Not too long ago I was at my grandparents' house, and while watching the usual Deal or No Deal/Countdown head burp, my granddad began talking about the amount of people getting themselves stabbed in sunny London. The conversation naturally veered off into World War II, and then the Gurkha knives that his brother had given to him. I kept prodding him to tell me more, and then my nan abruptly announced that she wanted them out of the house. My granddad leapt from his chair and headed upstairs. He was always such a gentle, loving soul, so I couldn't believe what he brought down: a stockpile of old knives. That were still gelled with lots and lots of blood.
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