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I thought you said you had good banter with your Dad !I peer over to the bar to see a man in his seventies, on his own. he is falling asleep on his stool. He has a copy of the racing post on his lap. It's only purpose in to disguise the saucer sized patch of urine on his grubby cream slacks.
There's a girl in the corner with a black eye, she's sobbing quietly. I think I've shagged her before after a night out in Yates. I'm too embarrassed to approach her. No point anyway, I haven't been able to get it up since the accident. The stitches in my neck don't come out for another three weeks and the limp is still pronounced.
What time is it anyway? What day is it even? Must be during the week, it's empty in here.
I DON'T WANT TO GO HOME, I DIDN'T EVEN CLEAN UP THE SICK!
The girl/woman in the corner is your Sister, the black eye is self inflicted when she found out you were her brother. Yates, are you fuckin kidding me, Wetherspoons rely on your custom to keep them in fish fingers. Where's your loyalty man. As for the limp, I would imagine that is due to the genital infection you picked up somewhere between Wetherspoons and Yates. As for the time, as I said before, it's way past your bedtime, yes, I know it's the holidays for you, but you know your housemaster likes you in bed nice and early. Don't worry, you won't be empty for long, sweet dreams.
Its a geek off.
"I have never been to a game but I have a fully intact; still in its plastic; programme of the 1932 league cup 3rd round clash with Aldershot Town, or Aldershot FC as they were known back then" *Nasal voice*