Four pints and a spliff

When my friend Hack says he's coming round to watch the football, he doesn't mean he's coming round to watch the football. He means he's coming round with a thin carrier bag full of mid-priced lager which he intends to drink alone in my back garden whilst smoking the best part of an ounce of weed. Sometimes, like all men, he needs a break from the rules and regulations of his own home.

So, while I watched England

play out a drab exchange with the French on Wednesday night, he stood outside in the rain, miserably tugging on a long series of spliffs whilst clutching that thin carrier bag in his free hand like a dipso's security blanket.

At half time I went out to join him. "I thought you were watching the game," he said, as if my presence was just an incumbrance upon his precious 'me time'. "It's half time," I explained. He eyed me suspiciously. "Do you want some of this?" he said, offering me