Life in this town has always been fun for Matheus. He has enjoyed smoking his cigars next to the bush shelter for the last eight years. Always smoking next to the bus shelter - never in it. Piss in it, don't smoke in it.

Today, Matheus arrived at the bus shelter at approximately 11am. He had woken at 10 and utilised his early morning erection by penetrating his brain with frame-by-frame visions of his erstwhile bitches: Gina? Tina? Dina? Who cares - at least this rush of blood to the crotch (which, incidentally, Matheus knew to be a safety valve designed to prevent him from wetting his bed) didn't go to waste. He always lasts longer in the morning, much to his annoyance. He finds it difficult to shake off his dreams and clothe himself in reality; a difficulty which he has deduced to be the root cause of his inability to deposit his tobacco-laden semen into his trusty, crusty sock in the usual 35 seconds. Anyway; prior to wiping up and pushing the sock back under the pillow where it sits waiting to impregnate a bemused tooth fairy, the requisite cigar is lit and shrinking. Cigarettes are for the biologically weak (filters!), something which Matheus believes his cigars preclude him from becoming. With the cigar sitting pert on his skinny lips, Matheus coats his penis, backside and arm pits with a thick lining of Hilfinger. Why pay more for the real thing, when the fake smells the same and lasts longer? The mingling of Hilfinger, tobacco, sperm, sweat and shit creates a distinctive musk which Matheus wears well. After this Italian Shower, he dons the jeans (Stevi's), the polo shirt (Fred Jerry) and the trainers (Nike - the real deal).

From 10:30 to 10:45, it's off to the bookies, ‘Bet Fe_d', for the daily flutter on the gee gees. Matheus has a vague recollection of Crutchy giving him a tip on a ‘dead cert' - Spanner's Bride - running in the fifth at Aintree. Matheus puts two quid on this young filly, while simultaneously pondering the of the missing letter in Bet Fe_d. Has this letter always been missing? Matheus can't seem to answer this question; his brain needs hotwiring, it's going rusty and stale. "Fuck Bet Fe_d, this isn't fucking Countdown" he tells himself. He feels like giving his brain a fucking good slapping, but settles on objectifying the tits of the bookie. Matheus knows he's no Richard Whitely, he's no match for Carol Vordeman with her cuntsonants and her bowels, but where tits are concerned, he's the 15 to 1 champion of champions, he's Mortal Kombat's Raiden, he's Bin-Ladin, Bush and Blair - the behemoth, a king among men (which includes fellow scholars of Zoo and Nuts). He'd trounce Magnus Magnusson in a tit-off. No mess.

Matheus knows myriad names for those mamories, from the run of the mill (tits, jugs, orbs, norks), to the more exotic (jagues (French), tagues (Latin) el tittos (Spanish) and hooters (American)). Matheus is a connoisseur, he doesn't like tits unless they've had a bit of cash spent on them; give them that bit extra. In his eyes, the surgeon's scar below the nipple should be worn as a meddle of honour. The Victoria Cross lurking beyond a nice set of Victoria's Secrets. This specific pair of tits - the bookie's pair of tits - Matheus instantly recognises as the same pair of tits that he had seen behind a different uniform - a pizza seller's uniform - in Pizza Perfect only the night before. The tits were distinctive not by their size, their ‘cuppage', but by the heavy bruising apparent on the left one and the tattoo of god knows what on the right. The tattoo looks older than the slag wearing it. Matheus is not a fan - these tits offend his palette. He leaves Bet Fe_d promising himself that he'll invest in these tits - get them seen to by a professional - if Spanner's Bride does him proud.