So we go out for a curry to celebrate England's win. Rugby Union and Patriotism really are my favourite things. All those posh cunts singing about chariots really turns me on, in a Johnny Rotten and classical music kind of way.
So we go out for a curry, a mere 15 minute walk away. We're a bit nervous as last time we went out for a curry, in the town centre, Betty was verbally abused by some young tossers in a car on the way to the restaurant. And on the way back we were nearly killed by some young tosser in a car who thought it fun to drive at 50 m.p.h. jerking the steering wheel like it was his tiny cock.
So we're a bit nervous but this time we're not heading for the town centre, we're going down some quiet roads.
So ten minutes into our walk, we hear the screech of tyres. The car is coming up behind us. We've put our life in our hands again. The wanker revs up. We can hear the car speed up. He slows down, speeds up. He isn't jerking the steering wheel like it is his tiny cock but that's probably because there are a couple of girls in the back seat and he wouldn't want to scare them too much. No, he just wants to scare us pedestrians as he goes past us at 80 m.p.h. Thank fuck we survived, nervous but alive.
So we're within two minutes of the restaurant. A large group of teenage boys cross the road and arrange themselves into a pavement gauntlet. We don't run, just keep our heads down and walk through them, waiting for a comment which thankfully doesn't come.
In the restaurant, a couple of blokes talk about football, rugby and Ruskin. This is the first time I've ever heard Ruskin mentioned in Bexleyheath. Or rugby, come to think of it.
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