Years ago we happened to encounter a scary old toper in the Man in the Moon pub in Kings Road. This was about the time they were banning the traditional fox hunt, and the Sunday broadsheets were full of illustrated features about animal-loving do-gooders who had adopted stray foxes as pets.
So there we were, sitting at a table with the remains of our pint and ploughman’s plate to the side, and some big newspaper spread out in front of us.
“They piss in their food, ya know,” says the Funny Old Man from his stool by the bar. “That’s why they never worked out as pets.”