A droubble by EwanL
Brian flicked off the TV. Bad signal: time of day. Ten to noon. The freebie newspapers were full of chancers' ads, offering mugs a bigger dish. He knew for a fact it would make no difference. Sunspots. To be expected in Andalucia. Anyway, Brian had lost his temper with the news. So what, if he had called him that? Time was, everyone did. Especially in Peckham. That boy and his brother should know that, Peckham boys themselves! Things like that made Brian realise he'd done the right thing. Out to Basildon. Out of the country, in '98. The Pakis were the worst, whole streets that couldn't speak English. Didn't even want to, seemed like.
Stuff the telly, Brian was off to the Venta. The Legion meeting was on, so there'd be a chance for a chinwag. He hoped there wouldn't be too many Spaniards in. Couldn't understand them, not even when they spoke what they called English. Ridiculous that more people didn't speak it. You couldn't expect people Brian's age to learn Spanish. Some regulars down the Venta had tried. He could have told them not to bother. You didn't need to speak Spanish to be here, everyone knew that.