Then along came superchav Joe Cool in groovy grey tracksuit bottoms and hoodie.
Sausage roll for the dog, squire, he said. And produced a fat tree trunk of pastry from a paper bag.
No thanks, I said, she's had more than enough already ... !
Regardless, he reached down and gave Lotte the whole thing. Then he headed off, saying smugly over his shoulder, Yeah, well, sorry about that, squire ...
Some imprudent devil possessed me, for I put the guitar down, took the sausage roll out of Lotte's mouth, and flung the damned thing up the street after your man. I don't know for sure what I intended, but Jesus, Mary and Joseph didn't it hit him square in the back ... !!
Well, sorry about that, squire, I called.
What the fuck ... ?!? says he, turning round and heading back. A wave of dread hit me.
Did you throw that? he roared.
Well, the dog didn't, I replied.
Yuh stinkin' oul bastard, he said, ah'll break your fuckin' neck ...
I was near enough wetting myself. I sensed he mightn’t empathise if I claimed to be a writer and not a fighter. So I fell back on my usual, and - let's face it - only, defence.
There's CCTV everywhere here, I said.
I noticed too, a small group had gathered to savour the sight of him knocking seven different types of shite out of me.
He kicked the amp, then the guitar case (no money in it, of course). I snatched up my beautiful National guitar, gathered Lotte to me, ready to go down whimpering with them ...
But, for whatever reason, he inclined his heart to mercy ... And off he went, loudly informing the whole street that I, a dirty oul cunt, was lucky to be still breathing. I noticed that the hood of his hoodie was full of greasy sausage roll.
So, who would have thought it ... ? The birth of a real hard man, i.e. me. And a warning to the likes of Anthony McIntyre, who might fancy himself, but if you get cheeky your hoodie will need a full cycle wash ...