W. admires the rituals of football. That’s what it’s all about, he says, as we sit among the football fans in the pub, the ritual. You go to the pub, then to the match and then back to the pub to discuss the match. It’s the ritual that matters. But you don’t know anything about football, do you? Or discussion. It’s enough you can do to drink. That’s all you do night and day, isn’t it: drink. It’s why you’re so fat, isn’t it, fatboy?
W. is impressed by my arms. ‘They’re huge’, he says. How come he’s never noticed before?, he wonders. It must be my vests. ‘You’re going through a vest phase’, he says, ‘and it doesn’t become you.’ How many vests do I have, he asks me. Thirty. ‘Thirty vests! All the same colour?’ Yes, all the same colour. Olive green. ‘Thirty olive green vests’, says W. ‘They make you look fat’. But what about my arms? ‘Oh yes, you’ve got big arms. Too big. They’re monstrous.’
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