Because of all that's happened on TV and in Cinema over the past few years, and, I suppose, in books, what I - the narrator of this piece – am about to say will sound pretty well-worn. I might even go so far as to say it's cliched...
“Oi,” says Duggie, “Shut up, you're boring the pants off mine and my mate's readership!”
“Yes,” says Duggie's best friend, “what you mean to say, Mr Narrator, is that Duggie and his friend are about to trip-out and return to their collective past. To travel in time.”
Precisely. Shall I continue?
“Yes,” says Duggie, “Cos this whole scene is weirding me out already!”
You see, Duggie and his friend are now walking down the High Street. It's 1982. They're both in their early teens and scoffing a portion of chips - yes one between them – from the Chinese chippy next to the bookies. The chips are a chunky cut and served, at asbestos destroying heat, in a crinkly brown-paper bag.
“Ock! Hits earnt my ocking cung,” says Duggie, juggling a piece of molten fried-potato with his tongue.
“Ot?” says his mate, juggling a piece of molten potato with his tongue, too and spitting a chunk out, singeing the ear of a passing dog.
The conversation is obviously going nowhere, and now, as they've both stuffed another handful of chips into their respective gobs, let's leave them eating for a moment, and return back to 1982 a little later.
Narrator # 1