“Depressing, isn’t it. Screwer lay in bed wide awake, sleep a million miles away. Something was bothering him, nagging away at him. Apart that is from the fact that Mrs Screwer had spurned his advances yet again and was now fast asleep beside him snoring her fool head off. It was the hairstyles of the Frogley Town football team that were causing Screwer so much unrest. Where had he seen that style of haircut before? Where had he seen those footballers before? Somewhere, he was sure. Once aga...in he went back to five minutes to three on Saturday afternoon and pictured the team trotting out on to the pitch, each of the players with that same close-cropped hair with a fringe at the front, and concentrated his mind. Strangeways? Was it there he had seen it, on his recent visit to the Manchester prison in pursuit of his hobby of convicted football hooligan spotting? No, prisoners nowadays were allowed to wear their hair pretty much how they wanted, just as though they were still on the outside; it wasn't like the old days, more was the pity, when all prisoners were summarily shorn of their hair along with their self-respect just as soon as they’d been thoroughly hosed down and de-loused with DDT.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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