no, you likely haven't heard much of anything.

That’s good stuff, you know, I said to Brinsley,

Let them be endless as the stars at night, that stare upon the lovers in a ditch – so often would love-crazed Catallus bite your burning lips, that prying eyes should not have power to count, nor evil tongues bewitch, the frenzied kisses that you gave and got.

Ah, Lesbia, said Brinsley. The finest thing I ever wrote. How many kisses, Lesbia, you ask, would serve to sate this hungry love of mine? – As many as the Libyan sands that bask along Cyrene’s shore where pine-trees wave, where burning Jupiter’s untended shrine lies near to old King Battus’ sacred grave:

Brinsley then put his dark chin on the cup of a palm and leaned in thought on the counter, overlooking his drink, gazing beyond the frontier of the world.

Having placed in my mouth sufficient bread for three minutes’ chewing, I withdrew my powers of sensual perception and retired into the privacy of my mind, my eyes and face assuming a vacant and preoccupied expression.

Notwithstanding this eulogy, I soon found that the mass of plain porter bears an unsatisfactory relation to its toxic content and I became subsequently addicted to brown stout in bottle, a drink which still remains the one that I prefer the most despite the painful and blinding fits of vomiting which a plurality of…

He recalled the feel of lamb chops in his pockets. The sensation of wet, slippery, raw meat. The air hostesses had woken him at midnight, giggling, telling him there was a fancy dress on at theirs. Someone was always having a fucking fancy dress.

He was in Hackney now, had been forced to flee to Hackney. HSBC knew where he was to within a few streets. Given the current shape of that organisation, he wouldn't be surprised if they had despatched black dogs out into the postal district. Given them a good sniff of his y-fronts. No more uncontrolled air…