B is whingeing to P about his dire financial situation. 'They’ve cut my money off,’ he tells him. B is possibly one of the scraggiest-looking people in Britain. He is a spit for the 1970s TV character Catweazle. His hair is long and grey. His beard is full of waves and knots. His simple rectangular steel-frame glasses sit on the bump of his supposedly once broken nose. As his chin drops in fixed concentration while he rolls a cigarette, furtively, closely to his chest, the glasses slip over the nose-bump to the tip, where they sit, waiting to fall off their orange-peel landmass into his lap, which is more often than not clothed by a pair of heavily and variously stained jogging pants. Grooming is not a word that will ever be used to describe B.
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