“I just got ripped off down there.”
Booze steams off his breath making me double check it really is 11am. He’s got the agricultural drawl of my homeland.
“I paid five pound to get in roight, and then theyre tellin me I owe em 40 quid. I ain’t even seen a bird yet I told em.”
He’s got that glass-eyed ‘no vacancies’ look I am becoming familiar with. ‘Is this the enemy?’ he seems to ask as he locks eyes with me.
“I’m from Devon,” I tell him in the most painfully plummy accent my treacherous larynx can muster.
He seems to buy it and the look softens. “Proper job,” he says.
“What do you do? Should I go to the police?” he asks. “It’s just that I get smacky when I’ve had a few and I don’t want to punch the bitch in the face.”
“Quite,” the posh part of my mind says.
He is a big fella wearing a loincloth of a shirt, ripped at the neck as if he was posing for the cover of a Mills and Boon except he is far too Devon. I push back thoughts of rigging him up in a ploughing harness.