Connor awoke wearily as sunbeams stung his bleary pupils that resembled two piss-holes in the snow, forcing him to shield his gaze and smush his red face back into his sticky pillow.

He struggled to inhale, as his mouth seemed glued shut. My mouth is as dry as an old hag’s cunt, he reasoned to himself. What the fuck happened last night? I remember drinking in the Swan with Des and Jonny Smallcock…he noted a line of cocaine already racked out on his bedside table, remnants of the previous evenings excesses. He dysoned the Charlie up his inflamed nasal passages through a £5 note.

Oh you fucker, fucking beautiful. You sexy bitch, Charlie. Clocking a half-empty bottle of Peroni, which stood tall, almost proudly amongst an ocean of its fallen brothers, he necked its remains.

At least something is going my way this morning. My luck is in. 

He then lay back down on his soiled mattress lighting a cigarette, letting the various drugs of varying legal status soothe his banging head, which felt like he had been dropped skull first from the top of the bull ring onto the cold hard concrete of St. Martin’s Square. A text came through on his phone.

Des: “U stupid prick Con, told u not 2 match me on the Sambuca u silly cunt!”

Horror and paranoia began to rise in himself as he frantically texted back.

“Y? Wot happened? WTF did I do?”

The anxiety and panic overwhelming him, Connor racked up another line and Henry’d it straight up his hooter. Another text came through.

“Ah mate u were avin an awesome time u got on the karaoke and sang Sweet Caroline and everything. Had everybody dancing and singing along. Place was going off!!!”

His pulse dropped as his worry subsided, but soared once more as the Colombian marching powder took on full effect. He texted back:

“WTF is wrong with dat? u silly cunt! If every1 had a sound time then wots da probz? I deserve a fuckin medal!”

Connor rose to his feet and limped down the creaking stairs of his mother’s and stepdad’s three-up, three-down ex-council house. He pulled a cold tin of Carlsberg Export from the fridge and pissed out the back door. Fuck, I’ve got this kitchen in a right fucking state. Best clean it up tomorrow, I reckon. Nah…no rush.

Connor hopped back upstairs with his can, grabbing a bottle of vodka on the way. After yelling out the window at the neighbour’s barking Chihuahuas, serving them with threats of a grilling on the barbecue. He checked his phone once more.

“Mate the police want 2 ave a word wit u. reckon u incited a riot.”

Immediately thumping his phone screen, he replied:


After swigging back a near-quarter of his voddy bottle, his reply was read.

“Yeh cause every1 was dancing along 2 yr singing 4 lack of better word. They all broke rule of 6 and social distancing. Plus the place was so rowdy, people were drinking after 10pm curfew. police came round and nicked load of peeps and fined Bazza the landlord 10 grand. He’s well mad wit u Con. u no Bazza proper skitz when he’s vexed!”

“Dessy and his stupid pranks fuck him man! Always trying to fuck with peoples heads when there hanging.”

Connor knocked back another line of Charlie, had a good swig of vodka, and lay back down on his pit. The adrenaline of the cocaine began to make him real horny all of a sudden, and a soaring boner raged in his urine-dampened boxers.

After pulling his hand away from his cock, he picked up his phone once more. No, a wank is just not going to cut it. I’ve got the hangover horn big time! He typed the address of his favourite adult services website and scanned through escort profiles looking for a girlfriend experience and ones that had a red light (Available Today icon), finding one that mildly took his fancy. Noticing the paragraph at the top of her profile, he read:

Social distancing is a requirement of all British citizens. More information on what you are allowed to do under the current regulations can be found on the government website.

Ah, fuck off! Not this social distancing bullshit again! Yeah fucking right, bollocks to that. How the fuck you supposed to have a socially distant fuck? Is she going to wear a mask when’s she slurping on my wood? Maybe she could sit at the other end of the room while I spooge into her knickers and then I can throw em in her face for the grand finale. What a fucking joke, man! How’s a strumpet meant to make coin? The government are bang out of order for for not taking the world’s oldest profession into consideration in all of this; if they didn’t want us whoring, they should have put all the sex workers on furlough. Prostitution is an essential service; whores are key workers, for crying out loud.”

He pressed the link to dial her number, requested a half-hour outcall, and asked her to come right over; telling her his address, she agreed.

Wow, that was easier than ordering a takeaway. Said she’d be here within half an hour. Actually, it was eerily exactly like ordering a takeaway. Well, like ordering a takeaway back in the day, like, it’s all done on apps now, of course, so you don’t have to interact with any cunt that can barely speak English.

He let his racing mind drift and began to nod off as the doorbell rang and he shot out of bed faster than a kid on Christmas morning. Oh, you dirty slut, you’re gonna get it, you right fucking dirt valve…your pussy’s gonna get whipped! 

Cantering down the stairs like a thoroughbred out on the gallops, he opened the door with glee, until realising the escort on his doorstep was a lot older and fatter than her photos and was dressed without any hint of femininity.

“Fuck you, you’re no DiCaprio yourself, you gammon-faced, beer-bellied twat,” snapped the escort, her bitchy face contorting gargoyle-like.

Connor’s eyebrows raised in borderline shock before he realised, through his muddled, drunken, coked-up fog that he had spoken his thoughts.

“Never mind all that, love, I’ve got a job for you upstairs.”

“Yeah, a blowjob I bet,” she spat through paper-thin veiled contempt.

“Got it in one there, love. Ten points!”

Once they entered his bedroom, he threw £80 at her, four £20 notes he had lifted from one of his mother’s ornamental teapots in the living room as Connor considered stealing from family wasn’t really theft at all, merely sharing the wealth.

“How gentlemanlike,” she sighed as she picked the notes off the floor.

“Chivalry is dead, babe; anyway, get on the end of this! And take your kit off, by the way.”

The escort undressed without passion and with a detached obligation. She knelt down at the end of the bed and began licking the tip of his bell end.

“That’s it, girl, gobble on that throbbing purple head.”

Once she had devoured his pre-cum, she took to nibbling gently on his banjo string. The fellatio felt so soothing, Connor could feel himself dozing off once more. Just as he was about to fall into a mangled, broken snooze, there was a loud thudding at the front door.

He jolted up and pushed the escort’s head aside, almost throwing her off the mattress completely. Connor sprang out of bed, agitated by the loud banging, which cut his nervous system to ribbons. He was now pranging out as he made his way downstairs, the horrors and heebee-jeebies kicking in as forcefully as whoever it was punching on his door.

Wheezing heavily with shaky knees and jiggly legs, his head span as he unlocked the door. Refocusing his vision, he clamped his eyes with their pupils the size of saucers upon a heavyset, bald-headed, middle-aged man who somewhat resembled Phil Mitchell off Eastenders, which was quite apt as it was the landlord of the Swan, Big Barry Thomas.

“What’s up, Baz? Great craic last night, eh?”

“Ya ya, you fucking fat piece of shit!”

“Whoa, pot, kettle there, Barry lad.”

Barry was seething, but didn’t want to get too much in Connor’s face as he was worried about inhaling the drunken slacker’s spittle.

“The police are fining me ten grand after your performance last night. You’re a fucking liability, Connor.”

“What was wrong with my performance? I know the booze has probably fucked my vocal cords a bit over the years, but I thought you loved Neil Diamond.”

“You fucked up the pub’s social distancing boundaries and one-way system. And all the punters were still drinking and dancing after ten. You fucking caused the pub to break curfew. I spent thousands trying to make the pub COVID-safe.”

“One-way what? When I enter your boozer, there’s only one way I’m getting, and that’s hammered, Baz. They’re gonna close all the pubs down soon anyway, or at least lead you all into bankruptcy, don’t ya get it?”

“NO, IT’S YOU THAT JUST DOESN’T GET IT, CONNOR!” Baz yelled in his face, froth flying from his mouth onto his adversary’s and best customer’s cheek.

“Whoa, Baz, say it, don’t spray it, mate. Like you say you might give us that bug that’s been going around.” Connor laughed smugly and sarcastically at his own quip.

“YOU FUCKING CUNT!” Baz raged as he blasted a hard low right-hander straight into the solar plexus of the self-proclaimed karaoke king.

Connor fell to his knees, gripping his bulging stomach as he emptied it all over his mother’s “Welcome to Our Happy Home” doormat.

Through the noise of his churning guts and tinnitus, he could just about make out Barry yelling “You’re barred!” or something to that effect. As he looked up, he could see two familiar faces, even though said faces were covered by masks, in police uniforms arrive at the gate of his front yard.

Ah, fuck, it’s only PC Dumb and PC Dumber.

“Hello, hello, hello there, Connor me lad. Looks like you had a skinful last night,” said one of the police constables.

“Why, what do you pair want with me? I’ve been keeping out of trouble for years now,” Connor stated as he spat the remaining chunks out of his teeth.

“Pull out the cuffs, John,” the Constable said to the other as he dragged Connor off his knees.

“Whoa, what the fuck is this?”

“Connor, Connor, I am arresting you under Section 5 of the Public Order Act 1986, you do not have to say anything…”

“Yeah, yeah, heard it all before. Fucking nicking me for singing Neil Diamond, ya cunts, what the fuck’s this country come to?”

“Neil Diamond; now that is a crime,” smirked the junior of the two officers.

“You almost incited a riot, Mr. Connor, and riots will not be tolerated by the police during the pandemic.”

The two constables threw Connor head-first into the back of the police car. As they sped away to the cop shop, Connor threw up again, just missing the mesh screen dividing himself from the coppers.

“Ah shit, I missed,” he chortled.

“Yeah, but I won’t miss your head with my truncheon if push comes to shove. You can fucking count on that,” said the copper in the passenger seat.

“Choose your side,” Connor whispered through his heaves.

“What was that, Connor?” the officer that was driving asked.


“Best be fucking nothing, and you can clean up that fucking mess once we get to the station.”