Rory? Yeah I know Rory. He's not to be underestimated. He's a funny looking fucker, I know. But you've got to look past the hair and the cute, cuddly thing - it's all a deceptive facade. A few nights ago Rory's Roger iron's rusted. He's gone down the battle-cruiser to watch the end of a football game. Nobody is watching the custard so he turns the channel over. A fat geezer's north opens. He wanders up and turns the liza over. 'Now fuck off and watch it somewhere else.' Rory knows claret is imminent, but he doesn't want to miss the end of the game. So, calm as a coma, picks up a fire extinguisher, walks straight past the jam rolls who are ready for action and he plonks it outside the entrance. He then 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. And 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, turned back to his game. His team's won too. Four-nil.