He glanced at the gloomy sky outside, put on a thick overcoat, and walked out the door.

　　※※※

　　"To lose 0:3 at home to the underdog Walsall—Forest has really been down on their luck lately. The much-anticipated Paul Hart failed to bring good results to the team. After the last match, he submitted his resignation to club chairman Nigel Doherty (Nigel Doughty), which was quickly approved. Today is the first time their interim coach Tony Dunn is leading the first team, and unexpectedly, he got injured on the sidelines by his own people. Let's take another look at the footage—he seems to have been stunned, forgetting to dodge..."

　　The television mounted on the wall was broadcasting today's sports news, naturally focusing on everything that happened on the sidelines at the Nottingham Forest match.

　　A chorus of boos erupted in the noisy bar.

　　"I've never seen such a disgraceful head coach!" a drunken man raised his middle finger at the TV. "That Tony Dunn, I know him! He used to be Paul Hart's assistant with the youth team, just a kid. Honestly, I never thought much of him—quiet, withdrawn, always looking timid and afraid of trouble. Are we really supposed to count on a coward like that to lead Forest out of trouble? Nigel, that old guy, has lost his ambition too. Forest is finished! Finished, done for..." He muttered as he slumped over the table, which was piled high with empty, toppled beer bottles.

　　Just as this drunk finished his tirade, Dunn happened to push open the door and walk in. The sound of the door drew the attention of most people drinking and chatting in the bar; everyone turned to look at the entrance. When they saw who had come in, they were first surprised, then mocking smiles appeared on their faces.

　　"Heh, look!" A typical British middle-aged man stood up with his glass, shouting, "Our coach Tony Dunn has arrived!"

　　"Woo woo!" The people in the bar booed in "welcome."

　　"Let's drink to his brilliant defense against Johnson's breakthrough—off the pitch!" The middle-aged man raised his glass, and those around him immediately echoed, raising their own glasses. "Cheers!!"

　　Another man, clearly very drunk, staggered to his feet, walked over to Dunn, and shoved a beer bottle toward his mouth. He burped and asked, "Tony Dunn coach, that was a beautiful defense, but the referee and the media obviously didn't... didn't see it that way... uh! How, how do you see it?"

　　After asking, he turned and laughed loudly to the others in the bar.

　　Dunn didn't want to cause trouble; he was here to drink away his sorrows. So, with a sullen face, he pushed aside the beer bottle blocking his way, then walked straight to the bar and said to the bartender, "A bottle of..." He habitually wanted to order "Xiao Er"—a small bottle of Erguotou. Although he was from Sichuan, he had gone to university in the north, and from then on had developed a taste for this strong liquor. But he realized he didn't know how to say "Xiao Er" in English, and more importantly, he quickly remembered he was in England, not China. He lowered his head and muttered a curse, then changed his order: "Give me your strongest drink."

　　The others, who had been watching him, all started jeering loudly when they heard him ask for the strongest drink.

　　"Yo! The coward Tony actually drinks?!"

　　"We've got some freshly squeezed milk—want to try it? I still think milk suits you better, Tony!" A fat man squeezed his obviously sagging chest with both hands and shrieked, while the others laughed so hard they collapsed onto the tables.

　　The young bartender, faced with these rowdy customers, was at a loss. He tried to get the drink, but the drunks stopped him: "Give him juice! Juice!"

　　"No, no, milk! We've got the freshest milk!"

　　"Ahahaha!"

　　The commotion outside drew the bar owner downstairs. He stood at the top of the stairs and saw that nearly everyone who wasn't already passed out at their tables was gathered around the bar, with a man wrapped in a black overcoat sitting among them, being mercilessly mocked by the drunks.

　　"Guys, what's going on?" His booming voice immediately quieted the bar. The rowdy drunks fell silent as soon as they saw who was standing behind them.

　　Dunn found it odd—who could make this crowd behave with just a word? He turned his head slightly and saw a man step out from the shadows at the top of the stairs.

　　The young bartender quickly pointed at Dunn and said to the man, "Boss, he wants a strong drink."

　　When the newcomer saw who was sitting there, he was a bit surprised, but still said, "Just give it to him."

　　"But... but they won't let me..." The bartender looked helplessly at the drunks, who had returned to their seats.

　　The man glanced around the bar, and everyone his gaze landed on immediately lowered their heads—either pretending to sleep or drinking hard with their heads down. Dunn grew more interested in this capable-looking middle-aged man.

　　"I don't see anyone objecting. Pour him a Scotch whisky—on the house." The bar owner turned to Dunn, "Single or double? With ice or water?"