I asked him whether he had any genuine enemies. I suppose it would have been more to the point to ask him whether he had any genuine friends.
‘You’ve got to have enemies, haven’t you, where I live,’ he said. ‘That’s why I never walk, I always creep.’
‘Do you ever get into fights?’ I asked.
‘I’m up for assault,’ he said, ‘because I get these violent mood swings.’
‘Whom did you assault?’
‘One of my mates.’
‘Because I wanted to see how he would like it to be beaten up.’
A disinterested inquiry into truth, therefore.
From a column in the Spectator by that marvellous essayist, Theodore Dalrymple.