barry from chapter 2 Old Shitty Digit Himself

Barry in dispatch. There’s always a Barry in dispatch. A Barry thinks he can ‘drink’ then collapses after three pints, a Barry crooks his fist in his forearm and mouths ‘phwoor’ behind a girl’s back. At a minimum, a Barry has a tongue expectation for a first date... Barry had a very Barry type of habit; he needed to scratch his arse in public approximately every five minutes. Of course there is nothing wrong with giving the back of one’s trousers a quick, brief, rub to relieve an annoying itch. But Barry could be talking to you about a shipment to Leamington Spa and as he chatted you’d suddenly realise that he was no longer gesticulating with both hands. Sure as sure his right hand would be stuck down inside the back of his trousers and loud protracted scratching noises would emanate. Barry would continue chatting merrily away as if there were nothing unusual, or in fact nauseating, about someone trying to dislodge the dried scabs of un-wiped faeces from between his buttocks while talking about mileage to Hampshire. Of course this was your cue to move away, for if you lingered, worse was to come. When Barry had finished his rummaging he would absently proceed to inspect his index finger for any retrieved detritus. If he found anything, usually a dark round lump caught behind his finger-nail with a thick black pubic hair planted in its soil, Barry would roll it about between his thumb and index finger, sniff it, try to bite it, see it was stuck to the nail and neatly remove it by sucking it clean.