He smelled of popplecorn and vegidogs in chilli sauce. He smelled like childhood.
I was sitting in Hagerty’s Hole with Siobhan O’Flannery, tucking into a hearty meal of Irish stew and colcannon, when she made a bizarre and disturbing confession.
I had programmed my skycab for a leisurely journey to Leeds University, but the accursed thing was a half-sentient nitwit that thought it knew better than its registered owner.
We found Bodmin Moor to be a place of rough, raw beauty, where ferns and lichens defied granite to stake their own claim over the land.
The hive mentality of honey bees is stunning. Female workers feed the queen constantly. Male drones mate with her – once. When the force of ejaculation ruptures their penis, they fall to earth – job done – dying. And another drone steps up. Because the queen must breed.
Ninety minutes later, Gary Singleton, cash-in-hand labourer by day and all sorts by night, was still staring blankly at the reddish-pink lottery ticket in his hand.
“Please tell me you’re not eating baklava.”
“Not all of us can chomp down on human brains.”
“I’ve never done that.”
“Hollywood says different.”
"Hollywood says differently."
"Hollywood says different."
Caryn had honey-coloured skin, and with high cheekbones that spoke of a heritage that blended easily with African, Oriental, or Indo-European. She was clearly enamoured with her old man, who from what I'd seen was fickle and definitely not a keeper.