I am not going to say anything more about my Mrs.
I had some wide boy from London come down and when we had a pirate radio station in the squat shared house I was living in robbed we clocked it was him who led the people who robbed us to the place (transmitters were elsewhere never same gaff as the decks). We went to his flat to confront him and he opened the door with a piece aimed squarely at my head. Someone behind me barged in and bundled him to the ground and luckily it was a fake. Proper wobbly ring time though. Then we let the bands manager at the time who was a moor boy (farmers son) take him up on the moors to see the china clay pits.
Never heard from wide boy again. Hopefully because he fucked off back home after realising the westcountry was not just full of soft lads like he thought
Who knows he might be part of a plate or the front page of a newspaper by now
Also got chased by a bloke with a shotgun who was not a farmer once before too. The cunt robbed me and I went round his place ( a bail hostel) but like May pointed out sometimes you have to compromise
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