Britain’s seaside resorts never look better than during a heatwave, and this week Bournemouth was no exception. The rippling waters of the English Channel sparkled in the early evening sun and tourists and locals alike took refuge in the shade offered by the groves of pine trees planted by the Victorian entrepreneurs responsible for developing the town in the 19th century.
But I had little time to admire this idyllic scene because, within ten minutes of arriving at 6.30pm on Tuesday, I had been spat at, punched in the jaw and forced to fend off a barrage of blows aimed at
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