When dancing, lost in techno trance, arms flailing, gawky Bez. Then find you snagged on frowns, and slowly dawns: you're jazzing to the beeptone of a life-support machine that marks the steady fading of your day-old baby daughter. And when midnight sirens lead to blue-flash road mash, stretchers, covered heads, and slippy red Macadam, and find you creeping 'neath the blankets, to snuggle close a mangle bird, hoping soon you too will be freezer-drawered... Then welcome. Mmm... uu chemotherapy wig. Welcome. In Jam.
| Name | Type | Role | |
|---|---|---|---|
| Christopher Morris | Writer |