I’ve spent the last 15 minutes talking to a drunk Scouser. 60 if he was a day, one amputated arm, studded leather waistcoat (presumably because he resents paying for apparel with two sleeves when he’ll only be getting use out of the one), no teeth and a carrier bag full of Special Brew. He was wearing a pair of sunglasses which he told me he’d just nicked from the souvenir shop across the road. He’s on the hunt for some AC/DC tickets because he wants to stand in front of the stage and break the backs of all the crowd surfers… I haven’t even finished my porridge yet. Good morning, Leicester Square!
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