Note the shit signature, I started practising my signature (as an autograph) once i decided i was going to be famous after i left the Army.....what a bighead........and........a twat.
He was living near Greenwich and I went to see him and his wife Tracey and spent a few nights being entertained to curries, lager, and rugby stories, envying his proximity to London’s nightlife. He told me it was not all it was cracked up to be, I felt he was missing the trick, with all the glamour on offer, but then I was single, he was married and our world view was different. I played Rugby with him just once; he had travelled back to Norwich and was asked to turn out for his old team, Lakenham Hewitt Rugby Club and he asked me to run the wing as they were a man short.
Typically, I avoided confrontation on all but the most necessary of occasions in the game and on being told by my opposite number that he would “rip my fucking head off” if I actually got the ball, managed to avoid handling the thing for most of the game and had developed in my head during the first half various scenarios in which I would have been able to hand the ball to him, should I get the chance. I was not concerned about my back, more my face, as I liked it, as did most of the women I met and hence wanted to retain its looks for as long as possible.
When very short on cash, I would raid mums stash of More(s), but only smoke them around the house for fear of being seen with them in hand by anyone outside the house. Mum knew I nicked them obviously and eventually began secrete packs of Marlboro around the house, hoping I’d leave hers alone.