I was walking down Portswood Road enjoying the afternoon sun when the first punch landed me in the ribs. I ducked the second which was quickly followed by a few swift kicks to my shins, and while I'm not proud of everything I've done in my life, I've got a rule – I don't hit women. Not even after they've come zig-zagging in and out of moving cars with a look of psychotic rage in their dead eyes and start trying to beat the living shit out of me.
I pushed her away. She went on screaming at me for money out of a mouth filled with gaps where teeth once stood. Although technically she was spot on in identifying me as a fucking wanker, labelling me a cocksucker was inaccurate. I would have told her so, but still a little worked up from the ordeal of having her dirty claws all over me, I only managed to blurt out that had she been a bloke I'd have put her head through the nearest window. Not the usual patter I offer the ladies.
In a few hours time Burridge skive out of work early and drive westbound down the M27 to the seaside for Kristian Hewitt's (pictured right) stag weekend. My only hope is that all twenty-five lads attending remember to bring their drinking boots, otherwise they might find themselves getting well and truly blogged on Sunday afternoon.
Have a good weekend.