So I was lying in bed last night trying to sleep after a hard week's work when I hear Hot Baby Roy open his room door and shuffle off down the stairs. He's walking funny by the sound of things so I go out and follow him. I catch him in a pair of tatty blue y-fronts heading towards the back door with one eye open.
"Hot Baby Roy, get back here now."
"I'm sleepwalking," he says turning round. He'd this look on his face like he was so innocent of whatever it was I was blaming him for but Fabian Wildman used to sleepwalk so I now what proper sleepwalking looks like. I told him so.
"Don't blame me because Fabian Wildman fucked off with a gang of snobby pricks, there was a time you'd have been over that fence the day after they'd moved in."
"I don't want to be sitting wearing stolen panties on my head," I told him. "I want a girl of my own, so I can do this stuff without anyone calling the police. Maybe you should try that too, instead of fucking it up for yourself. Running around with DVDs full of barely legal girls, catch a fucking grip."
"I don't watch them for the girls," he said. "I watch them because they express a naive but touching view of love, as something to get excited and giggle about with your mates. Not some tough strained life crushing series of events that leaves you fucked up and bitter. I want to believe, there's nothing wrong with that."
This sounds suspect, especially because it's coming from a grown man who's just faked sleepwalking to get his hands on some girl's clean knickers.
