He tries to be good but has some innate tendency to get it wrong, to stay in bed too late, to not be arsed, to come across as plain odd.
He’s an expert at misunderstanding the complexities of social etiquette and doing what’s expected. He dribbles a bit and scratches his arse and has a reputation for spilling red wine on cream carpets.
He doesn’t watch the relevant TV programmes either cos he doesn’t have a TV and his clothes are scruffy, in fact he rarely takes them off and the chemical sprays of human hygiene make him cough.
He feels the world is in cohorts to chain him to a desk, in an office where double-glazed windows are tinted and locked. A place with CCTV cameras on all floors, cards to swipe in and out of all doors; his ID computerised on endless files.
His paranoia is continually on the rise.