We've had to leave the pub because we've had too much strong lager, and things were beginning to get out of hand. Tony's eyes were bulging, his face was red, and he had started to intimidate a couple of Polish labourers. They were trying to have a quiet game of darts, but as Tony rightly says, darts is traditionally a game played by English people, in English pubs, and that Polish people should make their own entertainment.
Cheeseburgers and fries are off the menu for tonight, but to be quite honest, we'll get a few cans of lager from the shop on the corner of the street, and finish the evening in front of the television, in the comfort of our own shitty flat.
Tony reckons that the shackles of employment are a burden, and that he's glad to be once again out of work. I told him that it was a fucking stupid idea to get a job, and that at the end of the day, people like us will never be part of the working-class. He agreed, and says that careers are for fuckers, and that the backbone of this country will always be reliant on good, honest, lazy bastards like us.