Extra Virgin

‘It’s like, freaky, man. Real freaky.’

‘Since when have you been a hippy from the sixties, Nigel?’ (As you are probably aware, Reg’s pretentious friend sets my teeth on edge, even more so when he speaks to me with a bizarre accent.)

‘You look like an Irwin, man.’


‘You look like your name should be Irwin. Irwin Lawrence.’

‘Have you been drinking with Reg all day again, Nigel?’

‘Nope. Been buying olive oil for the dips, baby, you dig?’

‘Why are you talking like an idiot?’

‘We’ve got chicks coming round to the house tonight, man. It’s Reg’s idea to have a sixties themed evening. I’m making the dips. Dug out my old kaftan this morning, I did. Know where I can buy any incense in this square village, baby?’


‘You should come, Irwin, man. One of the chicks coming is a sixty-five year old virgin.’

‘Stop calling me Irwin.’

‘You got it, man. Crazy.’

‘Good grief.’

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