Dickwhacker

He can’t look after himself anymore. Up until a couple of years back I used to go down on the coach to see him from where I now live but he'd started to forget who I was. Mr Ritter had become a bit of a dickwhacker. The doctors called it senile dementia. He kept asking me to take him bags of blackballs and bunches of Canna lilies when I visited and told everyone that I was his young wife.

That little dickwhacker wanted to be seen, because in addition to the orange topper he was wearing bright blue plastic sandals, a common type of cheap footwear for these ragheads.

‘Aw, ya dickwhackers,’ I blurted out, in unnecessary Brockville fashion, and Alastair doubled over laughing.