Bad Press
“Bog standard red-brick-dusty-green-woodwork exterior, décor in the saloon was black, white and read: three walls lined with newspapers. Big stories like the death of Diana and 9/11 appeared alongside golden weddings and skateboarding ducks. Brian the landlord was a news junkie. If he fancied a change, he’d paste new pages over old. In places the papers were an inch thick. The latest addition was the lunchtime edition of Birmingham’s Evening News, courtesy of its crime correspondent who was curr...ently elbowing the bar.
Matt Snow’s normal tipple was Banks’s bitter; he was now on his third Grouse. But then his news editor was doing the honours.
“I’ll say it again, Matt. Bloody good work.” Rick Palmer was early fifties, but liquid lunches and late nights had left a legacy. His face wasn’t lined, it had trenches. The unruly blond thatch looked like a wig, except for the roots.
“Cheers, Rick.” Snow had been basking in bonhomie and backslaps for the better part of two hours.MoreLess
Matt Snow’s normal tipple was Banks’s bitter; he was now on his third Grouse. But then his news editor was doing the honours.
“I’ll say it again, Matt. Bloody good work.” Rick Palmer was early fifties, but liquid lunches and late nights had left a legacy. His face wasn’t lined, it had trenches. The unruly blond thatch looked like a wig, except for the roots.
“Cheers, Rick.” Snow had been basking in bonhomie and backslaps for the better part of two hours.MoreLess
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