Spectator sport

The first thing me and my boy do when we go to the car auction is to head for the burger van and order a cheeseburger each. The burger bar is called CJ’s. We jokingly call it CJD’s because we say the burgers consist of cartilage, udder and compacted sewage. Sometimes we pretend to identify bone or dental enamel. Smothered in brown sauce, however, they’re not bad.

The purveyor of this unpretentious fare is a cheerful middle-aged woman called Peggy. ‘With or without, my lovers?’ she says. (We’re always her lovers, her bucks or her handsomes.) She means fried onions, rather than spinal cord. ‘One with and one without, please, Peg,’ I say. ‘Right-o, gorgeous,’ she says. The risk of a slow death in five or ten years’ time from spongiform encephalopathy seems a small price to pay for such prompt and affectionate service.

Last week we queued up and found ourselves behind a middle-class person: Barbour jacket, tan corduroy trousers, tan brogues, tanned face.