“Pass the fucking joint, man,” said Steve. "Don't hog the bastard." He looks at Mike and Mike grins, looking right back. The big M looks down at the large, cone-shaped, skunky joint sticking out between two fingers and allows his grin to fade before looking back up at Steve with psycho eyes and taking another puff. Very dramatic and well acted, I remember thinking. Especially for a violent thug like Mike. "Well come on, man" Steve persists.

Mike leans over the coffee table and offers the joint to Steve, only to withdraw it when Steve tries to take it. Then he takes another puff before offering it again. You can tell by the evil smirk on Mike's face that Steve won't be getting the joint this time either. "Fuck off," spits an unamused Steve, trying to sound like he doesn't want it anymore, but failing. Mike laughs but leaves his outstretched arm out in Steve's direction. The offer is still open.

"Take it," he says. "I was only fucking around, man. Don't get all pissed off about it."

Looking deep into Mike's grinning eyes, wanting to know whether or not this is a serious offer, Steve slowly leans forward again and reaches out for the joint. His fingers are little more than an inch away when Mike once again reclines back into his chair. He cracks up laughing as Steve collapses back in a huff on the laminated wooden floor and mutters, miserably: "Stick it up yer fucking arse then."

Now we're all laughing. I feel sorry for Steve though, especially as it's his gear we're all smoking. There's nothing you can do when Michael is in this kind of mood. He might be all smiles now but if you push him too far he won't hesitate to smack you right in the face with one of those huge fucking fists of his. Nasty bastard. I mean, don't get me wrong. I like the guy. He can be quite handy to have around when it kicks off in town or somewhere, an' he'll always stick up for his mates, but he can be a right cunt too.

Steve is now just slumped back against the wall, staring into his lap and looking miserable as fuck. He has done all he can on this one. He's pleaded and that is all you can do. Anymore and you could end up going to bed early, bruised.

Once he's settled down a bit and got over his joke Mike again offers the joint to Steve, who doesn't even look up. "Here ya miserable cunt," he says, still smiling. "Have your fucking joint." Steve responds like a tramp who wakes up to a man offering him a thousand pounds, waving it about in his face, and a man with a huge, mischievous grin at that. He wants to take it but at the same time he doesn't want to be let down and embarrassed. At the end of the day though, you know that he will go for it no matter how many times you offer it and then take it away, because there will always be that little voice in the back of his mind saying 'This time, fella, this time could be the one'. This doesn't mean that he won't try and disguise the fact that he's pathetically desperate. He slowly lifts his head and there is a resigned expression on his face, which says 'yeah, go on then, sure, I believe you. So you want me to lean forward and try to grab the joint before you pull it away again, ok then, here we go, again'. Despite this he leans forward and raises his hand to meet with the spliff and, wow, his face lights up when he actually touches it. Yes! I did it mum! Next step is to grip it between a couple of fingers...Got it! Now just steadily manoeuvre it from Mike's grip...He's not letting go! I sit amused, watching this spectacle as Steve's face drops once again. His eyes meet with Mike's and they call him a cunt. Just as Steve is about to give it up as a bad, degrading job Mike shows some humanity and lets go. Quickly Steve falls back and crashes into the wall.

 Now acting cool again, and nodding his appreciation to Mike, Steve takes it and puts it to his lips. The fact that Mike hasn't sat back yet isn't bothering him at all. He hasn't even noticed. Slowly he closes his eyes and inhales, taking his time, drawing the smoke into his lungs. Both Mike and myself are watching this closely, wondering when he will stop and even if he will stop. Will he survive? He's going deep, filling not only his lungs but his entire body with the smoke. Excellent.

"Come on then fucker," Mike growls as Steve allows the smoke to drift from his nostrils. "Let's have it back."

Steve's ambience is now broken. Smashed by the brash unreasonable demand from a so-called friend. A so-called good friend, at that. But it is Mike.

“No,” Steve says bluntly. "Don't be silly, man."

“Pass the fucking joint you cunt.” Mike’s voice is louder this time, and possesses a hint of annoyance. "I only gave it you for one." Again Steve looks him straight in the eye and grins, shaking his head in disbelief.

“No.”

From a dark corner of the room Peanut starts to giggle, and it is one of those giggles that you instantly know will last for about twenty minutes. We are gathered in Terry’s living room getting wasted, though Terry himself has been absent for about two hours. He took the stereo into the bathroom stating that he didn’t know whether he would shit or spew, or both, and my guess is that he is now asleep in there, unconscious on the piss stained carpet. His wife, Michelle, is away on a day trip with the kids in Blackpool, and Terry, being as predictable yet reliable as he is, said: “Come round in the afternoon, guys, we’ll get fucking wrecked.”

So we did. Steve, a long time grower, brought along enough skunk to kill a serious amount of brain cells. Mike brought some speed, the perfect drug for an awful night devoid of enjoyment and happiness, so thank you to him. Peanut, who has been asleep for the last forty five minutes, acquired some 'cheap' lager from his dad’s off licence, cheap meaning that he stole it and is now charging us for it, only at a much reduced cost in order to ease his guilt. As there was nothing else left to sort out I provided the entertainment (two Dutch pornos and a copy of The Goonies). Terry provided the living room.

Eight hours into our session it is obvious who has taken too much of what. Mike is definitely speeding his bollocks off, as he has been chewing his tongue ferociously for some time now and I don’t know how much more it can take. “Have some gum,” I say, but he just looks at me silently through those two fucking huge flying saucer eyes, with his white tongue being totally abused by the superior crushing and mashing powers of his yellow teeth, and I retreat into the shadows, slowly, quietly, like a gentle breeze. Ssshhhhuw. One sharp movement and this fucker will pounce on me and tear out my bastard heart. I still feel him watching me, but in the shadows I am safe. The speed demon dare not enter the shadows, as he is completely paranoid. This is his weakness.

Someone far less threatening is Steve. Sat with legs crossed and a shaven head one could almost mistake this gentle creature for Buddha. In the seven years I have known Steve, both as his client and friend, I have yet to see him without a joint. He is a constant smoker, and though his brain is rather mushy he is still the most intelligent person I know, though this is probably due to the amount of documentaries he watches while getting stoned when some of us are at work. At the moment, however, he is foolishly trying to piss off a seriously fucked Mark, who has psychopathic tendencies at the best of times. This shows a serious lack of intelligence even if he is in the right.

Peanut is the youngest of our little group, being born five years later than myself, and he has ginger hair. He was sleeping in the corner until Mike woke him up, since when he has done nothing but giggle insanely. This is where we are up to now.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” Mike turns his anger toward Peanut. Peanut’s laughing intensifies at Mike’s aggressiveness. “Hey, Pea-fucker, what the fuck are you laughing at, eh?” Mike repeats his question as he climbs to his feet.

Steve, who is now also chuckling, raises his right hand. “Chill out, Mike,” he says. “The kid’s just fucking laughing.”

“Yeah I know,” replies Mike. “I know he’s just fucking laughing, Steven. But what I want to know is what the fuck he’s laughing at. Are you laughing at me you little shit?” Peanut is shaking his head, trying to speak but he can't stop laughing. It gets you like that sometimes.

“Does it matter? He’s stoned isn’t he? He’s probably laughing at the artex job on Terry's ceiling or something, man. You know you can see some really freaky faces an' shit up there when you're fucked.” Steve looks across at me nodding his head. “Ain’t that right Jim?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Whatever.” I can't say I really want to get involved in all this petty bollocks, I'm just waiting for my turn on the joint.

“You guys are full of shit,” says Mike, crossing the room to stand over Peanut. “That little cunt was laughing at me.” Then, just like that he bends down and punches Peanut square in the jaw. The laughing continues though, Jesus this kid must be fucked. Mike's mad, starey eyes now seem to be out on stalks as he stares around the room in what almost seems to be mock disbelief. At first he looks like he's about to start shaking and waving his fingers at Peanut Hulk Hogan style, but instead he just bends down and punches him again, this time on the nose causing it to bust open and pour blood over his face. The laughing stops. As Mick straightens himself back up I back up further into the shadows. I am not involved here, I'm just waiting in line for my turn on the joint.

“Sit down Mike,” he says. “Here, take some of this joint, cool down that crazy little head of yours.”

Suddenly it is all over. The air is lifted as if someone has turned on the light. Mike’s eyes lock on the joint which is now being passed to him and he smiles and says: “Fucking hell Steve, if you’d have done this before there would have been no need for all this fuss.”

He takes the joint and sits back down, with his face glowing red and a grin the size of a large white window. Now that The Angry And Violent One is in better spirits I feel able to start breathing and moving again. I lean forward into the light, what little light there is, and grab a magazine to skin up on. I can't see Mike letting go of the one he's just acquired, somehow. Back to his usual self he begins to tell us an exaggerated tale from his past.

“We were once in Newcastle, for my cousin’s stag do, and while we were out I got split up from the rest. Oh this is great, this. Somehow, fuck knows how, but somehow I ended up at this dirty little bar about two miles out of the city centre, which I shared with about four old guys who hogged the pool table all night. Now this bar was a proper shit-hole, man, I mean it was really minglin’. Anyway, I was pretty fucking hammered and I thought that I would try it on with the barmaid, some old slapper with a beard. A definite lesbian, you could tell with the way she looked at me, like she was a real mean bitch. So I thought ‘great, this’ll be a challenge…” He pauses to take a toke from his joint, which is now just about all gone, and then he lifts his head up to look at the ceiling. “So I say ‘Hey baby, how’s about me and you get out of this shithole and find ourselves somewhere more private’. She had her back to me at this point I think, cos then she turns around and I realise that she’s not a lesbian at all. She’s a fucking man, man. That beard is a guy’s beard, guy, and he says ‘Why don’t you fuck off before I have to beat the shit out of you’ and I say ‘Listen fat man…” Trailing the sentence off into nothing he looks across at me, busy rolling another joint, and grins as if I'm rolling it for him. Then he looks at Steve and his grin widens, almost spilling into a laugh. He doesn’t bother with Peanut as snores from the corner inform everyone that he has fallen asleep, worn out by the uncontrollable laughter. His ribs will hurt in the morning, that is for sure. Probably as much as his face. The pause drags on for another few minutes as Mike gazes around the room, now looking slightly confused, and then he says to no-one in particular: “What the fuck was I talking about?”

Everyone's attention is drawn to a door slamming to the front of the house, and in walks Michelle wearing knee-high slapper boots, a denim mini-skirt, a sports bra and a kiss-me-quick hat, all of which I am sure will still be fashionable in some remote run down village in the far-east. Following her are Terry’s little girls sporting sweaty coats from the ‘Free Place’ in town. She takes one look at us lot, the scum of the earth sat comfortably in her living room chilling out nicely, thank you very much, and she flies into a rage.

“What the fuck is all this? I shouldn’t have to come home to this shit,” she shouts. Steve, Mike and I all look at each other bemused as she paces around the room giving each one of us a dirty look in turn. “I shouldn’t have to bring my fucking children home to a house full of druggies.” She’s pointing too, sharp violent stabs into the air which are meant to pierce our skulls I’m sure. As she strides around, banging on, time seems to slow down and Terry’s better half moves in blurred slow motion as I realise that tiredness has suddenly hit me. The sound of her rantings become all bassy and muffled, like they’re coming from another room. She looks better this way, more graceful, and as I watch her I feel strange, like I’m in love with her or something. I really could go to sleep right now. Then she snaps me out of it and just stands there, in the middle of a very untidy living room, examining the rubble. “Where the fuck is Terry?” she screams.

Steve points lamely toward kitchen door with the joint. “In the bathroom.”

Screaming bloody murder she storms through the room, pulling her daughters along with her. We hear her crash through several doors and then shriek: “What the fuck are you doing Terry?”

Intrigued we all climb to our feet and run through to the bathroom. Black Sabbath’s ‘The Wizard’ is playing through Terry’s battered little stereo, which is perched on the toilet seat. In the centre of the floor, stark bollock naked, is our host on his knees, masturbating. He is staring at us, all crowding around the door with our drinks and wide grins, and his skinny little body is vibrating like he is being electrocuted. The sight is disturbing to watch. God knows what his girls are thinking right now. Probably: Mummy, why is Daddy trying to pull his cock off?

But he doesn't stop. His eyes are bright red and half way into the back of his head and thick saliva is dribbling down his chin and he is jerking and jerking.

I am amused. Steve is amused. Mike is very amused. Michelle is definitely not amused. She’s so fucked off that she has fucked off. She threw a jacket on and almost ran out of the front door, dragging the kids along with her of course. Don’t want to leave them with sicko daddy, now.

Chuckling we all watch with some interest until the sticky end, after which Terry falls flat on his face on the hard, cold tiles.

The next morning I am awoken by one of Michelle’s three big hard brothers. The gorilla drags me from my comfortable spot under the coffee table by my feet and kicks me right in the balls. I begin to splutter “What the fuck’s going on here?” when the big lad bends down and punches me right on the nose, causing an explosion of pain in my confused, sleepy head. Well, back to sleep then.

I wake up again and instantly raise my arms to protect my face from more damage, then I realise that I'm on Terry’s back lawn. My face feels swollen and my back and legs feel bruised. I roll onto my stomach, which also hurts, and look around. Mike is under the swing looking very battered. Steve is lying next to me and he appears to be equally sore, and Peanut and Terry are nowhere to be seen. I struggle to my feet and limp to the gate. Pain has totally taken over my right leg and my left one feels only slightly better. On top of this I have a total bastard of a hangover. Leaning against the bedpost I fish some cigarettes from my jacket pocket. They too are crushed and look as though they’ve had the shit kicked out of them. Three out of the last five in the packet are broken so I pick these out and sling them. I take one of the two remaining cigs and place it between my lips, then I light it and begin my journey home.

The shortest way home from Terry’s is through the industrial estate, which sprung up about two years ago. Most of it is still wasteland so I cut over, weaving between knackered wheelbarrows, broken fridges and the occasional burnt out car. This area is a fucking shithole, man. I mean, OK, it's not the council's fault that kids like to joyride, it's just something kids do, but they could clear all the burnt out cars away once in a while. Pretty soon the kids will end up shifting them themselves because they need the room to dump and burn out new cars.

Off the industrial estate now and walking down past the school and through the park. I stop to throw up all over what was once a flowerbed and is now just a place where dogs shit, when I notice a tribe of joggers up in front, all wearing bright colours and carrying bottles of water, heading in my direction. The group consists of about five burly men, who really don’t seem to be enjoying the exercise, and two women. I recognise one of the women instantly, anyone would. “Fuck me,” I say. “It’s fucking Madonna!”

For a moment I am paralysed, but I quickly regain control over myself and jump into the bushes. This is a sign, it must be. This explains everything.

I sit and hide as the joggers pass, then I give them a minute to make some distance before sprinting back the way I’ve come. Through the park, by the school. Shaking, I make my way to Lizard’s house on Winter Estate, or Suicide City as it is happily referred to by the locals. Over the last five years there have been no less than fourteen suicides around this neck of the woods, but I suppose that means that there is fourteen less people to wait behind in the dole queue, so fuck it. Every cloud…silver lining and all that.

When I reach the front door Lizard’s mum answers. Eileen is great, a wonderful woman. She answers the door wearing nothing but a little pinny, which is nothing out of the ordinary for her even if she is knocking on sixty. Saying that though she doesn't look her age. She's beautiful.

“Is Lizard home?” I ask anxiously. I can feel sweat pouring down the side of my face.

“Course he is love,” she replies with a big genuine smile. Of course he is, he’s always at home. “Come in.”

She backs away from the door and turns around, revealing her large, nude, perfect backside. What a tease. I follow her into the living room where Lizard is sat on the settee reading yesterday’s copy of The Sun. “Harold, love, James is here to see you. And I bet we can all guess why.”

Guess why? How can they possibly know why? Lizard lifts his head to look in our direction. “You alright mate? Come and sit down. Mum, you couldn’t make us a brew could you?”

“Course I can, love. Do you want a drink James?” My god she is lovely. Had a wank over her once, at least. I would love to fuck her proper, right now, while she's in that sexy pinny. I want to drag her into the kitchen and bend her over the sink and swiftly stick it in.

“I’ll just have a drink of water please, Mrs Harvey,” I reply, sitting down. "I'm a bit hungover actually.

“What’s happened to your face, James? Looks like you’ve taken a right hiding there love.” Her voice is full of concern but I don't see how telling her about my terrible night of drink and drugs, total excess all round, will help either of us. Besides which I have more pressing issues to discuss with Lizard.

“Nothing,” I reply. “Just got a bit drunk that’s all.”

Eileen leaves the room with an "Ah well, you boys. It's no good for you y'know," and Lizard puts down his paper. I don’t know if I mentioned that Lizard is wearing, and always wears, a lizard costume, but if I didn’t then I have now. He hired it from a place in town for New Years Eve about three years ago and never returned it, didn’t even take the fucker off. I do think that that New Year really fucked him up though, mentally like. Millennium Eve it was, and about ten of us met up at Mike's house in fancy dress and decided to go into the countryside for a party. There was me (as Jesus), Mike (as a devil), Steve (as Steve, the lazy cunt), Lizard (as a Lizard, of course), Terry (as a Vietnamese prostitute), Terry's Michelle (as an American soldier in Vietnam), Chris (Lizard's brother, as Jack the Ripper), Sarah (some bird I was seeing at the time, who either didn't bother or who came as an English prostitute), Denise and Cathy (a couple of twins who Chris brought along, came as the Abba girls). Mike drove us in his Land Rover, with all of us crammed in like battery fucking chickens. I don't know how Mike managed to get us there without being pulled or killing us all, because the mad cunt was pissed off his head. Anyhoo, we did make it to some field over the other side of Sheffield, towards Manchester, and we put up our gazebo, which was the closest we could find to a tent, at around ten pm. Then we all got hammered. Es were flying around, as was a bit of Charlie. All kinds of alcoholic beverages were being drunk in vast quantities and the air was filled with a skunky aroma. Magic. I was really regretting coming as Jesus though, as not only did Mike insist on poking me with his plastic Halloween devil's fork everytime I strayed within poking distance, but I was fucking freezing wearing only some dirty dishcloth and a thorny crown.

But the next morning, or closer to afternoon, we all woke up feeling very shitty. It took us a while to realise that Chris had disappeared, vanished, gone without a trace. Just totally fucking not with us anymore. We spent hours looking for him, then the police spent weeks, but nothing was uncovered. It was as if aliens had come down in there fucking U.F.O. and fucking abducted the cunt. Just like that. The bastards. He was a good lad, Chris, and we all miss him. Lizard took it the worst though; I mean the kid was his brother like. He never came out of that Lizard suit, which I thought was going too far, but now we're all just so used to it we don't even notice anymore. Sometimes I wonder whether Chris actually killed Lizard, or ate him or something, and then put on the suit to hide, but then I realise that I'm just thinking bollocks. Makes you wonder though...

I remove the last crumpled cigarette from my crumpled cigarette packet and light it.

“So have you heard then?” Lizard asks.

“Heard what?” I inquire without much interest.

“Have you heard about my new neighbour, man?” Lizard jerks his head to the left to indicate which side the mystery neighbour has moved into. He seems very exited about something.

“No, but fuck it!" I say. "I haven't got time to discuss new neighbours, man, I need to tell you something. I'm in big fucking trouble..." But then I freeze as Lizard butts in with:

“It’s fucking Madonna, guy! Can you fucking believe it? Madonna lives next door to me.”

Lizard is rocking back and forth on the settee with excitement, giggling like a kid. I feel sick. This can't be. “Madonna?”

“Yeah man, I mean no-one could believe that she’d move here but hey, at least it’s better than living down in the pit-houses with all the smack-heads. I mean you get smack heads round here but at least these aren't pit houses, man...” Lizard is blabbing on but I'm not really listening. This is unreal. I need to concentrate. Madonna?

I can’t believe it. All my worst fears have come true. I rush to the window and look out over the street where Lizard’s story is backed up by a huge Limousine parked on next-door’s front lawn. How the shit did I miss that when I was coming down the path? I know that it is hardly confirmation, and it wouldn't stand up in court, but no-one else round here has a fucking huge Limousine on their front lawn.

“This is bad news man,” I tell him. “This is very bad news.”

Lizard looks at me in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me, guy, this is fucking great. Madonna as my own neighbour. Madonna, man. I’ve dreamed about this, man. I tell you what, man, I know where I’ll be going for sugar later.”

“No you don’t understand,” I say. “I’ve dreamed it too. But not like that, I mean really. She’s after me, man and she wants to kill me. I’ve dreamed about this for weeks, man. She wants me fucking dead.” I don't know how else to try and explain the situation without sounding totally insane and stupid.

Lizard has stopped rocking and is now looking right at me, or at least I think he is, it is very hard to tell with that stupid blank faced lizard head. “What the fuck are you on about?" he says, then: "Oh, I know what this is. This is jealousy, isn't it? I finally have something going for myself, something accomplished, me, and you just want to ruin it all for me. And you're supposed to be a friend,” he shakes his head before adding: "You're just scared that I might get to shag her before you do."

I can't believe what I'm hearing, the dense cunt. How can I explain myself any better? “No man, don't be stupid. Neither of us are ever going to get a chance to shag her, you knob head. I'm telling you that I’ve dreamed about Madonna killing me. I’ve dreamed about it for months now. I'm not even fucking kidding you, you fool.”

“Bullshit,” he says, matter of factly, like it was an answer in a pub quiz. Question eleven tonight is: What comes out of a male cows arse? Question twelve: What is the opposite of China? “So how does she kill you then, in this...dream?”

Now I'm up and pacing the room. “Various ways. Sometimes it's really crazy shit, like in this one dream I had she bites off my hands and then my feet and then puts her fist into my mouth so I can’t breathe and I suffocate. Then there's the dirty ones which I feel have just been manipulated versions of the initial warning dreams created by the pervy side of my brain. Mainly though she just fucks me over with a hammer. But the end result is the same, she always kills me, man, sometimes even with tigers, and now that she’s moved here I know that she’s going to do it for real. Why else would Madonna move into a semi-detached house on a shite estate in Barnsley?” God this is fucking silly, I'm shaking and even I can't really believe what I'm saying.

“Are you fucking real, guy? Do you know what you’re saying? You’re saying that Madonna has moved home just to live near you so that she can kill you. That is crazy talk, guy,” Lizard says, still shaking his giant Lizard head.

“You don’t believe me do you?” I ask.

“Course I believe you man, you’re a good friend and you know this" says Lizard, patronising bastard that he is. "But why would Madonna, a woman who is probably the biggest selling female solo artist of all time, why would she want you dead, man? Why you? How the fuck does she even know you exist?"

“I don’t know,” I reply. “I don’t know but I’m not willing to find out either.”

I look back through the window where Madonna is now on the front lawn, leaning on the Limo with her arse high in the air, engaged in conversation with the driver. Man that is a very fine arse. I would love to...

“Oh fuck,” I say, ragging the curtains closed. “I’ve got to get out of here guy.”

I'm panicking like fuck now as Lizard stands up to block my path. “Calm down, Jim. What the fuck’s getting to you, man? Sit down.” Just then Eileen comes in with his cup of tea and my glass of water. I sit down, but I don't rest. I can't. I need to go home.

“Cheers, ma,” says Lizard taking his drink and sitting back in his chair. “And then: “Have you heard this? Jimmy’s going crazy, man. He thinks that Madonna’s gonna’ fuckin’ kill him. And that’s why she’s moved out here.” The bastard.

Eileen looks at me curiously as she hands me my water. “James, is this true?” she asks in a very strange manner.

“Yes,” I reply, dropping my head and feeling more than a little stupid. Feeling like a complete twat if the truth be known. “It is. I’ve been having these dreams about her Eileen, and she’s always trying to kill me. And seeing her today it just…”

“What?” She interrupts me sharply, and I look up to see her face full of shock, then anger. “You saw her today? And she did that to your face? Why I've got a good mind to go round there and...”

“No, no no no Eileen. That was Terry’s Michelle’s brothers, back at Terry’s this morning but...”

“Why, what happened?” asks Eileen, totally forgetting about the real issue, possibly on purpose.

“She came home and caught him having a wank on the bathroom floor,” I explain. "It's a long, boring story but..."

“So why did they hit you then?” Eileen isn't giving up that easily.

“It’s complicated. We were all fucked and…” I wish she would allow me to finish a fucking sentence. Just one sentence, man.

“Were you all having one? A wank that is.” She's taking the piss now.

I can feel myself going red. Lizard is really enjoying this, bouncing around pissing himself in the background. “No Eileen,” I reply. “We were just there.”

“What, watching?”

“No. Well, only after Michelle came home.” I'm not making this any better for myself am I?

“You mean she came home and you all decided to start watching Terrance play his fiddle in the bathroom before her brothers beat you up? Sounds like you had a strange night, James. No wonder you’re all messed up about seeing Madonna today. It’s the shock. You need some sleep boy. Have an hour on the sofa there.”

“No Eileen, I really have to get out of here.” I get up and rush past them with a quick apology and through the kitchen into the back yard. I feel possessed. Fear has gripped my body in a way it never has before. Am I going fucking mad or what? I run through the yard and out onto the street where I head toward home, taking the long route so as not to pass Madonna’s new house again.

The jog home only takes fifteen minutes (and this must be the first time I’ve jogged or ran in years, so it is painful. I feel as sick as I have ever felt), but I’m so petrified that it seems to take hours. Any one of the cars that pass me could have Madonna sitting in the back with a sniper rifle. Am I paranoid?

As I approach the front door down the driveway my mother, who is just leaving for work at the butcher’s, opens it. I run straight in and upstairs and into the bathroom where I vomit all over the floor and the toilet seat. I collapse onto the nice, cold tiles and close my eyes. Maybe Eileen was right when she said that I need some rest, but I can't. I can't rest with all this shit in my head. What the fuck am I going to do? I feel like some kind of prey, like a little brown mouse. I am the hunted. An innocent man hunted by a powerful and wealthy figure, who I am totally useless against. Am I going to have to hide away forever, until my hair goes all thin and falls out and my skin turns pale? Well, that is the only plan I have at the moment so it’ll have to do. Anytime I go out she could be there, waiting, a professional killing machine on my back lawn with an AK47.

I hear my mum climb the stairs and come toward the bathroom where she seems to stop at the doorway. Somehow I manage to prise open my bloodshot eyes slightly and take a look around. My mother is indeed standing in the doorway, taking in the mess and shaking her head with her hands on her hips. Bless her, she doesn't need me taking up space and making mess in her house, but she is patient.

“Well you dirty little bastard,” she snarls. “You’d better get this shit cleaned up before I get home this afternoon or you’re in fucking trouble. All right? Can you hear me? Useless little prick. I’m off to work.”

Then she’s gone and I allow my eyes to close again. I don't even hear the front door slam before drifting away.

After about twenty minutes kip on the cold bathroom floor I awake feeling much perkier. More positive. To be honest I’m starting to feel that maybe I’m blowing this whole Madonna situation way out of proportion. I think that a bad hangover and my general shitty feeling may have distorted my judgement. Just a dream fuelled by drugs, drink and a heavy dose of old skool paranoia. I’ve been fucking depressed, man, but not any more. It’s not even nine o’clock in the morning yet. I've got the whole day ahead of me.

After a wank and a quick shower to freshen myself up I decide to search the kitchen for food, even though my stomach still feels fragile. I consider making hot dogs or spaghetti hoops, but not being arsed I settle for a few custard creams and a bag of Quavers.

I find the living room where it usually is. I intend on watching some TV to numb my mind, Kilroy should be on soon, but at the doorway I freeze, allowing nearly half of a custard cream to fall from my open mouth. Sat on the sofa is a huge hammer, cartoon-like in it's size, and sitting beside the hammer is Madonna, smiling, in a black PVC catsuit. My first thought is 'Oh fuck!' but then I'm all like 'Jesus, man. You're beautiful.' and I spend a few minutes just staring at her, hypnotised by her beauty. Before I know it she's on her feet and she's got the hammer and she's still smiling. Great teeth. I return her smile as the hammer swings back and then SMACK!
Right on the head.

The fucking bitch got me.