(no subject)

[the_gene_genie]

 
Good luck getting to the bar near the TV today. Denied his usual Saturday afternoon football due to having to work (on a Saturday), Gene was happy to find the door to the pub opening on to Milliways instead. All right, this poncey twenty-first century football isn't quite the same as the studs-up scrum of the '70s, but it'll do in a pinch. Particularly as City are getting ready to trounce some soft Southern shites. Gene hates Spurs.

So. Beer, chasers, pork scratchings, crisps, an already overflowing ashtray, the remains of a meat pie with brown sauce...they're all there, if you can see through the fug of smoke, or hear over his bellowing at the set.

'Bloody....get in there, you twat! Man on! No, you....what do you think you're doin'!?

....GET IN MY SON!!'

1-0 City.



[OOC: Here for the next twelve hours or so, with the odd slowtime for dinner, etc. Open until whenever!

Aaaaaannd, I'm not getting any notifs. Sorry guys, tagging up now!]

Comments

[sunbaked_baker]

Sunshine doesn't know Albion's teams in her own world, much less the teams of another Earth's England. But some things are universal - it sounds like a good game so far.

"How's your team doing?" she asks with a smile for Gene, approaching the bar for some much-needed caffeine. It had been a long night in the library. And a long morning.

[the_gene_genie]

'One up! Get in!'

He turns with a look of pleased aggression, being the sort of fan that tends to jump around a lot and hit the air - or people - when City scores.

'We'll stuff 'em now, no problem.'

He sticks a fag in his mouth while the teams head back for kick-off, lights it and grins at her.

'You alright, luv?'

[sunbaked_baker]

Gene's cheerful enthusiasm is infectious, and it shows as Sunshine's smile widens into an answering grin.

"Doing fine," she assures him, chuckling. There are no new scars since they last spoke, and hardly any bruises, and she doesn't look half-dead with exhaustion. Clearly it is a good day. "Even better now I know the game is in good hands. Or feet, rather."

"How about you?"

[the_gene_genie]

'Oh yeah, y'know. Can't complain.'

She does look alright, which is good. And he's definitely alright, because City are winning. That's all it takes for a good mood.

'You don' look like something's tried to take a bite out of you, so we'll call that a win all 'round. Want a pint?'

[harryhotspur]

A loud groan from the other end of the bar suggests that at least one person has taken the opposite side from Gene in today's match-- and if he remembers Sir Harry Percy from their encounter in the cells, perhaps Gene can guess why.

[the_gene_genie]

He hears it after he stops jumping around and yelling, and only then does he spot Harry. He grins, and sticks a fag in his mouth, and gives a thumbs up because it doesn't occur to him that the bloke would know anything about football at all.

When City have stopped celebrating and the teams are lining up again, he wanders over to get a new pint.

'Alright?'

[harryhotspur]

"Ay, well enough," Harry says with a nod of greeting. "Master-- Hunt, was't not?"

[the_gene_genie]

'...Mister. Or DCI, if you like that better. But yeah, Gene Hunt. Want a pint?'

The one on the bar looks good, deep brown with a decent frothy head. Gene downs half of it in a few massive gulps, belches loudly and takes a drag of his cigarette.

'Harry, wasn't it?'

[i_am_your_host]

The Master of Ceremonies, wrapped in a black leather coat and wearing his usual heavy eye makeup and crimson lipstick, slips in quietly for a drink and a smoke while the large man's attention is completely held by the football match. But at his latest outburst, he feels compelled to make a snarky comment.

"Funny," he murmurs into a half-empty glass of gin from several stools away, "a priest said those exact words to me once. It was very motivational."


[ooc: Couldn't resist, but must beg for super-slowtime, plz :)]</small]

[the_gene_genie]

[OOC: No problem at all! Hahaha, this should be fun. :D]

'You what?'

Gene - perhaps luckily - is too distracted to really be paying attention. But he does stop jumping up and down, and makes a grab for his pint, spilling some of it over the bar.

'We'll stuff 'em now, you'll see. Southern ponces.'

[i_am_your_host]

"I said," Emcee says nonchalantly, before taking a drag off his cigarette, "a priest said that to me once, and I found it quite motivational."

He leans over a little to get a better look at the television screen.

"Which are the ponces again...?"

Because those colorful short pants are rather clingy.

[the_gene_genie]

'The...you what?'

He swings around, all huge grin and unkempt hair, pint in hand...and then comes to a stop when the man's words actually penetrate. Plus, the man himself. Is he wearing make up? Jesus Christ.

The smile diminishes somewhat.

'What're you on about?'

[bigarmy_strangepants]

There is a tall Viking at a nearby table, with a large glass of water, and a small glass of some clear liquid, writing very slowly and painstakingly.

When Ragnar hears Gene shout, he stands, alarmed -- somebody attacking?

No, it's just some stinky man shouting at the picture machine behind the bar.

[the_gene_genie]

He glances over - when he stops jumping around - when he notices someone standing and staring, but whatever. Gene's less than concerned with people glaring at him in the pub. The football's more important.

[bigarmy_strangepants]

"What is the matter?" Ragnar asks. "What happened? Do you need help?"

[the_gene_genie]

'What?'

Gene's gaze does not leave the screen, and he cackles loudly as the players pile onto the scorer.

'Eh? No. He scored, look.'

There doesn't need more explanation than that.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars has seen many strange things in his visits to Milliways. He has seen a slight human woman with metal claws that grow out of her skin. He has been in a room that magically adjusted to accommodate his height, with walls that became glass or stone in the blink of an eye. He has seen more humans than he had ever hoped to see in his life time, and all of them share the same sort of vexing qualities of his friend John Carter.

But the sounds coming from the bar today are not strange. They remind him of home, of the shouts and cheers of the crowds around whatever scrap tends to be happening. The picture on the television looks like a very tame version of the arena.

He stands behind the human and peers at it, watching intently. He wonders what they will use in place of banth or white apes in this arena. John Carter spoke of the Romans and how they threw their Christians to the lions. Perhaps this is something similar?

His voice is rich and graveled. "When do they release the lions?"

[the_gene_genie]

'You what?'

Gene replies automatically, still bouncing up and down and spilling beer all over his shirt, his eyes on the celebrating players.

'What're you on about?'

[we_dont_fly]

Tars is similarly fixated on the game, speaking slowly as he tries to understand just what he's looking at. "They celebrate, but no blood has been spilled yet. This is a battle for sport, no? Is this all they do? Run from one end of the arena to the other with a ball? Why don't they have swords? Where are the lions? The nets? The spear pits?"

[the_gene_genie]

'Because it's foot-'

He swings around with a confused expression, and then falters when seeing the...what is this?

'-ball.

...blimey. D'you know you've got things growing out of your head?'

[fry_sandhu]

Fry isn't sure whether Gene got his note, but even he knows that he's probably going to have to wait until half time.

He puts his hands over his ears for a moment at the yell, then sits on the sofa next to him and tries to take an interest.

"Which one's your son?" he asks.

[the_gene_genie]

'You what? Oh, hello mate.'

He only spares him a glance, because football, but it's Fry so there's a smile in there as well.

'You OK?'

[fry_sandhu]

"Did you get my note?" Fry asks, giving a little smile back because it's Gene.

[half_french]

.... Oh no. It's a British invasion.

And he appears to have set the bar on fire. This is what Poole misses?

Lunatic.

However, since she's ended up here at lunchtime again, there's no reason to waste the opportunity. Even if she does still feel ridiculous ordering with no one actually taking the order.

"Fish stew, s'il vous plait?"

[the_gene_genie]

Gene doesn't pay much attention. The use of French gets a scowl, and then a double-take because c'mon, French or not, she's not bad, and then he turns his attention back to the telly. It takes quite a lot to distract him from the footy, especially because most pubs showing it back home would have hardly any women in them at all.