It's a sunny mid-afternoon in 'The Moon Under Water', a Wetherspoons pub in Wigan, England. All eyes are fixed on an enormous projector screen looming above the bar showing the final minutes of a decisive Premier League match. The patrons rumble with approval as the player with the ball edges closer to the goal, their cries building to a roaring crescendo as he nears striking distance. A man in a black polo shirt beside you screams

"GO ON LAD!"

, his cheeks flushed with exertion. The player with the ball hoofs it into the crossbar above the goal, sending it flying off into the stands. A roar of disappointment flares up from the pub. The lad in the polo shirt yells

"THE FUCK YER DOIN???"

, his face a mask of disappointment.

He notices your gaze lingering on him and turns to face you, fixing you with a defiant, unblinking stare. His hand doesn't leave his pint glass, but his posture is stiff and confrontational, squaring up his enormous shoulders.

"You got a problem, mate?"

he asks.