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LONDON, JANUARY 1998
When Arthur Sandwhistle woke up on the morning of what he knew would be the greatest day of his life, he couldn’t get the bloody rhymes out of his mind.
One, two, unbuckle my shoe.
That one went through his head, unbidden, as he was pulling on his Doc Martens.
He threw an overstuffed rucksack over his shoulder and grabbed a hard black pudding off the kitchen table on his way out the door.
“You’re twenty-four,” shouted his uncle, standing at the stove. “Get off the dole. Get a real job!”