Roger could have tried to deny that he had flown into a goalpost or had been drunk at the time of the accident, but he had the feeling that anything he said would have been dismissed as a delusion or drunken ramblings. Not that Roger was delusional or drunk, but there was no point in trying to point that out to George. It would be less of a headache to just go with it. "What? You don't like the scruff? I think it's fetching, really," Roger said, drawing a thumb along his jaw. It was obvious he hadn't shaved in a day or so, but he had yet to gain that caveman look he knew he was capable of getting.
He deflated a little, when he thought about his position. "I don't honestly know what I'm going to do for the next few weeks. I can't practice and Birch isn't going to let me play this month. So there's no point in going to practice to just watch." That would have been torture.
Turning the telly and leaving it on a football match so that he wouldn't become too distracted (he had a habit of trying to figure out who the killer was whenever he watched Diagnosis Murder), he nodded with a thoughtful look on his face. "It would have been amazing. I mean, mixing Muggle technology with magic is always on the hard side of complicated." It was only with gentle teasing that he added with a smile, "No wonder you ended up setting your telly on fire."