The Racist

As I drove home from Oxfordshire, the night sky was illuminated by all those good people teaching their young that it is right and proper to burn a Papist on top of a bonfire and celebrate his death with fireworks. And indeed, I expected some sort of ritualistic firework show of support as I entered the-worst-pub on the eve of my climb onto the wagon. But, instead of the two lines of ruddy-faced drinkers cheering me up the red carpet towards my period of sobriety. It was empty. The smoking-table regulars were slavering over the new barmaid, who was off-duty, sitting at the table underneath sky TV. After a couple of sips, O'Donnell joined me and we were well. Then George approached the table talking of my beloved boys. This was just his prawn cocktail before he got onto the medium steak of his racism and then the black forest gateaux of his bad-breathed hatred. I left my beer!