Sitting on the bus on the way to Homebase (me – not them) are two gentlemen, both one hundred and eleventy-twelve if they’re a day. They’re discussing yesterday’s debacle. (I didn’t watch it due to a conviction we wouldn’t win and the summer doesn’t last forever and my time would be more profitably spent with a good book in the garden. Reader, I was not wrong).
First man: “I watched it dahn the pub. They’d laid on some food an’ that but ah left at half-time cos it were no good.”
Second man: “No, they were no good.” (Cue random under-the-breath mutterings, no doubt vitriol directed South Africa-wards)
First man: “Ah knew it. We learnt all about this in the war. The Germans don’t like aerial bombardment.” He smacks the cross-bar on the bus out of frustration. “We should have brought on Peter Crouch.”
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