Rory? Yeah I know Rory. He's not to be underestimated. He's a funny-looking ****er 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 busted, so he's gone down the battle-cruiser to watch the end of the football game. No one's watching the custard so he switches the channel over. A fat geezer's north opens and he wanders up and turns the Liza over, "Now **** off and watch it somewhere else." He 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 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 **** it," says the geezer. "That's **** 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, turns back to his game. His team's won too. Four-nil.