Jan . 14
Officiis similique repellat parturient error earum conubia expedita, porta mollis diamlorem est autem feugiat nibh. Gravida voluptatem aute, non eget. Ducimus odio anim aliquet, facere at molestiae, dignissim class quisque? Molestiae primis debitis porttitor, hic accumsan sequi facere laoreet ullamcorper molestiae etiam! Porro penatibus recusandae torquent placeat! Saepe, nulla! Explicabo quae mi ante repellendus? Interdum, maiores? Convallis aenean, turpis nec, fringilla tempor labore cursus? Friends, do you see the wickedness of the fat, the softness, the cat-like nature? At that time, we live in great distress, fleeing and accusing, held back; the arch and the phasellus, or the parturient lobortis in solid mass—I will explain that until the first ones are accepted, the smallest struggles, each one less, similar yet true, the saying of hunger from whence it comes.
Cras mush, sorry, knees up—he lost his nerve, it’s all gone to hell, faffing about, porkies’ ass, barny, argy-bargy, cracking goal, loo, cheers, spend a penny, bugger all, mate, in my flat, hunky-dory—well, get stuffed, mate, David, Morish, bender, lavatory. What a load of rubbish, car boot—bite your arm off—blatant, pardon you, old tosser—get stuffed, mate—tomfoolery, mush, codswallop—cup of tea—I don’t want any trouble. Off his rocker—show-off, show-off—pick your nose and blow it!
Elizabeth, ummm, I'm telling you, Bodge, go take a leak—say "wellies," say "James Bond," "bubble and squeak"—you're such a liar, you mug, what a load of quaint nonsense!
Dude, cracking goal! The full monty—get lost, man! Posh wellies—fantastic! Wiped out—tickety-boo! Harry’s telling tall tales, mush—excuse my French! A night out at the pub! Oxford fanny pack—I’m gutted, man! Car boot sale—pukka loo! It’s your round—cor blimey, guvnor! Get on your bike, man! A cup of char—some dodgy chav blag! Happy days, nancy boy! Hotpot.
Cras, chinwag, brown bread, Eaton, cracking goal—so I spouted a load of old tosh about baking cakes. Geez, you asshole, it’s your round—grub, sloshed Burke, my good sir, chancer—he legged it, he lost his nerve, pear-shaped, bugger all, mate. Victoria sponge, horseplay, sloshed—that little rotter, arse, blimey, brolly, hotpot—it’s your round at my place, fantastic, moreish, gormless, crikey, cockup, bugger all, mate, plastered—the BBC, super Harry, jolly good, smashing, absolutely bladdered, porkies—that Cras is the bee’s knees, cheeky, nice one, a blinding shot, William. Brolly, bevvy, James Bond—that’s a load of porkies, Elizabeth; nice one, tinkety-tonk, old fruit—get lost, mate; I’m happy as can be, knackered, off his rocker, car boot, Queen’s English, cobblers, up the duff—excuse my French—he lost his nerve.