After enduring the gut rumbling jealousy of watching a couple of mates being served the biggest, most delicious looking helping of shepherd's pie this side of the Shetlands, I begrudgingly picked at my cod and chips. I paused only occasionally - when their backs were turned - to spit on their peas or pour salt in their beer. Terribly childish, I'm the first to admit, and less than hygienic, but a man has to do what a man has to do. And anyway, they started it.
'Nice fish Doddo?' The Kid asked, wiping lashings of delicious gravy from his mouth with the aid of a carefully folded napkin.
'Beautiful mate. Superb.' I lied.
'It's just that it looked kinda greasy to me.'
'Well it wasn't, so just fuckin drop it. OKAY!'
As the night wore on and the number of empty pint glasses residing on our corner table grew, we were joined by Mick, a local butcher. Mick was a stout little bloke with a receding hairline and a penchant for cheap after-shave. He was your classic easy talker. Friendly to the point of suspicion and with that wonderful sing songy tone with which all Welsh are blessed. I really could sit and listen to that accent for hours.
Besides slicing animal carcasses into tasty bite size chunks, Mick, it seemed, spent most of his waking hours talking rugby. I'd like to think of myself as a sports lover, but being Victorian, rugby was not my football code of choice. A five eighth was just a little more than a half, and a hooker was something I couldn't afford, but our newly acquired buddy set about filling in the blanks with the passion of a religious zealot.
'Now that David Campese, there's a champion. Up there with Neil Jenkins in my opinion, for what it's worth. Retired now you know, but that goose-step, what a move. I remember watching him in the 1992 World Cup Final, remember Jim, 1992?' he asked, raising his voice to the publican. Jim nodded his huge head, almost taking out a light fitting in the process.
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