They were in the pub, the rugby crowd. Having a good time with their pints and their rugby songs. The landlord had never had any trouble with the rugby crowd. Boisterous, yes, but good humoured.
Then things turned nasty.
A gang of golfers walked in, fresh from the links. Every one was in a bad mood as they'd each shot a 10 on the 18th hole. They were spoiling for a fight.
The smallest golfer caught the hooker's eye. They were brothers and hated each other for their choices in life. The golfer had left school at 16 to become a plumber. The hooker was a chartered accountant. They both had large houses on the same estate, but never talked to each other, were never at the same family gatherings. The last time they'd spoken there'd been blood.
"Alright, lads," said the landlord. "What can I get you?"
"Little drinks for little balls," said the hooker, looking directly at his brother.
"Now come on, lads. We don't want any trouble, do we?" said the landlord.
"We all shot a 10 on the 18th," said the smallest golfer. "Our weekend can't get any worse. We've come here to drown our sorrows. We don't want any trouble, either. But if trouble comes looking for us..."
"Hear! Hear!" said the other golfers, as one.
The rugby crowd put their pints on the bar. Each of them stared daggers at a separate golfer. The hooker had fratricide in his eyes.
"Come on, lads," said the landlord. "Let's settle this like gentlemen, shall we? What about a nice game of darts? Winning team gets a free round."
Suddenly, in walked Mr Cockle, Purveyor Of Fine Seafoods.
"Seafood!" he growled, in such a smooth, sensual way.
The tension was broken, the brothers' stares melted, the rugby crowd picked up their pints, and they all mingled like long lost friends, feasting on whelks.