“I was doing some work to the tower block on the corner of Ladbroke Grove and Westbourne a few years ago, when an old girl in a shellsuit of many colours invited me and my workmate in for a cup of tea. We were led into her front room which was a shrine to Daley Thompson – photos, medals, trophies and an appalling portrait of him.
“She gave us our tea, and sat looking at the portrait repeatedly, dying for us to ask about it. My mate speaks up first, asking “Is that Lenny Henry?” She just about held on to her gobful of PG and hissed ‘No, it’s not fucking Lenny Henry! It’s MY SON, DALEY THOMPSON’.
“She eventually calmed down once we’d said how proud she must be. And then she invited us to remove our shirts if we wanted to. Y’know, if we were hot. It would be OK, who’s gonna know? Lads, it’s fine – get your shirts off, it’s boiling in here.
“It was February. The week after, we heard she’d tried dragging a scaffolder in through the kitchen window.”
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