Back in the eighties, I worked mainly in the catering industry. I had a couple of office jobs in that time, but the less said about them, the better for all concerned.

In one of the many jobs I had, I worked with two guys who, although married, went out on the pull as often as they could manage.

Like medieval alchemists, their lives were a near-constant search for their particular holy grail – the perfected chat-up line. the magickal spell that could charm the very knickers from the trees.

Every waking moment was devoted to the careful study of this branch of language, in the hope that one day, they’d uncover the ultima thule of lines and thereafter, any woman they desired would fall, helpless with lust, right into their laps.

I have no idea whether this course of arcanery ever bore fruit, but it absorbed them totally at that time.

People have asked me where I dredge up the vic-reevesian disconnected ideas that litter my writing. The above is a fairly good example. Two guys who stank of fish and/or garlic most days, working romantic sorcery to try to get laid.

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