Friday, 4 July 2014


The previous evening I had been in the pub talking to a bloke named Ossie. He had a head the size of a breeze block and when he addressed you it was like standing at the mouth of a wind tunnel. When Ossie spoke he wagged a finger in your direction. Not straight on, but with his right arm stuck out at 45 degrees to his front and his index digit cocked inwards. You got the feeling that if you ever looked at that finger directly Ossie would smack you with a quick left hand, so you just left it out there dancing at the edge of your vision.

"I tell you what lad," Ossie had bellowed, sending the froth on my pint skimming across the saloon bar like a Frisbee. "I don't care how much money that Mike Ashley has made, or how he's made it. As far as I am concerned that man is stupid. Stupid. He is as thick as a Gurkha's foreskin."

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