Trudging down Stokes Croft towards the City Centre, St Just through flaring nostrils expressed, in company with a quantity of snot, his derision. His mind’s eye conjured up unsought the vision of the maggots writhing. Like time was when like revolutionary like purity meant like extolling primitive like man. Like giving like full like rein to his natural like urges. Doing rudeness a revolutionary act. It’s all there in like Rousseau. Like noble savages, what approached doing rudeness with relevance. And even if it weren’t relevance, - which it fuckin’ was, right? - they was still like answerin’ their primal like urges, not like them baboons back in the … er … squat. —
Stokes Croft, St Just
He found himself passing Bar Wanque. The condensation eternally upon its windows. Function of like warm air meeting a cool surface. Like even now in this heat; like how’s that? Like my sweating I spose. Heat’s muggy anyway. Humidity what causes it. They want to turn down the thermostat. That, and stop selling cappuccino to hipster cunts. All that fuckin’ steam. Like let them drink tay, is what his Lordship would say. A parliament of smokers outwith thronged the doorway. Disgusting, really. Filling the infinitely capacious coffers of corporate fuckin’ backy. Still, he mused, being himself susceptible to the vice in question, like what can you like do? —
Bar Wanque
The Lexus in which Sir Hearty Luncheon customarily was borne from place to place now smoothly trundled down that self-same thoroughfare, with at the wheel and sporting a fair quantity of brocade Mr Jagtar Singh. Beside and eke behind this redoubtable charioteer reposed, in warm naugahyde plush, Sir Hearty and a pair of fellow and in their own ways comparably prominent citizens who, peering out at the external desuetude, strove with indifferent success not to betray the marks of seigneurial disdain. —
Sir Hearty Luncheon, Mr Jagtar Singh
“Do please spare me the cant,” murmured Sir Hearty vey hollowly and a propos of nothing in particular, “for I never did bear the cant.” —
Cant
Upon the terrace of the Ghastly Hipster opposite Turbo Island, the denizens oblivious of St Just’s silent jeremiad smoked, curated their lumberjack beards, slurped their ethically sourced artisanal free-trade coffee. Crowdfunded eachother’s awareness-raising funding applications, funded eachother’s awareness-funding crowd-raising applications. Raised funding for eachother’s crowd-awareness applications and fund raisings. Panhandling morphine aficionados did go among them, and did regale them with tragic histories, for which those kidults betimes repaid them in coin, and betimes did not, according as the fancy took them, capricious as they were. —
Turbo Island
All of which agreeably like radical. The voice almost like soporific. With reluctance, St Just tore himself from the enchantment. Being reawakened, gazed once more upon the chugger countenance, a chill thereupon gripping his already icy soul, insofar as he now found that he recognised his interlocutor. Neither Eton, nor Mawlbugger, nor for that matter fuckin ’Arrer or like Winchester or Charterarse. Radley. Inhali. Inhali V. Vladimir Inhali. I knew him, Horatio. Thought he was sposed to be in fuckin’ Paris. Gone abroad Lambton-style to live down like some like fuckin’ scandal, the specifics of which eluded St Just. Lie doggo, wotwot. Changed almost as much as I have. Popular and charming once, a salon pet. Mothers of well-bred girls did fawn on him, whom now they’d spurn. With this one, ’tis all rags, ratty dreads, teeth all blackened, the ghostly pallor of a life expended in grimy basements. No evidence of reciprocal like recognition, for which duly like thankful, not wishing to like have like blown the like cosy duvet of proletarian cover. St Just with pathetic excuses, and troweling on additional veneerings of proletarian accent, wrenched himself away from the Proustian embarrassment. Strode away up the Horsefair. No. Like too rapid to be like casual. Slow fuckin’ down. Like breathe. —
Vladimir Inhali
The road snaked downhill under the railway bridge. St Marks Road, to the right, opposite the Black Swan. That time in the queue there. Year or two back. With that like Student Grant type on 2CB. Like swan a is like white, like swan b is like white, like swan c is like white, ergo all like swans is like fuckin’ white. And like emeralds is fuckin’ grue or what. Bouncers giving him the stares. Swan’s fuckin’ black here son, suck it up. No no, you don’t understand, I wasn’t being wayciss. Doth not all charm flee, at the mere mention of flosifee.* —
Quads & Pex, Easton
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