It would be fair to say that the town I live in is not the best. Well, actually that’s not fair as reworking the premise I could say that in fact my town *IS* the best…for junkie scumbags, rundown businesses and a spewing, punching nightlife bordering on endless self-parody.

Yesterday I was walking into town with my mum when we were approached by a balding bloke with a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, probably thirty or so and looking distressed. I knew exactly what was coming next having been pan-handled so many times before by similar losers, but there was something different in this encounter.

“’Scuse me mate can you –”, was as far as he got before my mum said “Sorry, Ive no money spare”. Clearly the man was prepared for this, looking more and more pained and on the verge of tears “Please. I’ve got a colostomy bag and bowel cancer and I need to get home”. Before either of us could say anything pulled up his shirt to reveal a fucking horrific gaping wound.

It’s a sight that will not leave me for some time, if at all and I was overcome with anger, pity and sheer resentment that this man would force his situation on complete strangers for effect, not least of all because my Grandad died of something very similar in 2001 which broke my heart.

Despite it all I managed to keep a calm head and merely said “Police station’s down that way, they’ll help you out”. It was at this point the tone significantly changed. “Huh, Police wont do fuck all for me”, he shouted. “What? And I will?”, I offered as rejoinder whilst already moving away from him to join my mum who sensibly begun to walk ahead.

“Oh fuck off then” he said as he stormed off – ironically, towards the police station, although I suspect that’s the last place he’d be interested in visiting. Naturally being an easily-miserable jerk, I felt, along with the anger, some sort of guilt for not helping my fellow man but it’s happened all too often before. And you don’t get to be the best without practice, do you?

Now all rise for our National colours…

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