“So you’re going to kill me yeah? What with, your kebab or your finger?”

The drunk wavered in front of me, greasy kebab in one hand with an accusing finger pointing in my direction. “See you pal, you’re a fuggin’ idiot,” he stammered, clearly three sheets to the wind. The finger remained a constant whilst the kebab slowly lost its contents on the pavement. Unlucky pavement. “An I’m gonna fuggin’ KILL YE!”

My mam used to always say that a drunk is never a good look. And I can see why now. Spittle had gathered in the corners of both sides of his already grease and sauce painted lips. Angry, slitted eyes peered from beneath a hooded jacket that was also the recipient of various questionable stains. And the breath…fumes that could kill a horse.

The attempted punch was comedic, a high lunge that resulted in him staggering forwards, hitting the bus stop window and falling over. “Am tellin’ ya pal, am gonna fuggin’…” and he then attempted to kick me from the soaked pavement, before falling into an immediate sleep with the contorted face pressed against the kebab which was acting as a barrier between him and the filthy street.

It was at that point that the plan hatched in my mind. Sobriety has its used when you are who I am. And with a wry grin, I slowly began to put it into action.