"Picture the scene: The other fuckin' week there, doin' the fuckin' Volley with Tommy, playing pool. I'm playing like Paul-Fuckin'-Newman by the way. Givin' the boy here the tannin' of a lifetime. So it comes to there, during the last shot, the deciding ball of the whole tournament. I'm on the black and he's sittin' in the corner looking all fuckin' biscuit-arsed. When this hard c*nt comes in. Obviously fuckin' fancied himself, like. Starts staring at me. Lookin' at me, right fuckin' at me, as if to say, "Come ahead, square go." You ken me, I'm not the type of c*nt that goes looking for fuckin' bother, like, but at the end of the day I'm the c*nt with a pool cue and he can get the fat end in his puss any time he fucking wanted like. So I squares up, casual like. What does the hard c*nt do? Or the so-called hard c*nt? Shites it. Puts down his drink, turns, and gets the fuck out of there. And after that, well, the game was mine."
