It was a pleasant mid-summer afternoon and I was walking through the city centre with a colleague when I asked whether our co-worker Tom – fashionable, stick thin, skinny jeans-wearing, long fringe-flipping, gay and proud Tom – was still with the firm. He replied “I don’t know, but I hope he isn’t. Every time I speak to him I’m scared for my arsehole, innit.” *crickets* Now let’s look past the abomination that is ending a statement, no matter how perversely …