The man with no shame

They say a man needs a code. Clint Eastwood always had a code. It was something along the lines of 'Never shoot a woman; never bully a horse; never kick a Mexican in the nuts when he's not looking.'

In real life, I've never met anyone with a set of principles as cast-iron and dearly held as that. Most people just merrily bob through life making choices on the basis of their blood-sugar levels. Only last week, my old

foe hunger hamstrung my efforts to make a moral stand against injustice.

I was ducking into the local boozer when I noticed the new management had stuck a board out front with the words 'no grubby workwear' emblazoned across it. Bloody cheek. Of course, being all decked out in my stupid metrosexual finery, I had no concerns about matching up to their exacting standards. But what about the ragged-trousered, soot-faced labourer's right to drink beside preening