Widower Arnold Effing always walked the same route to the shops, sporting his brown fedora hat.
Today, the lads were there on the corner of the High Street. “Hey Effing, love your effing hat!” they jeered. Effing walked on, impassive. He’d been in more than one war zone, it had made him impervious.
“Hey Effing, giz yer effing hat!” they persisted.
Effing continued to walk
Degsy, the ringleader rushed up behind him, gleefully shouting: “Off with his effing hat!”, and swiped it off.
A shower of blood and brains. The top of Effing’s head had come away with the hat.