I’ve just woken up on a couch in Brighton. There’s a bottle of something toxic and terrible called Tuaca lying next me. Some brandy, orange and vanilla number. 35% proof. Empty.

My head hurts. What the fug happened last night? Where the fug am I?

I scan the flat and it looks like something outa a war film. Fatigues, helmets, a Beretta. And a strap-on udder.

Right, I’m chez Apocalypse Cow. If you remembers rightly, Cow is a cross dressing Bull. Ex army (Special Bull Service).

He’s now down in Brighton doing door work. At a place called the Bull’s Dog. Lots of Hairy Marys and Butch Bears. Big on leathers and chains. Not so big on motorbikes. Apocalypse keeps the peace and deals happiness and light from his strap-on udder. Treats from his teats.

OK. So I know where I am.  But that’s all. No memory at all of what went before. I needs a drink. Cow must have some Stella. Or a pick me up treat from a teat.

I walks into the hall and stops in me tracks.

Jesus fuck!!! I am confronted by a giant Muscle Mary. In full Village People leathers and handlebar moustache. He’s staring straight at me. Don’t like this. He’s a big unit and he don’t look too happy.

I give the boy the eye. He gives me the eye back.

Generally I don’t like a kick off first thing in the morning.  But needs must. I is not going to get Tuaca’d by some Buftie Bunny before breakfast. I feign left. He feigns right. I feign right. He feigns left.

Fuck this. I charge. SMASH. I hit what feels like a wall and I is covered in shards of glass.

“What the hell are you doing?” shouts Apocalypse Cow coming outa the kitchen. “You just run into my vintage full length mirror! That’s seven years bad luck, man.”

I pull bits of mirror outa my falsie handlebar moustache. I doff my leather cap to the cow with a ‘what did happen last night?’ look in me eye.

“Yeah.” He says. “You got right on it at the Bull’s Dog after hours. Really joined the party, dude.”

I grab a Stella off of him and give him the eye. We agree to never mention this again.