A Dwarf, Some Wheelchair Pirates and a Fashion Statement

Walked into the Sun Inn for my customary afternoon pint of Spitfire. Today there was a dwarf standing at the bar. He wore a blue singlet, so his very tattooed arms were revealed in all their glory. He was drinking a half-pint, which seemed appropriate.

Having finished my couple of drinks, I stepped out into the street. I heard a 'putt-putt-putt-putt' which seemed to be getting closer. Overlaid on this noise was the joyous whoop of youthful cries.
   "Go! Fuckin' go, Pete!"
   "Let 'er rip, Pete!"
   "Fuuuuuuuuckin' goooooooo!"
Soon, the cause of the ruckus appeared over the neo-cobbled street: three teenage boys on an electric wheelchair. One was seated on the vinyl seat, steering the little craft; another smaller boy was sitting side-saddle on his lap with his long thin legs hanging out the side; the third was shirtless, he was standing somehow behind the driver, clinging with one hand to the boy's shoulder and waving his tee-shirt above his head as the vehicle trundled along at its top speed of five miles an hour. I watched their progress as they whooped their way slowly out of sight and thought of a little grandma, possibly asleep in front of a television somewhere on the council estate,  who has no idea of the exciting other life of her wheelchair.

Later, I walked down Preston Street in the afternoon sun. One of the advantages of living in a country not accustomed to a lot of sun is the readiness a great many of the male inhabitants have to go about completely topless in public. And when that is combined with the fashion favoured by a lot of young, heterosexual, working-class men here - tracksuit trousers, without underwear - I have absolutely no reason to complain.

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