Sunday, 24th November 2013

by Joshua Gaskell

This evening in the pub I’m forced to listen to a twat in a tweed cap, who is propping up the bar and talking loudly about paying off his mortgage. I try telekinetically to explode the pint of handcrafted beer in his hand, but to no avail. I dub him Peaky Blinders: la Mouse Industrieuse.

I come across him again in the toilets, where we piddle abreast. As I’m leaving he asks me, malapropos of nothing, ‘aren’t you going to wash your hands!?’
‘No, Peaky,’ I reply, ‘I did them this morning.’