John: ...except for a half sister, who was obsessed
with Vanadium. Rigged the market, made a cool forty
million, paid off the Lord Mayor, and put the lot into
diesel powered nuns.
Terry J: Which is where it went wrong, eh...
Michael: Exactly!
Terry J: Pass the beernuts.
John: Oh he hasn't killed himself yet.
Terry J: He hasn't?
John: Oh no, waiting to April the 5th.
Michael: Some sort of tax dodge.
Graham: Good evening, sir.
John: Evening, Tom.
Terry J: Evening, Harry.
Michael: Evening, Maurice.
Graham: Well, what's it to be, sir?
John: A mark.
Terry J: Oh, one of your specials please, Harry.
John: One special please, sir.
Graham: One special coming up.
John: So see what's in page eight. Nixon's had an
arsehole transplant.
Michael: Well, have you've...eh...you've seen the stop
press though? The arsehole's rejected him.
Graham: Ehm...would you like a twist of lemming, sir?
Terry J: Uh, yes please, Harry.
(squeak, squeak, squeak)
Graham: Bit more, sir?
Terry J: Oh, just a squeeze.
(SQUEAK, SQUEAK, SQUEAK)
Graham: There you are, sir
Terry J: Thank you.
John: Alex, what'll you have?
Michael: Oh, aaaaaah, Mallard Fizz for me, please,
Maurice.
Graham: Ok, sir, one Mallard Fizz coming up.
Michael: Jolly good.
Terry J: How about old Cohen Barkley?
John: Eh?
Terry J: [???? ???? ????. ??? ??? ?????? switched the
wood preservertives into vinaigre. Sold the bottles
right next to [???].
(QUAAACK, QUAAACK, QUAAACK)
Terry J: Smart fellow's always gonna do well. Nice
bloke, said I [?????????]
Michael: Funny looking chap, you know. Buttocks bent
the wrong way. [??????????] every time he sat down he
fell over. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha. Don't make
me laugh.
Terry J: Well, cheers then.
Graham: Cheers, sir
(Retching)
John: Eh, for me...ehm...a Harlem Stinger, please, Tom.
Graham: Okay, sir. Rastus!
Rastus: Here, boss.
Graham: One Harlem Stinger.
Rastus: One stinger coming raaaahhhhht up.
(Gurgling, retching)
Michael: Cheers, old boy.
Everyone: Cheers, all the best.
(Running to the lavatory)
John: Eh, how much is that then, Tom?
Graham: One pound and forty p, sir.
John: Would you care to join us?
Graham: Oh, no, thank you, sir.
John: There we are, keep the change.
Graham: Thank you, sir.
John: Good health.
Graham: Cheers.
(Drinking. Running to the lavatory, regurgitating)
Terry J: Same again, please, Harry.
Go easy on the lemming, Harry.
Graham: Okay, sir. There you are, sir. Eh...same again
for you, sir?
Michael: Just a small one, Maurice.
Graham: Okay, sir.
Michael: Maurice?
Graham: Yes, sir?
Michael: You haven't got something a little
less...eh...ducky, have you?
Graham: What do you mean, something without the
mallard, sir? How about a Dog Turd and Tonic?
Michael: Uurgh!
