Picture a man. A handsome man, a man of substance and breeding. A man with standards and morals deeply rooted in matrimonial devotion and a quality education. Imagine, if you will, the chiselled, rugged good looks that hint at his blue - blooded Mediterranean forefathers. Athletic of frame and obviously a loyal customer of Knightsbridge's finest, he doesn't so much cut a dash as hack a swathe through the electric atmosphere he has created amongst the wine bar's female clientele. 

Tipping the barmaid with loose change (she doesn't see the amount, transfixed by his warm, easy smile and deep but gentle eyes) he picks up his bottled beers and moves away in a haze of Emporio Armani. 

Everyone's attention is now drawn to a figure hunched at the bar, previously obscured by the dark, svelte Adonis. The figure sits hacking, wheezing and coughing, primeval slime dripping from his dirty black leather clothing and forming a stagnant pool under his bar stool. Unkempt and dishevelled only scratch at the surface of his demeanour; obviously a customer of Frank Thomas' most mediocre, his hair and face have definitely seen better days. Much better days. 

The barmaid, wary of the menthol cloud and the creatures glazed, sunken eyes, hovers at the far end of the bar, willing somebody else, ANYBODY else, to require her services. 

He speaks. 

In a deep gravely voice, booming and demanding of attention, he enquires, 

"Where's my fucking beer, you c*nt?". 

For this is Bastard Bear (Bear to his closest acquaintances). 

BB is loud, obnoxious, sarcastic and somewhat portly. He is politically incorrect, lecherous and drinks like a fish. 

And those are all the good points I can think of.