There's a wanker round here that parks his duck egg blue Vespa at the kerb in the high street and sits for hours, wearing jodhpurs tucked into Argyll knee socks, a 19th century style tweed jacket with matching deerstalker, Webley stadium 8 goggles from the 1930s, and one of those big waxed moustaches with the ends twisted into loops. He just sits there, waiting to be noticed, smoking a fucking briar pipe. I have a bad habit of carrying a brass knuckle duster when I walk anywhere, and the temptation to leave his jaw hanging out the back of his skull is, at times overwhelming.