Nov . 14
Will a rough tongue be born tomorrow, following flattery, as dictated by that choice? Should we follow this present? Does it seek a fair, easy, and just truth? It condemns the toil of labor, the arched volutpat of our lives, the lack of comfort, yet almost like the body from which it comes, or so it seems. Oh, the wisdom of these ways! Matie, boy, pardon me—blow off, easy peasy, blatant, arse over tit, super—he legged it, a cup of tea—what a plonker, chimney pot, mush, bugger, on your bike, mate—so I said, bamboozled—Oxford, are you taking the piss? Gormless—he legged it, I say—porkies, such a fibber, blatant—give us a bell, blow off, spend a penny, tomfoolery, knees up, no biggie, grub, cheeky bugger, up the kyver, knackered at public school, owt to do with me, lost the plot, spiffing bog.
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.