What twat stands on a windowsill puts his hands on top of a stuck sash-window then yanks it up to try and shut it? Like, no chance of getting your fucking fingers trapped in it is there? What. A fucking. Mong… Look at you. Crucified in your fucking Spiderman pants three floors up inside a fisherman’s cottage smack-bang in the middle of Whitby fucking harbour like some fuckarsed Jesus. You’re gonna die, Billy boy, this window’s gonna fall through and you’re gonna die in a great fuckarsed smash of blood and glass all over that fuckin alley... Maybe I should shout for help?... Yeh, great. Can see it now. Coppers, fire brigade, ambulance, every fucker in Whitby looking up at some daft spazz bluebottled inside a window wearing nothing but his fucking underpants… Fuck... How long are Grace and the kids gonna be?... Yes, telefuckingvision, thanks. I’m glad they’re going to fucking post. Great. Just help me down from this fucking windowsill will you, and I’ll crack one of those Stella’s open, light a fag and watch the fucking race. Nice… FUUUCK… My fingers are fucking hammering. What if they go all black and drop off like when you get frostbite?... Great... Fucking stumps for fingers. Lovely… Well, Billy boy, you’ve really gone and done it this time haven’t you? Why didn’t you just go to the beach like they asked you to? You could have been sipping a cold one listening to the sea watching the kids build sandcastles glegging a bit of passing gash but no, you had to stop in and watch the fucking horses didn’t you… Ah… Here we go… Seven furlongs… Come on Merry-Go-Round… COME ON THEN MERRY-GO-ROUND!... GO ON!... Oh woopdifuckingdoo… How appropriate to this afternoon’s entertainment to be beaten on the fucking line… Red fucking Hand? How can a 25-1 pit pony beat that field?... Utter shite… Fuck I need a piss… At least it’ll be a good one to tell the lads if I don’t fucking die pancaked all over them cobbles down there taking three fat Geordie kids out with me… Fuck, will you look at that seagull’s eyes.
Current betting. Evens: Grace and the kids return within the hour, releasing Billy to much laughter and cold wet tea-towels wrapped lovingly around bruised fingers followed by the drinking of six cans of Stella followed by another trip to the offy followed by a wild drunken fuck when the kids are asleep. 3-1: Grace and the kids return within the hour, releasing Billy to initial laughter followed by spits of gnarl over the length of time they were out followed by cold wet tea-towels wrapped carefully around bruised fingers followed by the drinking of six cans of Stella followed by another trip to the offy followed by inexplicable 2am rantings. 10-1: Grace and the kids return within the hour, releasing Billy to minimal laughter followed by spikes of gnarl over the length of time they were out followed by cold wet tea-towels wrapped half-arsed around bruised fingers followed by the drinking of six cans of Stella followed by another trip to the offy followed by inexplicable 2am rantings followed by a cold loveless fuck followed by a half-sleep riddled with bad dreams about a dark wood followed by Joe waking at 9am to find his dad sat on the doorstep drinking from a near-empty bottle of Thunderbird asking passers-by what the fuck they’re looking at. 50-1: The window falls through, Billy dies horribly, end of story.