They're a pub team now. A pub called 'The Hit 'n' Hope', with Peg as landlord (a bit like Peggy Mitchell in 'EastEnders'), Shrek as the fat barfly who can scarcely stand up let alone run. Sir Combover as the balding weirdo who always sits in the corner, by the ladies toilets, alone, nursing a pint and trying his hardest to make eye contact with someone, anyone, in the forlorn hope that he can strike up a friendship with and thus find a soul mate who is also a sad and lonely misfit with an unhealthy interest in watching old videos of 'Grange Hill'.
Phil 'The Face' could be captain of the darts team: a position that nobody wants anyway because the pub doesn't actually have a darts team to begin with, but it makes the facially distorted one feel important.
Fellaini can be the cnut who cannot even sip half a bitter without wanting to fight someone much smaller than himself, and only then if he's got a dozen of his mates with him watching his back.
And out the back, crashed out amongst the empty barrels in the yard is an elderly Glaswegian piss-head, lying prostrate on the cobblestones, a vile mixture of whisky and dried vomit around his gaping mouth, and in his hand is a crumpled up piece of paper with the phone numbers of some of Thailand's most discreet hotels scribbled in biro.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the staff and the regulars of 'The Hit 'n' Hope' inn.
