A real winner

We met a deadset winner today. A hero. A legend. The kind of guy any of us would love to have as a neighbour. After drinking biblical amounts of Woodstock cans all day - oh for those who aren't familiar with this particular special brand of pre-mixed spirits in a can, all I can say is get out there buy yourself a box of 'em and sit there on a plastic milk crate drinking the lot until you too become a champion. Tip: You can also use some of the cardboard carton to make the overturned milk crate more comfortable to sit on.

Anyway, I digress. Our winner soon started a verbal debate with the neighbours and then when he'd drunk enough to put Mikhail Gorbachev on his ear, he jumped in his car to drive up and down, and up and down the street showing his prowess at doing burnouts. The tyres eventually flamed out and he crashed into a fence - it had nothing to do with his well-hidden and unsung talents as a racing car driver, I guess there must have been some oil on the road.

Not yet done, he then started a fight with the people whose fence he'd hit. But true heroes don't give up that easily. Our champion also suddenly announced that he was a martial arts expert and wanted to demonstrate his talents on the police when they arrived. He got rugby-tackled and a lovely set of steel bracelets for his efforts. Finally he abused and spat at all the emergency services people who came to sort out the mess, demanding a victory cigarette from anyone in earshot. If I was a winner like him, I would probably want my victory cigarette too.

As he was chauffeur driven away in the back of the Police van I was buoyed by the fact he was still calling out to his fans and giving us directions. I thought it was a nice gesture that even though he was a hero, he hadn't forgotten about us, the little people. The wannabe heroes.