The streets of England are deserted. There's no traffic, you can see no-one moving. It's a still summers night, the air thick with grass pollen. As you wander round the deserted streets you see a brightly lit pub on the corner. From the pub a rumbling of human voices gets louder and louder... then for a few seconds silence before it's suddenly broken by the sounds of hundreds of men crying out in pain. Things go quiet. For a few minutes nothing, then in twos and threes broken men emerge from the pub door. Clad in white and red, flags and novelty hats hung so low from hands they practically drag on the grey tarmac. No-one speaks. No-one looks up. The sky seems to suddenly get dark and the warm summer night air chills.
Someone mutters under their breath "David f*cking Batty."
Someone mutters under their breath "David f*cking Batty."
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