They can see through your clothes.
Christ.
They see your bollocks and everything – all beamed to security in high definition. Every pimple, every crease of your kecks. And your lass, they’ll look at her too. Long and lingering. And the kiddies. It’s not right.
There’s nothing we can do though.
They want to know everything. They can trace your whereabouts through mobile phones and Tweets.
Ah’ve done nothin – have I though?
They’re not bothered about you. They want you to get the fuck away, keep quiet. They want you to feel scared.
Sometimes I do. Does that mean they’ve won?
MW Bewick 