Hodryt

I am in Margate, staying at a sort of hotel/squat that is part inspired and part overlorded by Peter Doherty of The Libertines. (I see him shambling about a couple of times, a woozy but imposing figure with his tousled urchin hair and obligatory stained vest.) Somewhat unusually the entire structure is lying over on its side at 90 degrees to normal! ...although it does not seem to affect/impede anything whatsoever – for instance all the WC's, etc. are the correct way up. I keep marvelling at the fact that the local council allow it to stay open at all, especially given how busy and bustling it is. I am sharing a “room” on the building's large flat “roof”. It is very basic and more of a semi-open construct than an actual room. Everything seems to be painted in a magnolia to yellow colour, with dated 70's-ish timber trims- 

There is some sort of football tournament taking place and I need to register – contestants, and there are 50-100 of them, each sport a deep red vest top with a bold black number on it – when I get talking to a huge friendly black guy who is sitting on a bench (on the roof). He has, in proportion to his body, a smallish head with a short beard and cascading, tatty dreadlocks. His body looks to get much broader as it nears the ground, his legs like great thick trunks. He offers me a draw on a fat joint and, even though I'm hesitant and much more keen to enrol, I accept. On my second draw I somehow inhale a mouthful weed and tobacco (or so it should be, but as I can picture/taste this mix it comprises green fragments and a fine, white, soft grit). I dare not swallow as I fully expect the effects of the drug will be disastrous on my 'lightweight' constitution, rendering me completely incapable. The big guy stands up. At this point I notice that he seems to be missing the lower half of his left leg, the trouser tucked and flapping(?)- 

I am on my own looking for somewhere to spit the soggy mix, knowing I'm swooshing it about inside my mouth and slowly, bit by grit, I can see and sense I am swallowing it off. The tournament is now underway – I am aware I have a ball but not a vest – and countless folk are running about in a throng, kicking/handling their own footballs. I try to avoid it, to find somewhere secluded to be sick. I go near a wire fence but shy away when two competitors bustle in. I go to a small lavatory construct, but am put off by the two guys in there who are mop-slopping the short urinal trough formed in the red tile floor. Eventually I find a small stair and kneel, wretching and being sick in the corner under-