Sowerbutt, concealed behind a
nearby holly bush, watched in slow motion as One-Line charged the IRA line,
bellowing like an angry bull. He had seen his friend run wild before; outside a
pub in Whitechapel where some Reds drank. Three men had tumbled to the pavement
like nine-pins, the other three fled. Inside the pub was pandemonium as
drinkers dropped their pints on the floor, jumped the bar and raced through the
kitchen, trying to escape the wild man.
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