As a pimply youth, I played cricket for a pub team in Dumfries, Scotland
And even though I'd left Dumfries and moved to Edinburgh years earlier, I still joined my old team on their annual summer jaunt to Lancashire. One year I was asked by the skipper to pick up another guy he'd roped in from Motherwell. His name was Vincent, and Motherwell was on my way south, so fair enough.

Vincent was the tightest man I'd ever met. Every penny was a prisoner. The weekend usually consisting of cricket, pub food, pub drinking, and well, pubs generally. Not for old Vince. As he slung his bag into the boot of my car, I couldn't help noticing the loaf of bread and tub of margerine almost falling out of it. While we were all gorging on pub food and buying rounds for the whole team, his plan was to feed himself for the weekend on bread and butter and going into every pub and asking for their cheapest pint.

Apparently he worked for Lanarkshire Council in financial advice. Well at least he practiced what he preached.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Wed 9 Mar 2016, 11:43, Reply)