Ex files

The only comfortable place to sit in my local pub is at this one particular table that is closeted on three sides by high-backed pine pews. Last Saturday lunchtime, when I popped in for a quick one, this cosy nook was bathed in winter sunshine. Trevor was there with his feet under the table, his right arm wrapped tightly around a girl of about 18 — not bad going, I reckon, for an overweight, balding 46-year-old. He was serious about this one because instead of the lascivious smirk one normally expects from Trev when he’s pulled a child, he was gazing with apparent sincerity into her eyes.

Next to these lovebirds was a calm, handsome bloke they call God Boy, who has become so bored by faithless sex — the only kind of which he is aware — that he’s taken a sabbatical, devoting all his spare time to an internet gaming site.