Gary smirks arrogantly at the salivating punters in the queue as he swaggers away from the ice cream van carrying his 99p flake. It is his first one of the summer – a momentous occasion. Ceremonial you might say. Gary doesn’t abide by the unspoken civic code that says you can only take your t-shirt off on – or near – the beach. He wears his three lions England tattoo and round beer belly with pride. It’s hot and he doesn’t give a monkeys what anyone thinks.
An audacious seagull, who has clearly been biding his time, swoops in and nabs the flake. Stunned by the sweet-toothed, feathery bastard’s sophisticated palette, Gary wobbles and the ice cream falls to the ground with a splat.
“Ah Ha! I caught it all on film!”, guffaws a tourist of the Yankee kind who has clearly been in on choccy plunder. Pure humiliation. Fortunately, nobody will know he’s gone red because Gary is proudly sunburnt.
Blinded by the need to reassert his manliness, he marches over to the Yank who by now is pleading his innocence and stuttering an apology. After pausing to stare at himself in the reflection of the tourist’s Wayfarer sunglasses, Gary connects his forehead with the dweeb’s nose, feeling it crush under the weight of his own skull. The whimpering fool crumples beneath him.
Sure that he isn’t getting up, he wheels around to see countless smartphones pointing in his direction. But Gary doesn’t care because he just showed them all who’s boss. Pulling the flake out of the defeated Yank’s ice-cream, he gives his most menacing scowl to the gull and walks off laughing.
The lads down the pub will respect him for this.