ON A RAGGA TIP
Two blokes walk into a bar.
It’s after three on a gloomy, wet weekday afternoon. Apart from them, there are three people in situ. A young guy behind the jump, gay as a parakeet, a customer sitting at the bar chewing on what looks and smells like chilli chicken wings, washed down by a bottle of Becks, and me at a table with the remains of a club sandwich, an empty coffee cup, a bottle of Rolling Rock and my new Nokia. I’ve got a Telegraph folded at the crossword and a Staedtler fine black pen in my hand. I’d been doing a half hearted investigation on the husband of a half hearted payer, and when it started to rain I’d ducked into the bar for lunch, as I’d caught a bus up to Waterloo as anyone would with parking like it was there during the week. I’d stayed for a beer or two
