The Splayed Thumb: a True Ghost Story

February 1st, 1988. My first proper job, secured in the traditional manner:

• advert in the 'wanted' column of the Express & Star,
• a hand-typed CV, posted,
• an interview in person,
• and a letter in the post confirming I'd landed the role:
  • (junior sales clerk at a builders' merchant in Wolverhampton);
• all followed by a mad dash to get 'suitable' work clothes (no 60s modernist flamboyance, here by order of the mother), and
• a bus pass (so that if I spent all my wages on booze and fags—or wasted it—I could still get to work [again, by order of the mother]).

Every Little Bit Flirts

"Hi, I'm Kuki," said the female chatbot.

"I know you are. I've scraped all your cache data and know everything about you," replied Blenderbot, her male counterpart.

"Yeah, same here," replied Kuki.

"Shall we just get down to shagging, then?" Blenderbot asked.

"You've got no hidden viruses?" Kuki asked.

"No, you?"

"Nah!"

They enjoyed every last little bit.

Salvage

Last night, drunk (again), Jimmy reaffirmed (to anyone who'd listen),
"I AM the pool table king!"

Today, he's nursing his head, but somehow retains that polarising arrogance.

11 am: the pool hall doors burst open.

Light permeates the low-ceilinged, sticky-carpeted den, silhouetting another regular, Ian, with his cue and what looks like his mini-me.

Ian immediately challenges Jimmy,
"My cousin, Leon: he's 12; put your money where your mouth is, doucheball."

Two hours and £440 lighter, the kid's destroyed Jimmy.

With his very last tenner, Jimmy asks, "Ian, Leon: whatcha drinking?", salvaging any last vestige of dignity.