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.
