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Suity sat in the bar of the sea front hotel in Skegness, nursing a half of cheap cider as recommended to him by the Big Issue seller. Since jilting the london gig suity was on the street. In the belly of the beast, working for one of the sharpest holiday camps in the West.
A shadow of his former self from all the sumo training he is now doing, his flab a quiver under the very moist underpants. The bar maid kept making eyes at him in a shy and yet alarmed way.
The phone went, it was the CEO. Suity had already played hard ball with him this morning. Predictably this would be the sacking, paving the way for suity's complete destitution, his way. No messing this time. Suity was not a contractor anymore.
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