There are two types of men when it comes to approaching lone pretty women in bars. The shit type and the don’t-have-the-balls-to-be-a-shit jealous type, and I was the latter and in situations like this the prey becomes the hunter and it’s all just an under-stocked meat market trading in egos, tits and shame.

I open the toilet door and step out, my internal fire re-stoked, ready to face my demons, fight if need be and win. I’m raging, focused like a jungle warrior after his second bowl of tiger-cock soup.

The bed lets out a slight gasp of air from the mattress like an old cat fart, but it looks like she’s too caught up in herself to notice.

We were all puppets of someone in a self-perpetuating circle of pollutants, violence and hedonistic escapism.

I sit in the car, staring up at the big corporate beast of a hotel where everyone from prime ministers, presidents, pop stars and the red carpet parade had fucked, pissed, slept and golfed away our taxes and respect. I would need to strap on a pair before I enter.

The room buzzes around us but we’re fixed on each other, engaged in a battle of who can deprecate me more. She obviously doesn’t believe such a man can exist and keeps at it, prodding and goading me like a fisherman harpooning an already beached whale.

And like a fool, here I am again, lapping at the beast’s teats like a true fool, laying my head in the lion’s mouth as I hit it on the arse with a big stick.

Like a piss-soaked butterfly emerging from a cocoon, I push on over the bridge feeling like I’m establishing my transformation into my true self.