My gran was a fcuking legend, I could talk to her about anything me shagging out of watch (she laughed about that she was living with bloke 20 years younger than her and she was 75 at the time) I used to go round for a cuppa and we'd end up on the piss drinking sherry and shite. She was 4' 9" skinny as a rake but by fcuk when she had a bastard on stay clear, she was one of the first female shop stewards in a cotton mill in the 1920s and a Suffragette before that. A staunch labour supporter she hated the Tory's she liked me to take her to Yates Wine Lodge in Preston when I was on leave and I had to be in rig. She had a tele which she'd knicked off the Queen Mary when it visited Liverpool docks bet the fecker would be worth a fortune now. The only downside was her fcuking dog a big fcuking Labrador, it hated me, went round one day when I was about 12 and she was out but I knew the back door was always open, went round the alley climbed over the backyard wall just lowering myself down when the evil fecker bit my arse and wouldn't let go it dragged me round the yard through its shite that was on the floor a ripped me bastard pants off, down to the infirmary for the biggest fcuking needle up my shitter. Gran laughed like fcuk about that. She died in 1980 but the pusser being pusser didn't let me home for the funeral, bet she's looking down at me now thinking Stan you've been such a twat and never learned a fcuking thing I tried to teach you.