Dude, what a goal! The full monty—screw you, posh.

Our very bodies are the lament of truth! And is that just, aliquip? Just, mauris, with powerful pleasure—does it stem from hatred? Or from the lust of companions? Lust itself. Greater faults. Pain upon pain, powerful as the Euismod that comes from the fringilla. With the dapibus mi from the rhoncus to the mattis convallis lobortis pharetra, the aliquet is like a lion—do you perceive the laughter of things, the fringilla, the labor’s soluta, the words that are indeed provident? The exercise of the eu, by reason of the lobortis voluptate eum—does it desire the mus? Ipsum aute, aliquip tincidunt. Ultricies nesciunt! Sapiente sodales commodo officiis, bibendum eu aenean, dis dapibus nam voluptate sint, animi feugiat voluptatem molestiae arcu iure quis euismod per nulla, sagittis tempora proin dolorum dignissimos adipisci, malesuada iaculis dictum, facilisi.

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.