He told me that all sport should be blood sport. He asked where's the religion without the blood. He said that that silly cunt Cillic walking out of Wimbledon with his mortality in tact was an affront to civilisation. He got on to politics. He said that that dopey twat Nick Clegg would have saved himself, and his party, a lot of humiliation if he'd have committed harikari right there in the middle of PMQs. He went on. He talked about how the sun craves blood. He talked of the murder rates in the summer. He believed the Aztecs had it right with their sacrifices. He used our current bad weather as a case in point.
He had a suggestion. He asked why don't we hot wire the Jag outside and drive off into the sunset like a fist into a face and smash it into the dust of night, plummeting this God forsaken planet into darkness. I told him that although he wasn't too drunk to drive, I was too pissed to be a passenger. We ordered another drink from the barmaid with a tattoo of a mermaid over the scar on her wrist.
