Mid pig ... bannock … heifer … slum … pie … and of course, cow …

... he has a garret, mezzanine, bedsit, portico, lean-to, duplex, stoa, pad, he gets confused with the Estate Agent jargon, in the City's Beefgate, just off the Chopgate, by the Hamgate. 

He is being followed.  This much, he knows, despite what the DSS say. And the poursuivantes are decidedly Semitic, he thinks.

They need his meat. He keeps close to the walls he slinks along, attempting to look both forward and backward at the same time. It is the gait he has perfected. The neds laugh at his clothing but they are tucked into man-made combustible laminates. 

He takes out the books he writes at nights, and dreaming, he files them on the shelves, between Celery and Cellulite. He replaces them in the morning. He complains that no one reads his books … not even the neds … until one day, a rainy day ... he beholds a shopper fingering the spine of his work. He approaches unseen and touches the trembling shoulder of the unhygienic browser. "Get off my clauses, you Posh Fuck," he says, upset. "No one touches my periods without a velvet glove." 

Now he cries openly in the book shop, the snot rolling down his upper-lip, the bags under his eyes, folded cataracts of woe. The groper turns to face him … No … it cannot be … I refuse to countenance such a possibility! I countermand the fictive continuum! I obviate the necessary wordage with my naked trembling body! I spit in the collective narrative of the Scotch! I simply will not allow the curious shopper, the discriminating aesthete, the bashful experimenter, the idling loiterer to be ... TOSH MCKINLEY.

I protest most vigorously.