Maurice, unhelpfully named thus by his mother, much preferred to be call Moz. To be Maurice he thought, was to be a Frenchman and this would not do. Moz was from Brisbane, a fine Australian city, and besides – the French play dirty Rugby. Worse than the English.
Maurice also has seven children, and his brother – who’s name escapes me for the moment – has eight. So Moz had fifteen kids in his house over Christmas, all of them under fourteen and he isn’t even a Catholic. But he’s way fertile.
So fertile that if he were to lay down on the grass at night it would be several inches taller in the morning.
I told him this yesterday, the lovely fellow that he is, and he laughed his head off.