Cyrus always smelt of tobacco smoke because he was a twenty a day man.
We were lunching in the Anchor and he pointed to the chicken breast I had on my plate.
“They’re grown in a vat in the Holland factory, you know.”
“That must be uncomfortable for the chickens,” I said.
“It isn’t chicken, fool, it’s artificial. And I will prove it. I will get in to the Holland factory, take a picture, and send it to you.”
I never saw Cyrus again.
Some people said the chicken tasted of nicotine after that but I couldn’t taste it myself.