There’s a certain type of drunk that frequents J D Wetherspoon pubs that will always be smartly dressed regardless of their state of inebriation, the attire would be more suited to a funeral. I first spotted Greyman in the Bright Helm in Brighton several weeks ago working his way through several pints of Stella. What first struck me about Greyman was that his suit was designed for a considerably larger man, maybe he had lost lots of weight but he was able to fidget within the suit without causing movement in the material. The navy blue pin stripped suit served two purposes, firstly the stiffness of the cloth prevented his skeleton from falling apart, and secondly the style desperately helped him to maintain his dignity. His blood appeared to have been transfused decades ago and replaced with neat alcohol, his liver having already been pickled and his lungs must have already taken on the appearance of two cockroaches, the nicotine streaked from his lips to an earlobe.
Greyman sat there opposite me dying, legs crossed, cancerous hands resting on his knees and caught in deep contemplation. The waddle covering his Adam’s apple reminded me of Christmas and bobbled for no apparent reason, he had stopped drinking. He continued to stare blankly ahead as if he could see in to a grim future and maybe that’s precisely what the problem was, Greyman appeared to know that his time was limited, months or possibly weeks and he was preparing his body, embalming, reflecting on what he wasn’t leaving behind.
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