The Fib

I was sick of Gordon Barraclough. Sick of his bullying. And I was sick of him being a good footballer.

'Listen, Barraclough. My uncle is Bobby Charlton.'

'You're a liar.'

I was.

'I'm not. Cross my heart and hope to die.' I spat on my hand. If I'd dropped down dead on the spot I wouldn't have been surprised.

'Funny...