The door opens to a plume of smoke, admitting one average bloke in a cheap suit sporting a rather impressive set of sideboards. He's been here before -- there was that fight a while back, and the nice pair of tits a week after that -- but he's still not sure what this is all about
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'Raymondo.'
A double Scotch appears as he approaches the bar, along with a copy of a 2011 Daily Mail of his own.
'Crackin'!'
He laughs too, and shows it to Ray with a grin.
'Stick that in your pipe an' smoke it, pal.'
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His face sours at the second daily.
"Made history, tha'," he says, jabbing a forefinger at the newspaper in his possession. "Nineteen titles."
He arches his eyebrows, braving a little pride.
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'Not a chance.'
He drops his paper and grabs Ray's off him.
'Nineteen!?'
Impossible.
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Ray's picked up the Guv's discarded paper, and is pointing at one line in particular.
Manager Roberto Mancini imposed an alcohol ban on his players ahead of Tuesday night's Premier League game against, of all teams, Stoke.
"City's got a guinea crackin' down on liquid courage!"
That's plain wrong, no matter which way you cut it.
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"History, lad."
He blows smoke from the corner of his mouth, and gathers up the daily to show the boy. "United takes the title. Naturally."
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At least William doesn't look like he's from the 1970s, they're drab and suit his time and his accent is quite American.
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Bloody yanks.
"The league title, mate. We're champions of England!"
His ciggy pauses halfway to his lips, just so they're clear on this.
"Football."
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(occ: Elrond is cool with most things so have at it :) - also, he might be able to feel that something is up with him, if it's okay with you)
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Poof.
"All right?"
[ OoC: EEEE! Totally cool with me, so long as it's kept at a handwavey level. :D ]
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It's not that he doesn't catch the tone - it's not exactly subtle - he is merely ignoring it and so his demeanor stays civil and pleasant. Well-modulated. British, only not at all, which makes him infuriatingly hard to place.
"Bar, a mug of mulled wine, please." When the mug appears, he reaches for it, and as his sleeve falls back it reveals a worn archer's armguard. To the uninitiated, it may look somewhat like an adventurous, erotic accessory.
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Ray keeps a good three feet of personal space between them.
"Who do you think you're talking to, mate?"
The mug appears, much the same way the newspaper had not too long ago. Ray's not sure what he should be more horrified about: that, or the fruity bracer on the arm that reaches for it.
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"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"That man has the evil newspaper with the uny-corn on."
Guppy goes red and leans towards his son.
"Fry, don't say that to someone reading it, it's rude."
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"All right, lad? There's nothin' evil abou' it."
He presents one of the colorful photos for inspection.
"That's Man United."
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Not actually sure what any of those are, he looks at the paper. Ew, red shirts.
"Why is he called Man?"
"No, Man isn't the name of that man, Manchester United is a football team." Guppy explains.
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Save for that last bit, which sounds a tad suspect anyway.
Glancing at Guppy, he nods once at the boy.
"He's a bit twitchy."
You might want to look into that, mate.
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