i hate this man

Who is standing outside the French House in a loose fitting tailored blue shirt hanging over sawn off knee length shorts with his mop of blond hair talking to someone who looks Mark Oaten but who isn’t, drinking a pint, who says, yeah they sent me to Sao Paulo and I’ve seen some places but that is seriously the biggest shithole in the world. I stare at him. I keep staring. I send gamma rays which cook his liver and his lungs so he’s overheating and loosening his imaginary tie which feels like it’s strangling him, and sweat swoons off him, suppurating his pint which he cannot help but drink because without liquid he knows he will die within seconds, but even so he is actually melting into Dean Street, his feet diminishing into knees, waist, groin, he’s now poking out of the pavement, can’t stop talking about shitholes, and Mark Oaten who isn’t Mark Oaten is shuffling in this puddle of acquaintanceship trying to find a way to disassociate himself from this creature which cannot stop tormenting the world with its leg-less opinions.

I look away. The man gradually re-congeals. I take my hatred and put it back in its box and go and watch a crowd of engaging French people shouting at the TV in the Golden Lion.