[narrating] This is Lulu. She's a full on club minx. Major head banger. We've known each other for years. Some people find her very intimidating. It's purely social camouflage. Recently we became dropping partners. And that is how I got to know the real Lulu. She's a pussycat.
Moff: Where am I gonna go for fuck sake?
Jip: I dunno. What the fuck do you care? As long as it's got a fucking phone line you're all right ain't ya.
Moff: [laughs] Fuck off you cunt.
[on the huge bill Moff ran up after a drunken phone sex session] How many times have I told ya, get your own fucking flat. Get your own flat man, you need your own flat. It's a piece of piss, you can get it on the social.
I fucking hate this job man. We spend nine hours a day, five days a week incarcerated in this wanky fucking store, having to act like C-3PO to any wanker who wants to condescend to us. We have to brown nose the customers, then we get abused by some... mini fucking Hitler who just gives us stick all day.
We wanna go somewhere else. We're not threatened by people anymore. All our insecurities have evaporated. We're in the clouds now. We're wide open. We're spacemen orbiting the earth. The world looks beautiful from here, man. We're nympholeptics, desiring for the unobtainable. We risk sanity for moments of temporary enlightenment. So many ideas. So little memory. The last thought killed by anticipation of the next. We embrace an overwhelming feeling of love. We flow in unison. We're together. I wish this was real. We want a universal level of togetherness, where we're comfortable with everyone. We're in rhythm. Part of a movement. A movement to escape. We wave goodbye. Ultimately, we just want to be happy. Heh, yeah, hang on, what the fuck was I just talking about?
I'm having a monumental case of "Mr. Floppy."
The weekend has landed. All that exists now is clubs, drugs, pubs and parties. I've got 48 hours off from the world, man. I'm gonna blow steam out my head like a screaming kettle, I'm gonna talk cod shit to strangers all night, I'm gonna lose the plot on the dance floor. The free radicals inside me are freakin', man! Tonight I'm Jip Travolta, I'm Peter Popper, I'm going to never-never land with my chosen family, man. We're gonna get more spaced out than Neil Armstrong ever did, anything could happen tonight, you know? This could be the best night of my life. I've got 73 quid in my back burner - I'm gonna wax the lot, man! The Milky Bars are on me! Yeah!
I'm sexually paranoid.