All the heat of a decade of fierce Indian summers is stored in the pitch-black, polished walls of the corkscrew staircase.

Roy: You remember the woman from last night? She seemed lovely, right? Moss: She was a delight. Roy: Yeah. We get outside, there's a group of tramps, two of whom she knows by name. She starts screaming at them, You owe me money! You owe me money! She thinks that the tramps owe her money. Next thing I know, it all kicks off. I'm running for my life. It was a horrible evening, a really horrible evening, and she's a really horrible woman. Moss: Right. But you slept with her? Roy: Yeah.

The addition of Holiday is especially auspicious because while the team is stacked with great offensive players, it is a little lacking on defense, and he fills that gap.

You have no turkeys; you would not desecrate the festival by offering up a withered Chinese bantam, instead of the savoury grand Norfolcian holocaust, that smokes all around my nostrils at the moment, from a thousand fire-sides.