I walk into the King Bill at eight o’clock and the usual young Friday-night crowd is in and the spirit is already moving. Whether this is due to the fatness of the moon or the availability and quality of the drugs on sale this evening, I couldn’t say. Whatever the cause, everyone is lit up and loved up and a curious unity prevails. The jukebox is up loud and I’m greeted left and right as I push my way between the friendly, relaxed faces in search of one in particular. I spot Trev sitting down at the head of the pub’s top table with half a dozen of his young nephews and nieces.
Trev’s is an old farming family, solidly working class still, and they wouldn’t swap that for anything. Trev and his three brothers were for many years the agricultural district’s most well-regarded punchers. Though now in their fifties and sixties, they still command affection and respect, especially from the young up-and-coming farm boys who enjoy nothing more than a good scrap, and who know their history.
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