Spike knew he was gorgeous.

He had an animal magnetism; when he walked in a room the women sighed and the men stared, gaping. Whatever their orientation, he caught their eye; they all wanted him.

Unlife was good, and the Glastonbury festival was a feast. Nights spent watching bands, taking drugs and hanging out in the Dance tent, before slipping off in the early hours with some girl or other or both for a little hanky panky under the stars. No one missed the star children he dumped in the ditches at sunrise.

So he woke, Sunday morning lazy, dawn twilight warning of the sun rising over thin orange canvas, a pair of lips around his cock, clever tongue licking him to release - oh god yeah, just like that - snuffling his balls...

...snuffling...?

"BLOODLY HELL!!"

Spike wakes half the campsite with his shout. The badger panics and disappears into the tent, dashing about, trying to burrow under the disorganised jumble of muddy boots and holey jumpers. Last night's conquest screams in terror and crashes back into the tent frame, bringing the whole lot down onto their heads. A terrified badger escapes the chaos into the hedgerow, an unwashed thong trailing from its snout.

“Bugger. You couldn’t finish me off love?”