Ah yes the evening has an ending like a Barbara Cartland novel
His eyes burned into hers like sapphires
Glazed with the amount of special brew he had necked watching Bolton wanderers.
They had won, so he fought with fans instead of the Mrs
In the pub after the game he saw his quarry
She was a prize
His strong arms unfolded, her softly yielding body helpless as she was being swept away on a tsunami of passion
Well dragged outside with a bottle of Auzzie white.
The black eyes from his earlier exploits reflected on his away team polyester shirt in the fluorescent lights of the pubs smoking area.
Then he dropped his pants revealing a porridge gun capable of crop spraying.
Moments later she was awash with a spermiferois goatie after almost choking herself on a double portion of spangle after it fired both chambers
It was love!
Then the bell for last orders sounded and he was lost as to walking the Bourneville boulevard with her or grabbing a last pint with his mates.
It had been a hard day
But a true hero he did the Captain Oates and left with her The promise of captain's pie and a scotch was on the cards back at her place
But her night of passion was not assured
If Dibnah **** didn't strike as his alcohol to blood ratio was in the wrong place.
On Monday he would be but a memory
Next week it's an away game
She will miss him