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Mr Angry lived at the bottom of Sweary Street in the rainy district of Sledgetown, Lancashire. He didn't like his house. In fact, it made him angry, which was exactly how Mr Angry liked it.
Every morning Mr Angry woke up and growled at his teddy bear.
"You think you're so f*&^%$ tough, just lying there all f&^%"$£ hairy. I'm going to wipe the f^$%£*%% smile off that stupid f^$&%£^" face, you f$^%*$O$."
Then he stomped off to the bathroom. Mr Angry always brushed his teeth every morning and every evening because he sometimes found himself on the back pages of newspapers and he always wanted to look his best, just in case.
But every time Mr Angry tried to squeeze the toothpaste tube there was never quite enough toothpaste left and it took him a very long time to get any toothpaste out at all, by which time Mr Angry was hopping around the bathroom in his England pyjamas.
"F&^£%%(( toothpaste won't come out of the f%£&$(£( tube now. I am so f&%^$%£$" angry!"
Which was just how Mr Angry liked it.
For breakfast, Mr Angry had a bowl of Shouty Pops, a slice of burnt toast with a frowny face carved into it, and a cold cup of coffee. He argued with the toaster, he threatened to head-butt the fridge, and he spat out the coffee all over the kitchen table, before refusing to wiping it up.
That was how Mr Angry's day usually started. Then he got dressed in his favourite pair of angry red trousers, put on his hat and coat and stepped out into the rain. It was always raining where Mr Angry lived, which suited Mr Angry just fine.
One day Mr Angry was out for a walk in Sledgetown, shouting at the clouds, stamping through the puddles, waving his walking stick at the ducks in Sledge Park and generally having a lovely time. He had just finished berating a sparrow that was making too much noise when he came across a rather strict-looking man wearing a white coat, standing in the middle of the pavement.
"What the f&^$%£ do you want, you f$(£*&$ c&%^£?" said Mr Angry.
"Mr Angry. I am your fairy match referee. If you carry on behaving like this you will be charged with a Level Three Offence. And no one will like you."
"I don't f&^$%££ care! Get out of my way, f^5*face," said Mr Angry angrily.
The fairy match referee was used to people not taking him seriously, so he shook his head sadly and disappeared in a puff of ineffective smoke.
Mr Angry carried on bawling at seagulls and arguing with trees until he came to the park bench where he usually sat for his mid-morning swearing session. But then he saw something that stopped him in his tracks. Someone was sitting on his bench.
"Get off my f&^$%£^ bench, you f&$^£%£!" said Mr Angry
"F£&)$)__££ off, this is my f^£^**" bench you b$^*((£ b&$^&£!" said the stranger.
Mr Angry stopped swearing. He wasn't used to people being angry with him. He didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit. In fact, it made him feel a bit tearful.
"There's no need to be so mean," said Mr Angry. "What's your problem anyway?"
"My problem is that I'm probably going to be recalled to the Indian Test team," said the glum-looking opening batsman.
"Well, what's wrong with that?"
"Because I should never have been dropped in the first place. And I just know it's going to go wrong again, I'll probably do really badly and everyone will hate me. No one remembers all those runs I scored for them. The ungrateful f*^$%£^ b&$^£((."
Mr Angry nodded in agreement.
"People are like that. Complete b^£%"$(£."
Mr Glum agreed.
"Do you want to go to the bus stop and swear at random strangers?" asked Mr Angry, "I always do that on Tuesday mornings."
"Yes," said Mr Glum, "I'd like that very much. F^$%££** bus passengers!"
"F*&%^$££ buses!" agreed Mr Angry.
And from that day on, Mr Angry and Mr Glum spent every Tuesday morning abusing random members of the public. And although Mr Angry was still f&%^$%£ angry, now that he had a friend to be angry with, he wasn't quite so F^%^$^£ angry as before.
Andrew Hughes is a writer currently based in England. He tweets hereFeeds: Andrew Hughes
© ESPN Sports Media Ltd.
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Andrew Hughes is a writer and avid cricket watcher who has always retained a healthy suspicion of professional sportsmen, and like any right-thinking person rates Neville Cardus more highly than Don Bradman. His latest book is available here and here @hughandrews73