a stroll down Bridge Place and this is what I encounter: a yob spewing a gobful of invective at a shop assistant, who couldn’t serve cigarettes to a young boy and girl whose ages couldn’t be verified.
“Ahve jus’ goraaht ‘er prizzon,” one shouts, before scuttling off.
As I recovered from that particular episode a girl whose rear cleft was clearly visible told her friend that she was: “Guin ta t’job centa, ta see if she wuz entitulled t’ote.” Not to get a job, you might notice.
Then I was cheered up by a man whose mobile phone was just slightly smaller than a BT phonebox. Happy days.