The air in the Blacke kitchen was thick, not from a burning dinner or pipe smoke but from swearing.  Joe hurled the open newspaper across the room in disgust at what he had read:

Gareth Scott's newspaper 'article' on himself and his wife.  

"That fook!" Joe raged, his nostrils flared. His language was foul, affirming the reporter's claims of Joe's lowly origins. "I'll kick 'is balls so high, Whitby football club'll sign me as a goalkeeper!" His threat an alusion to a common play in the beautiful game.

"How can they print this joss?" he snarled, pacing about the room, unsure of intent or direction. There was no expectation of an immediate answer to his question, just energy and anger needing to be unleashed.  Anger rooted him to the spot rather than spur him to leave the house to find and box Gareth Scott.

The 'article', if it could be called such wasn't fit to be used in a privy. There were some truths sprinkled in among that steaming pile of lies. Truth: they had been seen together at a wedding; truth: they had married; truth: he had appeared in court; truth: his address; truth: his family. Lies: the rest of it. Written for sheer spite, dragging innocent two young people into the gutter for the enjoyment of others.

"I'll bet the Carringtons paid that fooken lickfinger ta write this. Nothin' more than a hook-nosed weasel in a school boy's uniform!"