Dogs everywhere, freaking him out. He hadn’t felt this way since bumping into the Monkey Man on Kings Heath High Street, Birmingham. Then, it was a deranged cabaret act at work: exhibitionism, British style, designed to rouse the masses from their torpor without succeeding, once again. Now, the surreal vision snarled at him with realistic intent.

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George walked into his local wearing his Superman outfit, the ‘S’ undulating over his man-boobs and beer-gut, and ordered a pint of his favourite brew.