That burnt out DJ from Manchester was still churning out tunes at the Kuala Lumpur cemetery.
He had become a bit of an institution here.
The Malaysians felt sorry for him.
They gave him tasks.
'Clean this, sweep that.'
He was nothing but a temple boy.
The cemetery was spotless.
Given it was only a meter by a meter.
Most of it had been converted into shopping malls and high-end real estate.
That Najib and his cronies were the backers, was not surprising.
For every backhand, Mahathir got two.
It's how it worked.
Someone threw a coin at Jodric the Clown.
'Very good,' he'd say in a very upper-class British accent.
He also had a tin drum he'd play every time someone connected a coin in his mouth that was painted up garishly like Pogo The Clown, aka John Wayne Garcy the serial killer.
Jodric was waiting for Godot.
'He'll be coming very soon.'
The crowd who gathered around the tombstone where Plinth performed would even throw him peanuts.
'Protein never went astray.'
Max asked, What happened to him?
'He's been bogarting the mic,' I said, as I threw a coin very hard at his head.
It bounced off.
'Steady steady.'
And you can go fuck yourself, I said, as I pulled out my cock and pissed all over him.
It got the meth stane head going all the time.
He didn't get it.
'I love golden showers.'
He had a few incomplete sentences programmed into his pea brain.
'Fucking dead beat,' said Max, who laid a turd on the tombstone.
'Now that's a real freak show,' I said, as we made ourselves to the Freak Show Cafe, where we were told Plinth washed dishes for a few Ringgit.
'Nothing worse than a working-class tosser trying to be an upper-class tosser.'
Max might be dumb, but boy he had some insights.