I went for a pint with a couple of friends in a nice country pub near Lichfield. It was all rather peaceful until a posse of half a dozen or so local rascals made their entrance. They were all different versions of each other. Their haircuts were short, but just long enough to merit the application of product. Their T-shirts and trousers were all extremely tight. I hope there was an elasticated element to those jeans or what was left of their journey through puberty might be bumpy. If they were 18, I’m a Dutchman.
As they lined up along the bar to buy their individual pints of lager, another aspect of their garb became apparent: strung across their skinny bodies, every one of them had a handbag – well, a man-bag or boy-bag, I suppose we have to call it. This accessorising rather took the edge off any menace they had about them and, being in a leafy part of Staffordshire, there wasn’t a lot of menace to them in the first place.
