[The Five Bells, Eynsford. 13:10 GMT.]
He drove. Range Rover, fifteen years old, immaculate, a copy of the Racing Post on the back seat. He cut his pie into quarters before he ate it. I cut mine into quarters because he did. He ordered two pints of Spitfire.
He said, around the second forkful:
"Wright and Bright."
"Yeah."
"You know they did not speak for the last four months of 1990-91."
"Heard about it."
"I had to choose between them in October. I picked Wright. Brighty did not forgive me for nine years. He was at my fiftieth birthday and did not speak to me. He was at my sixtieth and he did. The two years in between were the worst football years of my life."
He let it sit.
