The basic modern 'Pog' game is played thus. Each child tosses a pog into the arena, face-up or face-down, as agreed. Each player in turn takes his slammer and pitches it hard onto the accumulated pile of pogs.
It was Oxford now—the matriculation photograph, posed in the stony front quad at Corpus, the pelican on top of the sundial appearing to sit on the head of the lanky, begowned chemist at the centre of the back row.
Linda lives next door and is dead mumsy, even though she's no one's mum, 'cos she cooks my tea sometimes and lets me watch EastEnders on her massive plasma TV, even though she says I should 'stay true to my Northern Roots' and watch Corrie.
This Pulitzer- and Tony-winning one-man show looked pretty enervated here, ponderously overdirected by Robin Phillips.
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