The Fib: and Other Stories

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