, and strewn about the room bodies twitched as they continued their cider induced slumber.
Newspapers partially covered the floor, the date 1983 prominent at the top of the red banner tabloids.
In North West London the early morning sun started to penetrate the windows of the dingy ground floor apartment, and in the corner of the small room a record player continued to spin emitting an eerie screech as the blunt needle scraped the Bakelite base of the player.
Beside the record player were a couple of dozen empty litre bottles of strong cider together with scores of empty cider cans.
In the bathroom the toilet was overflowing with indescribable filth and tissue paper was scattered throughout the room, stuck to the walls, floor and ceiling.
Hanging from the light fitting was a soiled pair of boxer shorts that were embroidered in green with the initials MDC, and covered in thick puke.
On the floor of the room that was occupied by at least five inebriate sleeping and flatulating beasts was a electric kettle and dozens of cups and glasses lined with the residue of copious Irish coffees and southern comfort. The evidence lay beside the kettle with empty cartons of cream, cubes of brown sugar and empty bottles of Irish whiskey and southern comfort. Stale cigarette butts littered the room and the stench of stale tobacco was overwhelming.
The telephone began to ring and after a couple of minutes an overweight body of medium height began to slumber. In response to the incessant ringing the rotund figure rose to his feet and stumbled through the detritus and immobile bodies strewn about the room to answer the phone. As if injected with a dose of smelling salts the obese troglodyte threw down the phone and screamed out loud..
"Sue is on her way, we have to clear up !" .
The remainder of the occupants were quickly on there feet and struggling to clean the room of the nights boojar session.
To be continued......
The air was still and infused with the putrid smell if stale sweat and dry sick, and strewn about the room bodies twitched as they continued their cider induced slumber.
Newspapers partially covered the floor, the date 1983 prominent at the top of the red banner tabloids.
In North West London the early morning sun started to penetrate the windows of the dingy ground floor apartment, and in the corner of the small room a record player continued to spin emitting an eerie screech as the blunt needle scraped the Bakelite base of the player.
Beside the record player were a couple of dozen empty litre bottles of strong cider together with scores of empty cider cans.
Hanging from the light fitting was a soiled pair of boxer shorts that were embroidered in green with the initials MDC, and covered in thick puke.
On the floor of the room that was occupied by at least five inebriate sleeping and flatulating beasts was a electric kettle and dozens of cups and glasses lined with the residue of copious Irish coffees and southern comfort. The evidence lay beside the kettle with empty cartons of cream, cubes of brown sugar and empty bottles of Irish whiskey and southern comfort. Stale cigarette butts littered the room and the stench of stale tobacco was overwhelming.
The telephone began to ring and after a couple of minutes an overweight body of medium height began to slumber. In response to the incessant ringing the rotund figure rose to his feet and stumbled through the detritus and immobile bodies strewn about the room to answer the phone. As if injected with a dose of smelling salts the obese troglodyte threw down the phone and screamed out loud..
"Sue is on her way, we have to clear up !" .
The remainder of the occupants were quickly on there feet and struggling to clean the room of the nights boojar session.
To be continued......
