Wilson

Since the fateful day when England went out of the World Cup and the police had to storm the-worst-pub, spraying mace like fun-foam into the faces of saxon-shirted rioters; the pub has changed its complection somewhat. It is now generally more sedate and even more souless than before. The group of Manchester United fans who have never been to Manchester have flown back to the pub from which they migrated after a mass barring. Therefore, tonight, the-worst-pub was empty apart from Wilson, Liam, My Friend, Panic Attack and myself drinking around the-smoking-table. Wilson was showing us his long list of presription drugs which he has to take to keep him being Wilson. Panic Attack asked him if he was allowed to drink whilst on the medication. "Oh yes," replied Wilson, "the Doc said it's fine to have a couple of pints a night." "Wison!" said Panic Attack, putting his hand upon his left shoulder, "you're on your eighth pint!" Wilson looked defiantly at Panic Attack. "And who do you think you are? The fucking drink police?"