The dirty white light cast over the room makes everything seem as if it’s pulled right out of an 80′s dentist surgery. The smell of stale air doesn’t help either; the security goon opened his fist, and dropped 41C’s collar. Shaken, 41 drops into the plastic chair and slumps forward a little. His elbow contacts the desk and he grimaces, glaring at his chaperone.

“Now sir, sit up. We don’t want to be here all evening.”

Slightly stunned, 41C levels the goon’s stare. “All evening? I’ve missed my fucking flight because of this. What the hell is going on; where am I? You’ve no fucking right to do this to me!”

“Now now Mr Iaconelli.”

41C stares down his nose and over the edge of his now misplaced glasses.

“I want my solicitor. Now.”

“I’m already here, lad…” From the door to the other side of the room, Fischer walks into the cramped room, sighs, and sits at the other side of the table. “Just what are we going to do with you?”

Despite many people thinking otherwise, no, I’m not in fact Mexican. However, this has not stopped a great many people at work wishing me a happy Cinco de Mayo. Something made all the more amusing as I work in the UK, but with a large number of Americans. Apparently, on May 5th, 1862, the Mexicans beat the French (quelle surprise!) at the Battle of Puebla.

And here, I always thought that Cinco de Mayo was simply an excuse for the Americans to eat tacos and drink bad tequila. I suppose we learn something every day…