In Plymouth town centre at 10pm there’s a smurf, Papa Lazarou and a rugby club dressed in St Trinians outfits. Five youths all wearing tight white T-shirts and designer jeans stride past a grizzled old man with leathery skin, patchy white stubble and a woollen cap. He walks with a stoop; a carrier bag in one hand, a litre bottle of scrumpy in the other.
‘Hey. Hey!’ he shouts at the five lads, ‘are you English?’
They make sure they’re well past him before one shouts back ‘no’ in a public school accent.
‘Must be submariners then,’ mumbles the man.
