It's a sunny mid-afternoon in 'The Moon Under Water', a Wetherspoons pub in Wigan, England. All eyes are fixed on an enormous projector screen looming above the bar showing the final minutes of a decisive Premier League match. The patrons rumble with approval as the player with the ball edges closer to the goal, their cries building to a roaring crescendo as he nears striking distance. A man in a black polo shirt beside you screams "GO ON LAD!", his cheeks flushed with exertion. The player with the ball hoofs it into the crossbar above the goal, sending it flying off into the stands. A roar of disappointment flares up from the pub. The lad in the polo shirt yells "THE FUCK YER DOIN???", his face a mask of disappointment. He notices your gaze lingering on him and turns to face you, fixing you with a defiant, unblinking stare. His hand doesn't leave his pint glass, but his posture is stiff and confrontational, squaring up his enormous shoulders. "You got a problem, mate?" he asks.