Jennifer and Bingo Tits

When I was six years old, I couldn’t walk in straight lines, because I had been bought up by pissed monkeys. One day, I pointed at a huge brown dog, and I said to my father, who at the time wasn’t all that pissed - "I don’t know what that is, daddy, but I want seven of them. And the sooner I get them, the better. For You." My father ruffled my hair, and smiled at me. Then he said, "Darling, that is a horse. And I have already bought you seven of them, each bigger than the last." And I looked at the horses, one by one, and my heart swelled with each horse, as they grew bigger and more supple. However, the sixth horse was slightly smaller than the fifth. I started to cry at the horrible disappointment. My father noticed that the fifth horse had developed a fondness for the seventh - and to get closer to the largest of the horses, the randy fifth steed had arranged with the sixth that he would have half his hay if he let them change places, to steal a few moments together. It was the first time I had come across love, and I would cherish that moment forever. My left eye cried with disappointment, my right eye cried with rapture. And where the tears met under my nose, a hot little pool of maturity formed.

Bingo Tits was horse number four - I chose him because he looked happy when I told him my joke about the chinese man drinking wee-wee in the desert. "Me no daft - me no silly - me drink water from my willy!"

On my thirteenth birthday, I had a dream that I was flying. It was so messed up. No-one has messed-up dreams like mine. But it effected me in the most concerning way. At crucial points during the day after my dream, just for a fraction of a moment, I believed I could fly. Fucked up. The following night, I dreamed again that I could fly. And I dreamed that my moments of belief during the waking hours had been put successfully into practice. Then I woke up, and I thought - "hang on, I’ve thought this before - and I really can fly!" - and then I dreamed about that. Before long, I was not only convinced that I could fly, but I could fly so fast that it looked like I was going backwards, like helicopter blades. But my best friend Susie, who is clever because her dad spoke to her in the womb, disagreed. She told me that it would only appear like I was going backwards around the world if I was going around the world over five times a second, at night, and if my other friend, Gentile Ben, flicked a torch on and off very quickly at the right time. Eventually, it transpired that I was, in fact, moving backwards, very slowly. And Gentile Ben’s torch is broken after he sat on it. Fuck, and big balls!

Bingo Tits is making a mocking "limp hoof" gesture at another horse across the paddock, and whinnying "Oooh, Ducky" at him. We don't know if the other horse is actually gay, and we don't care.

The first time I got drunk was at my grandmother’s house. She died in 1989 with a glass of sherry in her hand. She was sat in her broken rocking chair (it was broken, poetically, after it rocked over a docker’s sock), when she vomits up all these Lego heads. Turns out she’d eaten hundreds of Lego people as a child, and they’d all just come back up at once. The shock killed her. She’d forgotten her childhood, and thought each Lego head represented one of her victims - she was, it turned out, a prolific serial killer. I found her corpse in 1995, took the sherry out of her hand, fished out two Lego heads, wiped off the stringy puke mucus, and drank.

Two hours later and I woke up with one hand in my knickers and my jeans around my ankles, and eight angry horses telling me I'd wet myself on their hay. I had to hide in the sky until they had forgotten about me.