Oh, whisper to me softly of working class thugs. I tell you solemnly, there is nothing so beautiful as the sight of a young hooligan doing irreparable damage to the knees of an ageing down-and-out with a homemade cosh, fashioned rudely from spare lead piping found in the back of Tomek’s transit van. So free. So spirited. They know not how beautiful they are, these youths, and so it is up to us to hymn them in song. I confess: I regularly trawl the aisles of Leith ASDA on a Saturday, cunningly disguised as Sir Peregrine Worsthorne, in order to eavesdrop on their conversations to generate material for my next marketing campaign. They do say the most fascinating things. “Aren’t eggs next to the baking aisle?” “Here, get that, those are two for one.” “Sorry, mate, is this on Rollback?” It is a richly bejewelled argot all of its own. But one, I fear, that is being swept away by the ceaseless immigrant tide.