Faggots

It was that sort of place… the kind of place where you kept a tight grip on your ladle and laughed scornfully at those who flaunted their desert spoons openly. Back in those days the Wild West Midlands was a lawless and – yes – a wild place. Everyone, of course, knows about the faggots and a few even witnessed the mushy peas, but there were other dangers for the unwary to fall into as they ventures into this wild, untamed wilderness in search of the fabled pork scratching, especially as it was so easy to fall out of a pub and into a canal.

Those were dark, damp, days, but being as this was Britain, it was all perfectly normal, except that the typical British drizzle fell with an unusual menace as the dwellers of the Black Country emerged from their dwelling hovels and strode manfully and/or womanfully from home to pub and back again, often spending equal amounts of time in both and often spending those equal amounts of time equally passed out on the floor as the darts players stepped over them in their haste to get hold of a precious bag of scratchings before the unholy wail of ‘Last orders’ terrified them all into fleeing for the sanctuary of their hovels where the mysterious faggots awaited their return.