Oh Dear. Tony's mood has plunged to new depths. Two nil up at half time, and he was mentally preparing himself for cheeseburgers and red wine. Then came three goals from Spurs, and now Tony wants to do violent things to anybody who he thinks deserves a good beating.
The pub is fucking packed, and he's been drinking like a man possessed.
I've come back to the flat to have a crap and grab a packet of cigarettes.
I reckon I deserve a pat on the back, as on the way out of the pub, I bumped into a group of German tourists, who thought it would be fun to pop inside, and sample a little slice of life in one of London's backstreet pubs. If I was a sadist (which I occasionally am), I would have ushered the bastards in through the doors, and sat back whilst Tony and his cronies set about giving them a good beating. But this time, I did my good deed for the day, and told them that German tourists like them are better off sticking to the popular tourist pubs.
The bastards thanked me and disappeared in search of a safer place.