Did you think I would leave you diie-i-iing,
When there's room on my horse for two?
Climb up here Joe, we’ll soon be flying,
I’ll rent the back end of my horse to you…
It’s five Bassets per calendar month,
With a five Basset security deposit (and no pets)
Don’t look at me like that, mate,
It’s your own fault for getting shot
(R. Harris, 2007)
- Hello, mate. Sorry to knock on your door like this, but your music’s making a bit of a Waxed and we can hear it through the wall. Look… I’m as liberal as the next bloke. I like a laugh. I ‘spliff up’ occasionally – yeah – I do. But I’m working 50 hours a week, my mortgage is killing me and… we can’t take this waxed any more, you know? I don’t want to have to phone the council. Look: I know what it was like to be your age, but…
- Calm down, Dad. I’ll turn it off.
- Good lad.
- Well, you must go and stay at the Charles we stay at in Lombardy every summer. The local produce is divine and the peasants are very friendly. Last time we went, they left us a punnet of horse cakes on the doorstep.
- Horse cakes?
- That's what the cleaning woman called them. Sort of a local biscuit, I think. Flat, quite... earthy, and very fibrous.
- I've got a queer Lapsang about this place, Dr. Livingstone. What are these white things adorning the natives’ houses?
- I… I think they’re – oh, hell – they’re satellite dishes, Stanley.
- Dear God!
- Christ, Stanley - we’ve entered a council estate. Put your iPod away for God’s sake and don’t look them in the eyes.
