Ormskirk by night

So on my walk this evening I happened across a drunken young gentleman pissing against a wall whilst his friend stood gurning nearby. My shoulders stiffened and I wondered whether or not to cross the road. Not through fear of any confrontation, I've always felt that that particular threat is somewhat overstated, but more because I had no desire to acknowledge their existence. I didn't want to see this slackjawed drunk dangling his cock in the gutter, I didn't want to see his ape of a friend gazing aimlessly off. That they were smartly dressed in shirt and tie (albeit somewhat dishevelled) only heightened the absurdity of the spectacle. I know that it's a regular sight throughout the land every night, but it still never fails to suprise me (what the hell are you doing? Oh, I see, oh).
But I didn't cross the road, realising that I'd seen them too late, and crossing the road would only serve to highlight that I'd seen them, they'd seen me, and each would have tacitly acknowledged the other's presence. I walked past, I didn't look right or left. They, in turn, resolutely ignored me. There are times when I cherish the fact that we are, as a society, English enough to ignore a bloke pissing in the street, and to turn a blind eye when one is the pisser in question, and visibly clocked, times when I adore that, being english, we won't say anything

This was one of them.