Cos what you need, right, is an Aristotle of the most ping pong tiddly in the nuclear sub.

Full Text:
Rory's got few interests in life; darky music, football, bees and honey and kicking the shit out of anyone that interferes with that shortlist. A few nights ago Rory's Roger iron rusted, so he has gone to the battle-cruiser to watch the end of a football game. Nobody is watching the custard so he has turned the channel over. A fat man's north opens and 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, he stands and picks up a fire extinguisher and he walks straight past the jam rolls who are ready for action, then 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 footy. `That's fucking it,' says the man. Rory gobs out a mouthful of booze covering fatty; he flicks a flaming match into his bird's nest and the man’s lit up like a leaking gas pipe. Rory, unfazed, turned back to watch his game. His team won too, four-nil.

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