‘We were getting a grand shot of a charging rhino when the cameraman got scared and bolted. The fathead!’

Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By pavèd fountain, or by rushy brook, or in the beachèd margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.

She gave him the whole cigarette and he swaggered back to the group, flaunting his trophy to the fagless.

The memorization of opening theory and the intensive study of an opponent's oeuvre so dominate the modern game that when two grand masters square off, the first twenty moves unfold like a stale sitcom plot. Players often lament that draw death is killing the game.