'Ee made us a nice cup o' tea and explained to me all about The Marquis de Saddam and 'ow 'ee was killin' millions of nig-nogs in 'is own country and 'ow nobody except the Prime Minister wanted to go to war with 'im. Well, I can understand that right enough. Anyone 'oo kills millions of darkies can't be all bad. Editor's note: Far be it for me to advocate censorship, but that's enough of that I reckon.
What was all that racket goin' on last weekend? Stompin' and poundin' and lots of shoutin' and stuff! An' I'm not talking about the couple next door 'oo get up to all sorts with chains and sheep neither. There was 'undreds of people carryin' big sticks up and down the 'Igh Street, gettin' in me way when I was tryin' t' buy me cornplasters! At first I thought it was some good-natured locals kicking the crap ('scuse me American) out of Mr Patel from the Jiffy Shop. Naturally I dragged me tartan trolley across to where everyone was gathered an' pulled out me cricket bat w'at I always carries with me in case of rapists an' suspicious paediatricians. But then I realised that Mr Patel was one of 'em that was making all the hubble-balloon and wasn't in no danger at all. Pity really...it's been a while since I've put the boot in.
"Blair Out!" they was shouting. Not sure what it meant, but it sounded sexual. "Make tea! Not War!" Well, I likes a nice cup o' tea meself, especially if it's free an' someone else is makin' it, so I started to follow 'em. Up and down the streets they went, shoutin' and clammerin' like a pack of hydrangeas. But there wasn't a single teapot in sight. So eventually I took it upon meself to visit the Vicar, seein' as I was passin' and needed to empty me bag.
