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