Albert could not by any stretch of the imagination be called likeable.  He was a thin, balding, middle-aged individual, with chip on his shoulder that had soured his outlook and endeared him to none. A solitary man who had succeeded at little and was doomed by his attitude to do even less with his life, he had no friends, no wife and no family. Only a poor old downtrodden mother, who loved him as only a mother could. But even she did not really like him that much.

            It was Tuesday and he was off to draw his benefit at the post office, pick up a copy of the sun and retire to the White House club. There ensconced in a quiet corner of the lounge, he would sip on an everlasting pint of Fed Special and peruse the paper paying particular attention to page three.

The post office, as always, was busy on a Tuesday, with a bit of a queue. Today however it seemed longer than normal and was going nowhere. He stood ten minutes outside in the cold before his warped mind told him that, they were at it again.

They, the nameless ones, had held him back all of his life and now they were even preventing him access to the pittance the government allowed. He scowled and shuffled his feet while he simmered inside. Then he did what he always did on such occasions. He growled and with cries from queue of, ‘Watch it mate,’ ‘Stupid git,’ and ‘Ignorant pig.’ pushed forward shoving people aside until he reached the entrance and found the reason for the stoppage.

The door was closed, held in place by the back of a black hooded yob that pressed against the now open sign on the glass. The sign and its invitation to enter drew him on like a rag to a bull; he grabbed the handle and charged. The yob taken by surprise was flung to the back of the shop. But instead of remaining there he rebounded, came back and Albert knew he had made a mistake. Beneath the hood there was no face, just a black balaclava with hard piggy eyes in a slit and a voice that screamed, ‘You stupid interfering old sod.’

 Too late, Albert dived to one side and the pipe that the yob wielded caught him under the ear, sending him crashing unconscious into a display of three for two peas.

Next day the headlines read, “Local hero foils raid on post office.” Apparently while the yobs – there were two of them, the other was armed with a gun – were distracted by Albert, the postmistress managed to set off the alarm and the cursing raiders fled the scene.

Clapped on the back and praised by the neighbours Albert puffed out his pigeon chest and accepted the free pints that were a hero’s due. You might have thought that being a hero would have changed Albert’s outlook on life, and it did. For all of a week that his fifteen minutes of fame lasted, he perked and preened, basking in the glory.

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