Imagine the scene, you've just scored a vital goal which wins a match for your team in the dying seconds against your bitter local rivals at their place. Your hair is still ginger but otherwise, life is pretty good. The away fans are chanting your name the gaffer is applauding you and even the Daily Mail are preparing to write nice things despite claiming all season that you are past it.
All of a sudden you hear a voice. "Paul" it says "I know you think that David was my favourite but really I always loved you and your ginger pubes. Please will you marry me and we can have little ugly wet-lipped ginger babies."
Before you can say or do anything, he pounces and you're trapped, his wet lips and crappy bumfluff beard have latched on like a limpet.
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