Apart from having rough sex with an eighteen year old virgin, Tony reckons that one of the finest pleasures in life is returning to our humble home, after an evening of heavy drinking, so that he can "close the door on the mad world", and sleep off the effects of drinking too much lager.
Of course, our home is hardly a palace, but more of a freezing cold hovel, with hardly enough space for us to stagger about drunkenly, after an evening at the pub, without bumping into our crap furniture, or one another. Then there's the constant problem with the toilet, the damp patch on the ceiling, and the noise we have to tolerate from our neighbour, who spends most of her time fucking men she meets in nightclubs, and in the street.
Still, this little pile of shit is home to us, here in south-east London, and although it's not quite the sort of place we thought we'd end up living in, as the boy rightly says, with a pub at the end of the road, a twenty-four hour mini-market opposite our flat, and a burger bar not a million miles away, what else could two hopeless losers like us want from life?
I suppose my obese friend is right, and to celebrate the fact that once again he's got a clear idea of what our priorities should be, we're off to the pub for our usual Saturday lunchtime drink, after which we'll head off to the burger bar, to see just how many double cheeseburgers we can buy, with what ever money we may have left to spend.