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 and moving.... a rare gift.' Guardian