A bit more of Billy Byron.

Billy slowly rolled himself over to the doorway of the large open landing. It was still dark, so he went to turn the hallway light on... click... click. The bulb had blown. He rolled himself over to the main light in his bedroom and went to turn the lamp on... click... click. The bulb had blown. Billy began to panic; he had been having panic attacks since he had been discharged from the hospital. Panic attacks that paralysed his body with fear. His breathing would get heavy and his eyes would well up with tears. Billy wanted his mum... anyone he recognised... he felt alone and vulnerable.

Creak, shuffle, creak. Billy turned towards the door, something had shot past his room towards the bathroom. The curtains in the hallway were swaying gently as if something or someone had brushed past them. He heard a whispering; a low, deep voice that seemed to beckon Billy towards the upstairs toilet. Billy wheeled his cold body towards the landing, he squeaked as his chair moved across the wooden floor.

As he got closer and closer to the bathroom, the darkness of the early morning hours seemed to wrap around his aching body. Billy began to feel trapped and breathless, as if the air around him was strangling the life away from his battered soul. He could feel someone watching him, his eyes darted from side to side. Billy could see eyes staring from all corners; then he heard a whistling from the bathroom. The door was closed, but the light was flickering between the gaps in the frame. Billy could swear that the light had been switched off just a few seconds ago.

He cautiously mumbled his mum's name under his breath, but there was no answer; the whistling continued. He mumbled her name again, no answer; just whistling. So Billy shouted the name one more time....... the whistling stopped and a shadow swept across the room, then a splash of water echoed across the tiled walls. The water began to seep through the gap under the door; it trickled towards Billy's chair. Then Billy looked towards the floor... there was a strange smell, a smell that Billy recognised from his first days of school; when the bigger kids would slap his face for his lunch money; a smell that reminded him of the days when he would bang his nose whilst running away from the bullies on his old estate; a smell that took him back to the day when that possessed lorry had ripped his leg away from his tiny frame. It wasn't water edging towards his wheelchair; it was blood. Hot, sticky blood; as red as the eyes of the demons that were haunting his dreams.

Busy doing nothing.

I was on FaceBook earlier and suddenly I thought, fuck, I used to write a little blog a few months ago. This was during a period in my life when I had fuck all to do, apart from turn the TV on at about 11am, after a 12 hour sleep, to watch re-run after re-run of Frasier, Everybody Loves Raymond, The King of Queens and Scrubs on Comedy Central. They were good days..... when a phone call from an Asian guy trying to sell me insurance was greeted with so much joy because I was becoming somewhat of a recluse. A withdrawn weirdo.

So after a two month break, in which time I have started a job answering phone calls from disgruntled internet customers who tend to call me a prick because their new jeans didn't fit, or cry down the line at me moaning that their Christmas was ruined because there was a rip in the pants they had bought for the uncle they hadn't spoken to all year, or threaten to commit suicide because their parcel turned up 15 mins later than expected, I am back on BlogSpot, filling you in on what I've been up to. And basically that is............... fuck all. So lets begin.




I can't remember when I did it but I decided to get a perm. So I drove down to Morrisons in my Nan's Ford Fiesta, bought a £5.49 kit and asked the Mrs to get working on it. It was delightful. Mates laughed at me in the pub, Old timers gave me strange looks down Leyton Orient and I even got called a cheap Justin Timberlake, or Bill from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, or Bogus Journey; whatever that film was called.

The Mrs even started comparing me to O'Brien, that bitch Maid from the 'Downton Abbey' series on ITV. Needless to say, it didn't last long.





I remember a couple of years ago, days used to consist of waking up in some random city on the other side of the world, packing up my rucksack, popping into some knock off Irish Pub in say, Ho Chi Minh City, visiting a few temples then jumping onto some rickety old bus to a small village just past the border in some exotic land. Now I spend my life putting wax on my finger and nose and burning it so that it looks as though I'm on fire...... or going to bed at 9pm cos I have to be up for work at 6am to listen to stupid people moan about stupid things.

At least Christmas was just around the corner! And what a lovely Christmas it was. Here, still with permed hair, I dressed up as some sort of tree and hobbled to Matt and Joey's festive party. With two beers in hand, and balls hanging from all orifices I proceeded to dance, (which didn't go down well with my fucked up leg) get most of my mates naked and generally make a messy pest of myself. A true stain on London.

I had some sort of moment as I was going for a piss one night, a moment of extreme darkness and self loathing. The hair had to go, I think the straw that broke the camel's back was Stevey Ward calling me Ray Parlour. It was about time I didn't look like that gyppo c**t. So I shaved it all off. Brutal. I hadn't had a shaved head since the Chavvy days of the late nineties/early naughties. When I bowled around Chingford in Evisu jeans and sparkly ear-rings. It was time to go back to my roots.

My head is a lot colder than it used to be. I have given myself a goal, a goal that I think I can achieve. I'm gonna grow my beard and keep my hair at a number 1. I want to look like one of those mugs who posts videos of themselves on YouTube telling other mugs to kill the infidels and kick off a Holy War. I might even start wearing a burkha to work.

New Year's Eve was somewhat of a love in down Bethnal Green Working Man's Club. We drank cherry Lambrini served by a fat tranny, listened to an 83 year old crooner belt out the Frank Sinatra hits and generally had sporadic threesomes. It was a great night, with great people.

Once again, against the will of my many doctors, I danced a little bit too much and felt the pain in the morning.... one day my leg will just snap off, but at least the ConDems might help me out with some benefits if I've only got one leg. Rant over......

It's been a whirlwind of a couple of months busy doing nothing. But I'm back and the StyleCouncil blog is back. So get your mother fucking reading glasses back on.

The tale of Billy Byron will also be back very soon, so stay on the edge of those seats.

Spare change guv'nor?