Judging Books by Their Covers

Down at the Elephant yesterday, I spotted a young lad waiting to get onto a bus. He was in the full yoof getup: baseball cap, two hoods, earphones, dangling crotch and the sort of ghetto fabulous walk that says ‘only my enormously large todger is keeping my trousers up’. He was carrying a book, too, with his fingers marking his place half way through. I couldn’t resist peering more closely at the battered cover to see what the young people are reading today. One of the Potters, I presumed, or perhaps Janet And John Go Twocking.

Hardy’s Return of the Native, it was.

That’s me telled.