LIKE THE POTATO

      “Y'ever fink maybe it’s you who’s too tall?”

     “Oi! Wha’sat got to do wif anyfin?” Spud takes a joint and places it between his lips, lighting the end and allowing the smoke to billow around his head. “I ain’t tha’ li’l!”

    “FUCK ME, it feels like I fuckin’ wrecked me arse on that staircase... Christ almighty! That was a wipeout if I’ve ever ‘ad one!” He cranes his neck to look over his shoulder and observe the area in pain. “Do me a favor, ma’e, ‘n tell me if anything looks weird t’you?”

     anyone up and about who wants a starter from this chavvy potato?

     “F’uh!” he exclaims, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “’COURSE! Who d’you think I am?” He throws the baggy containing papers and dope at Ozzy. “You’re rollin it  though 'cause mine are always shite.”

    “Naw, ma’e. Nawww. I think the only way t’do this correctly is to get proper mashed.” This calls for a shoe spliff, honestly, which is why he lifts his heel to pull the baggy from inside his boot. 

    “Naw, ma’e. Think abou’ it. If you reeeally ‘ad to sit down and stuff yourself until your gut fell out of your arse, how many d’yeh reckon?”                                                      “I think I could get through about, dunno, maybe one-for'y”