Barry

Barry

This roguish but loveable individual who has just worked out how to pick the lock on Janice’s payphone shared a room with me for a year. His name was Richard but for a reason I can’t remember we called him Barry, though he looked and sounded just how you might expect a young Boris Johnson would. He had very strong Spanish connections, I suspect his father was probably involved in the Brinks-Mat gold bullion heist because he suddenly disappeared there at the end of his first year. Adding to his unhinged appeal was the fact that as a Hotel and Catering student, he was required to kit himself with a state-of-the-art set of carving knives. When Jan had a night off he sometimes took charge in the kitchen, flashing his blades and cackling manically as he fired sliced potatoes into the boiling fat. I remember him kindly though. We worked in the hotel together and on more than one occasion after a night of pot-collecting, he sat around waiting for a night-bus, allowing me to share a taxi with a barmaid I fancied. I’m not sure what’s more remarkable – his act of charity or the fact we got paid about £12 a night but rode home in a taxi.

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