It’s the way he tells them:
I have never known anybody that spills as many pints as he does. He
drops them, knocks them with his elbow, sends them flying with wild
hand gesticulations or puts them down and misses the table. I point
this out in a reasonable yet exasperated fashion, as I sit there like
Paul McCartney’s son-in-law at the climax of a dirty weekend in a North
Wales caravan park, dripping in Stella.
Idly, I wonder whether I can get some form of laboured and contrived joke out of this.
Leave a Reply