Got back to thinking about Mary yesterday. Riddled though she might be, I hate the thought of her flogging her cute feathery arse all the way out in W4.
It breaks my heart when I think back to the Mary I fell in love with. Mary who was so full of life. So full of dreams. Mary who often talked of a future living in a meadow in Surrey making daisy hats. The wonderous sweet perfumed Mary who thought farts were funny and once told me a joke that ended in the word ‘cuntflaps’.
I decided I needed to do something about it, so Mart suggested we track down Smacky Steve.
Smacky Steve is the Pete Doherty of the pigeon world. Spends most of his days rocked off his nut. That said, he’s got shed loads of contacts and may know who her pimp is…
Didn’t take us long to find him:
There he was, in a square just off Oxford Street, trying to flog a drop of poppers to some poor innocent passer by who’d only stopped off momentarily for a sip of the brown stuff.
We tried to talk to him:
But he was having none of it.
When we asked whether he could help us out with a little info, he simply replied, “Just fuck off out of my fucking face you fat fucking fucks.” Not much you can say to that one really.
And then he just turns around…
…and starts tucking into some crusty shit stuck to the curbstone. I suspect it might have been his.
Another tragic mess-up is Smacky Steve. Used to be a pretty talented artist back in the day. Specialised in making small cats out of tin foil. Lovely they were. Used to exhibit them on a Sunday down Portobello Market.
Oh well. Fuck him.
Don’t worry though, Mary. I’m not giving up on you. Not yet.