The Greasy Spoon — 8th March 2026

Joe and Bob trying not to discuss the Six Nations, while discussing politics and road rage

—Don’t mention it.

—Alright, mate, I won’t. Fucking disaster—

—Don’t.

—Right. Coffee?

—Yeah, strong. I need the bugger.

—It’s all knackered at the moment, ain’t it?

—What’s that, mate?

—The world.

—Ah. Right.

—See the President ain’t happy wiv Starmer.

—Ah, it’s worse for him than tha’. Blair’s stuck the boot in.

—Ooh yeah, I saw that.

—You know what pissed me off?

—Go on.

—Those lazy‑arse boatyard workers. Strict nine to five. Imagine that. Country’s going to war and they want to work their normal fucking hours.

—I worked longer than that everywhere I’ve worked.

—Me too, mate.

—Hey, see that road rage thing the other day?

—Yeah. State of that. They ’ad a bump and then drew weapons.

—Bloody bonkers.

—We eating?

—Better not, mate. Gotta watch the waistline.

—Wot, you on a diet?

—Nah. Just trying not to get any fatter.

—We could ’ave a cake. A small one.

—No, mate. I’ve gotta be good.

—Fer fuck’s sake, Bob. There’s nuthin wrong wiv yer.

—I know. I feel fat. Me trousers are getting snug.

—Mate, we ain’t getting younger. Can’t ‘elp a bit o’ middle‑aged spread.

—So, Borthwick. He’s got to—

—Joe! I said don’t mention it!

—We always talk about the rugger.

—Fucking not now we don’t. After that. I couldn’t watch it.

—Look at that out there. Pissing down again.

—Shit, yeah. Didn’t bring me raincoat.

—Better get another coffee in then.

—Right. I will.

—Do you wanna go halves on a brownie?

—NO.

—I’m peckish.

—Ah, fuck it. Go on then.

—There you go.

—Ta, mate. I’ll dodge ’aving lunch.

—This is your lunch. Look at it that way.

—Oh yeah. Good idea.

—We’ve got no chance next week.

—You’re doing it again.

—I know. Can’t ’elp it.

—If we win next week, I’ll buy us a full English.

—Hmm. I’d better eat before we meet up, then.