Me, all ears, “What kid?”

“Thalidomide Kid?” laughed Gilman.

“The one that got into bloody Oxford. Eight years old or something.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I laughed.

“Sounded a right little cow.”

“Barry said her father was worse.” Still laughing, everyone laughing with me.

“Father’s going down with her an’ all, isn’t he?” said Gilman.

A New Face behind us, next to Tom, laughing along, “Lucky bastard. All them student birds.”

“Don’t reckon so,” I whispered. “Barry said father had only got eyes for one little lady. His Ruthie.”

“If it’s young enough to bleed,” said two of us at once.

Everybody laughed.

“You’re bloody joking?” Tom from Bradford, not laughing very much. “He’s a dirty git, Barry.”

“Dirty Barry,” I laughed.

New Face said, “Barry who?”

“Backdoor Barry. Fucking puff,” spat Gilman.

“Barry Gannon. He’s at the Post with Eddie here,” said Tom from Bradford to New Face. “He’s the bloke I was telling you about.”

“The John Dawson thing?” said New Face, looking at his watch.

“Yep. Here, talking of dirty bastards, hear about Kelly?” It was Tom’s turn to whisper. “Saw Gaz last night and he was saying he didn’t turn up for training yesterday and he wouldn’t be laking tomorrow.”

“Kelly?” New Face again. National, not local. Lucky bastard. My nerves kicking in, the story going national, my story.

“Rugby,” said Tom from Bradford.

“Union or League?” said New Face, fucking Fleet Street for sure.

“Fuck off,” said Tom. “We’re talking about the Great White Hope of Wakefield Trinity.”

I said, “Saw his Paul last night. Didn’t say owt.”

“Cunt just ups and does a runner, what Gaz said.”

“Be some bird again,” said Gilman from the Manchester Evening News, not interested.

“Here we go,” whispered New Face.

Round Two:

The side door opens, everything quiet and slow again.