I swung by Pat Maggs's greasy spoon this morning and ordered the full John Prescott Gutbuster Breakfast Bap. Three bites in and I'm picking one of Pat's henna'd hairs out of me teeth and wretching like the big man himself. Pat, as always, put it down to another symptom of the menopause; "You want to be grateful these work surfaces are above waist height Harrison." She's a class act is Pat.
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