McCabe's delicatessen, George's Quay, 12pm, not too busy.
Two men in suits stand in the queue, waiting to order their sandwiches. Suit number one takes a bag of crisps from the stand, turns to suit number two and says, "I'm focking storved."
He opens the crisps and proceeds to munch on them. He approaches the counter, all the while chomping through Burt's finest handmade kettle chips, prawn cocktail flavour.
The girl behind the counter asks him what sandwich he wants to order.
"Give me a minute." Chomp. Chomp. Crunch. He's still eating the crisps, looking at the meats and cheeses and salads on offer. He puts a crisp in his mouth and, before swallowing, he barks out his order. Bits of chewed potato hit the glass below.
"I want cheese, tomato, ham and mustard, pronto."
Suit number two inches away from him, pretending not to know this cretinous bastard and looking awkwardly around him.
"Here, Morgan, wait 'til I tell you who I saw at Lansdowne..."
The girl behind the counter interrupts to ask him if he'd like his sandwich cut in half.
"Yeah, like, whatever," he responds, before announcing how he got the best focking seats in the stadium for the previous night's friendly match between the Rags and the part-timers.
He then elbows me out of the way in order to pay for his food, before handing the empty bag of crisps to the girl who'd made his sandwich.
"Get rid of this, will you?"
May he die roaring of galloping knobrot.