I put my teeth in and comb what’s left of my rug for a night out in High Wycombe. Who knows what the evening holds in store? Maybe I’ll fall in love. Or perhaps I’ll get socked on the jaw. Yes, that seems more likely.

This is my own, my native land. And it’s a right dump. But suppose some German showed up and said, “Zis High Wycombe it is a right dump. And zese women- mein Got!! I haf seen better-looking livestock at the Arschdorf pig fair!”

I would say, “Look here, Fritz….”