Good work Sir Knight.
Sir Robin.
Speaking of chickens and MP...
The Butcher Shop
GENT: Good morning. I'd care to purchase a chicken, please.
BUTCHER: Don't come here with all that posh talk you nasty, stuck-up twit.
GENT: I beg your pardon?
BUTCHER: A chicken, sir. Certainly.
GENT: Thank you. And how much does that work out to per pound, my good fellow?
BUTCHER: Per pound, you slimy trollope, what kind of a ponce are you?
GENT: I'm sorry?
BUTCHER: 4/6 a pound, sir, nice and ready for roasting.
GENT: I see, and I'd care to purchase some stuffing in addition, please.
BUTCHER: Use your own, you great poovy po-nagger!
GENT: What?
BUTCHER: Ah, certainly sir, some stuffing.
GENT: Oh, thank you.
BUTCHER: 'Oh, thank you' says the great queen like a la-di-dah poofta.
GENT: I beg your pardon?
BUTCHER: That's all right, sir, call again.
GENT: Excuse me.
BUTCHER: What is it now, you great pillock?
GENT: Well, I can't help noticing that you insult me and then you're polite to me alternately.
BUTCHER: I'm terribly sorry to hear that, sir.
GENT: That's all right. It doesn't really matter.
BUTCHER: Tough titty if it did, you nasty spotted prancer. |
