mick jagger

I'm writing this in the pub garden at the Crescent (the world's finest pub). Me, Dan, Siobhan, Laura and Sam are sat talking rubbish and discussing Glastonbury. But all of a sudden we're distracted...

And you know how it is when you realise that the person behind you starts jabbering in a way that makes it abundantly clear that he is unhinged. He's talking ten to the dozen to no-one at all, pointing and gesticulating. It's hard not to pay attention, but we keep talking while he chatters on.

Then he stands up, and addresses someone nearby, indignantly.

"I'm not going to do Mick Jagger for you!".

He jabs his finger aggressively as he talks.

We look up and realise he is addressing a cat, sat on the pub roof, looking down concerned.

He shifts a little. The man follows him with his pointed finger, and signs off curtly:

"Goodnight".

We stifle our laughs as he walks, head held high, out onto the street.