An excerpt from Goat Lips: Tales of a Lapsed Englishman, taken from tale 4, Carpool

After a two-minute stroll, I found myself standing in front of the telephone box. There are few things as iconic as a good old-fashioned British telephone box—painted bright Royal Mail red from top to bottom, standing at attention, rigid as a guard, with seventy-two small glass panes and an inscription of the bleeding obvious just above the door: TELEPHONE.

I pulled open the door and stepped into the familiar and unmistakable faint scent of urine and vomit. One gravitates to a phone box when extremely drunk, because once inside their cozy confines it is impossible to fall over, unless you crumple like an imploding building and collapse straight down inside yourself.

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