A lorry driver once pulled up at a roadside cafe – a greasy spoon – for breakfast.
As he was tucking into his mountain of sausage, bacon, runny fried eggs,Lorne sausage, mushrooms, grilled tomato, black pudding, baked beans, fried tattie scone, giant mug of tea with four spoonfuls of sugar, and a mountain of toast, he quietly skimmed through the pages of his paper – the Financial Times, of course – occasionally pausing to chew his way through his packet of Rennies.
Halfway through his meal, three wild-looking bikers roared up–bearded, leather-jacketed, filthy.
They went over to the lorry driver, snatched his paper from him and poured his tea over it, before rubbing his beans in his hair, and shaking HP sauce down the front of his shirt.
The poor chap never said a word, just stood up, paid his bill, and left.
“That lorry driver isn’t much of a…
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