You’re sitting at the table in the far corner of the pub saying things I could only dream of over the course of 90 minutes

That player is absolute dog shit, your mate says.
He messed up there, but you can’t get to where
he is without being a good player, you say.
I really hope they get relegated, your mate says.
They’re annoying, but I’d hate to see people
lose their jobs in a cost of living crisis, you say.
Veggie pizza? Jesus Christ, are you my
mother-in-law? your mate says.
Ha. It’s nice and I’m keen to kill fewer pigs, you say.
Sweetcorn is bloody disgusting, your mate says.
Fuck you, you say.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

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