Jammy Buttie

My name is Tonase. Well, somebody had to be called it. I honestly cannot interpret what my mother and father must have been thinking when they named me, then again they were probably stoned.
Living in a terraced council property is something some people would scorn as bring low and “scummy”. Personally I love it; Jammy Butty is my home, my paradise and my hell. The official name for it is Rolands, but no one calls it that, except for foreigners (anyone farther away than a five mile radius) and the posh, well brought up type who unfashionably speak in Received Pronunciation. At first Rolands was a desired housing estate, and as such was very expensive. The legend is that the inhabitants spent all their money on their mortgages and had to eat “jammy butties” all the time. The muddy red, sickeningly symmetrical 3D squares, packed together like cans of beans, are split by equally boring grey streets heavily trodden by a variety of cheap footwear. Chewing gum is irretrievably stuck in the gravely pavement, there is so much that at first glance it seems like deliberate polka dots, drawn on by unruly but artistic under tens. Every house has a front and back yard, technically they are gardens because there is grass, however muddy and brown, but I don’t think they deserve the acknowledgment as “gardens”. Looking at this drab display of how us lower working class folk “hang”, the legend of Rolands is most definitely just that: a legend and nothing more.
As a self respecting Jammy Butty resident I must say that I have a reputation to keep, that of the quiet but alright one. In this place you are doing great if you stay out of fights and get a nod off your neighbours when you wander down to the paper shop, for some Richmond Super Kings for your mum. No doubt, this reputation would be completely ruined; no demolished with a massive puff of smoke, if anyone discovered that I like to masturbate over Angeline Jolie and Kiera Knightley. A few of the perverted and perturbing, sexually frustrated teenage lads would leer over my small form, asking indecent questions about “lesbo”. Needless to say I don’t want this when I don’t really know how you “lesbo”. Well, I know what goes where, but how to actually satisfy a girl without a penis? I have no idea. And, of course, the rest of the Jammy Butties would either take to chucking milkshake over me and shouting slander, or ignoring me in fear of being seen with “the dyke freak”.