Shit hits the fan at 5-ish … greeted by a deadpan Engels, holidaying over there in his decrepit caravan, freaky dancing when no-one’s looking, with all of his idiot hangers-on – many of whom are with-beard, others who are fast approaching one.
Eager to avoid a facial hair scenario, I take a triple bypass home for the gasworks, where a decompression chamber provides a well-overdue welcome.
A low atmosphere embraces several delegations of chin-stroking think-nothings … who are all having the same conversation into each other.
In search of isolation, I retreat.
In front of me: a cold front, and a game I will never play.
An Outside World 