Peter Hamm took to his firing with a swagger. Nah, nah, what's the word? Peter Hamm took to his firing with a stagger. Yeah.
Still plagued by his hangover, he could have spilled his guts into the fish guts of the fishmongers, but no longer employed there he didn't need concern himself. He got on the bus and got kicked off when he couldn't hear the driver tell him to snuff his cigarette. Not far from The Piper but proper early he took a detour, hacking into the crisp air and squinting at the sliver of sun that peeked behind perpetual cover. He went by the school and the old people's home and with his beloved Flint United ground just over the hill in that direction. It was inspiring that. He could feel himself getting back into fighting shape for another round against the pints. Useful to know he'd never been out of drinking shape in a good twenty years, mind you. He stopped by the phone booth and put some change in; kept himself upright with his cheek pressed against the glass. There was no answer so he left a message.
'Aight, yeah, Jonesy. Back on the take again, yeah. You got something, you know where I'll be. Oh yeah, nothing on a boat, yeah. Or with fish. Bloody hell, you'd think drinking and swaying on a boat be like steak and chips. It bloody is a nightmare, it was. You'll be proud I didn't cut me self, or Grimms. The cranky bastard! Anyway, looks like a fine morning, yeah, I'll—'
It cut off. He stayed there a bit, the dog walkers eyeing him, but his head about to burst if not for the cool of the glass. Return to the outside air nearly had him on the pavement but he managed to get a cigarette in his mouth and felt all appeased for a time.
Petey, he heard from the lads in the vans as he got into town. He didn't answer, couldn't answer, but it was no bother that. Like a family, they were. Another thing not to concern himself. He could feel the rains coming on, but then this was bloody Flint, England, and if you didn't know of the rains—