
">	"Give us back our talent or you're fish food mother fucker." "Look, it's the only thing I've got and there's precious little of it- this is England and you need some in store to get by..." We formed a semicircle around him, a selection of guns pointing at his face, The Viola player from the Early Music Ensemble had a Frontier model .44, a regular contributor to Third Text had a Colt Python 357 . Mc Hoolihan was standing with his back to the river. "Give" I said. He handed back the talent and caved into a heap on the ground. "What you going to do now, loser?" "I going back to from where I did come from." "Where's that?" "From where I did have started to be coming from." I think I spoke for the group when I said: "Don't fuck with talent you fucking fuck" Elated by the renewal of our talents we all started to laugh before shooting the head off of Mc Hoolihan and watching his body fall into the river. As I fell to sleep tonight I thought "Oh god-why did I write all those poems this month? And why the hell did the Big Issue publish them all?"