An extract from an unfinished novel based on The Wind in the Willows
He leaned over and removed the offending image from his sight by yanking the plug from its socket. 'Bugry!' he boomed. 'God, how I hate it. Homosexuality with an incomprehensible offside law. Still, what do you expect from a public school game?'
Molly raised a brow, and opened his mouth to enquire, but Brock had moved swiftly and inevitably into grumblemode, and mounted his hobby-horse. ‘What really gets me,' he said, snapping three Rizlas from the packet, 'is that they make you shove your face up another man’s arse, or wrap your arms round his naked thighs and pull him to the ground, and then some cunt in tracksuit bottoms with a sagging arse tells you it's character-building. Maybe it is, maybe it builds characters like him, but who actually wants to become a sadistic closet case with a degree in Fascistic Pusillanimity who thinks communal showering, untamed facial hair, swilling fucking ‘ale’ and bellowing tuneless obscenities while wallowing with other blokes in a bath full of lukewarm scummy water give him the semblance of a real man, rather than that of a sad little shit prepared to undergo humiliation and discomfort in order not to feel excluded and for the chance to take some revenge for his miserable life by raking or punching some other cunt in a ruck? We could pity them, I suppose, but I don’t. They’re all cunts and they should get off my fucking telly when I want to watch the racing.
‘And the people who pay to watch them are even worse. Braying shaggy-faced twats in car coats and sheepskins, all “well played” and hip flasks and four-wheel drives. And that fucking Chariot shit. What’s that about?’ Spittle flecked the corners of his mouth.
Time to change the subject, thought Molly. ‘It’s not quite like that in Rugby League you know.’
‘Yeah, there’s better pies for a start’ said Dobbin, who was, after all, from The North, and was therefore an authority on such things.
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