Me and Joan

I'm walking down the street to go find my next hit of crack when there before me is a woman sat on the floor.
'Can you help me please? '
'Depends, what do you want?'
'Will you call me a ambulance'
'Why? Whats wrong with you?'
'I've fainted'
Fair enough, so I called 999 begrudgingly, this guy on the phone is asking me a series of questions and I'm feeling pretty pissed about the whole situation, How the hell am I supposed to know anything about this woman? Shes sat there in her own urine with her small yellow bag of possessions, her bleached blonde hair had grew out about 8 months ago into a silvery grey and she was giving me the stink eye. She had scars up her forearms from self harm and her speech was slurred with a gurn. From what I managed to translate, She's coming up sixty, her husbands a traveller ( a.k.a got the fuck out of there ) and her two kids have grown up.
So I'm stood there gagging for a hit and this woman had clearly had her fill for the week, I try to keep low key around these parts and this bint really isn't helping out.
'HUUHH'
Oh fuck what the hells she doing now.
'HUUUUUHHHH'
Oh great, shes trying to throw up.
'Y' alright?'
'I'm gonna be sick HUH HUH'
Pretty sure she's making herself sick, Oh right and the 999 guy said if she starts throwing up lay her on her side. No chance I'm going anywhere near that.
'Blurghhhhhhhhhhh'
A river of yellow spew flows from her mouth, my stomach instantly starts to clutch and tries to push up the boiled egg I'd had to eat earlier that day. This is amazing, this is just what I needed. Finally the ambulance turns up and a unimpressed paramedic walks from the van putting on her latex gloves.
'Oh you again is it? WHAT-HAVE-YOU-BEEN-DRINKING?'
For fucks sake, what are the chances? I fall for a stunt like this, the paramedic explains she's in every day some days eight times and she'll be out in a hour. Don't get me wrong, this woman clearly needs help but what the hell are the NHS playing at? Don't just ship her away again, do something about it. Don't waste the time of good civilians like me, if it hadn't been for this drug induced troll I could be at my dealers now getting cained. Oh yeah and I asked for the womans name, apparently she calls herself Joan Collins.

The British Citizen

I walk to Doggy market to do my weekly shop, I spend my hard earned pennies and buy myself a frock. I use the local Post Office to send out all my mail, I send off all my bills to date without a single fail. The paper boy delivers before I leave for work, I'm working in the city as a office clerk. I venture down to Cornwall or the Lake District for my jolly holidays 'cos foreign makes me sick. I keep up with the gardening, keep it nice and trim, I wash out jars and bottles for recycling. Sundays are for family, I cook a lovely roast, have the neighbours over 'To England' we toast and then the week starts over and I do it all again, for I am the British Citizen the greatest of Gods men.

Sunday Cunts

Sunday Cunts in Sunday best,
Sunday shoes and Sunday vest.
Sunday prayers for Sundays host,
Sunday chat with Sunday Roast.
Sunday smiles for Sundays front,
Sunday gun for Sundays hunt.
Sunday shout in Sundays fight,
Sunday suicide Sunday night.