They stopped at the Hermit’s Nest for a rum to keep out the cold. “I played for Aberavon in 1898”, said a stranger to Enoch Davies.
“Liar”, said Enoch Davies
“I can show you the photos”, said the stranger.
“Forged” said Enoch Davies.
“And I’ll show you my cap at home”.
“Stolen”.
“I got friends to prove it”, the stranger said in a fury.
“Bribed”, said Enoch Davies.

(from The Outing, by Dylan Thomas which, if I were you, I would make a point of reading in your lunch-hour today.)