I know Rory. He's not to be underestimated. He's a funny-looking fucker, I know. You've got to look past the hair and cute cuddly thing. It's a deceptive façade. A few nights ago his roger iron busted. He's gone down the battle cruiser to watch the football. No one's watching the custard, so he switches the channel. A fat geezer's north opens. He wanders up and turns the Liza over. "Fuck off and watch it somewhere else." He knows claret is imminent, but he doesn't want to miss the game. Calm as a coma, picks up the fire extinguisher, walks past the jam rolls ready for action and plonks it outside the entrance. He orders an Aristotle of the most ping-pong tiddly in the nuclear sub and switches back to his footer. "That's fucking it," says the geezer. "That's fucking what?" says Rory. He gobs out a mouthful of booze, covering Fatty. He flicks a flaming match into his bird's nest and the geezer's lit up like a leaking gas pipe. Rory, unfazed, turns back to his game. His team's won, too. Four nil.