Don't come back
Don't come back It started with Sophia Loren. ‘I tell you what,’ said Pete Bradley, his eyes drawn to the page as if by a searchlight, ‘I certainly wouldn’t mind...' He coughed. ‘What?” said Rudie. ‘You wouldn’t mind what?’ Pete winked. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘ you know exactly what I’m talking about.’ He turned the magazine around and held it up to the light. ‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Fucking lovely. Look at the tit-cleft on that.’ ‘Uh-huh,’ said Rudie, who was looking around the pub in desperation, searching for any kind of escape route as he attempted to rid himself of the mental image which had propelled itself to the forefront of his mind, feeling sick, as if he’d been made to watch a video of a lion buggering a swan. It made sense, of course, that the worst job in the world would have the worst leaving do. Of course it did he thought, kicking himself under the table - of course it fucking did. ‘You see what I see,’ said Pete Bradley, his face a picture of satisfaction. ‘A