Staring blankly out of his filthy bedroom window into the soul crushing grey of a run down Brighton car park, Jim puffs away on a saggy rollie containing tobacco scraped from his window sill. Months of domestic neglect have left the house looking like a post apocalyptic Soviet Russia. Welcome to breakfast at no.2 Montpelier place.
In his head he’s strolling down a beach in barbados slurping on a succulent coconut milk, but in reality he’s sat in a his bedroom at 3.30pm sweating out last nights bottle of Vodkat and limply searching for a lighter.
He’s got the Montpelier Blues.
Things have vastly improved since then…