A bit run down.

I almost got run over last night, a well groomed bitch nearly took me out.
Admittedly, I'm tired and hanging in rags
(hanging in rags sounds best in a Yorkshire accent).
But still. I looked into the car to shake my fist (metaphorically, of course,
otherwise you'd look like a fucking villager
from Carry On Up Me Bronze Age).

I realised I knew her. And she knew me.

We used to share a flat in a posh part of town. A basement flat.
She was gorgeous, posh and off her fucking rocker.
I looked like a burst haggis, working class and was off my rocker.
And she liked a drink.
Christ, she loved to get so pissed, she'd take all her fucking clothes off
(yes, and I swear this is true) And sit on the doorstep drinking wine.

All of this flashed through my mind as I metaphorically
shook my fist at the woman in the car.
She looked at me, a slightly bedraggled, slightly burst-looking woman
and she put her pedicured foot down like Lewis Hamilton.