I could feel myself getting stupider as he talked.
His opening gesticulating gambit was about the blacks.
Inwardly rolling my eyes, desperate to extricate myself. The barman took an age to pour my pint.
As my bitter arrived my benighted companion began a monologue on "Those Muslins". God help me, I nodded, all but an invitation to join me at my table, which of course he did.
As I sipped and he droned I could barely hear myself think, nor remember why I chose to enter this dank side street dive.
Women, government, the police. I half expected him to start foaming at the mouth.
Time passed, I felt fuzzy, his arguments begun to make sense, using big words.
I fought he must a bin a right clever geezer tho.
He buyed me a pint and wents. Fancy a chat?
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