Welly welly well I’ve just come from Tussy the butcher with a bindle. Nearly ways a stone when coupled with the parcel of figs and porridge under thy wing. Pitched flame to roast the breast to make a nicey toasty of ox and rye with boiled malt. Bellows and howls from the buds on me tonguey when met with the buttery flesh and figs upon removal from its parchment. Poached tomatoes and assorted dinner creams to pair. Then came a bother….
Whilst thereafter, Johnny Lydon then, or is it rotty boy? Rotten “John Rotten”… Johnny then? Innit? Does Rotty ponder he’s the Duke of Seekonk? Perhaps the Duchess of Peppercorn then? Innit? Wrongy-wrongy wrong-wrong. A gulliver in the morning’s a gulliver in this after then, guv.
Does mumsy pay a pence for the fiddle or a quid for a tune? Are thee to become serfs to the lord of County Cork? Sheriff John Lydon of Knottingham then? Bollards and Bollacks the aforesaid.
A real chap would goff at the peeping of such a crest. “Make America Great Again” on his topper? Scuttle me to a pub and put it on Rotty boy’s tab! Oh what delight! A plate of crisps, an assortment of biscuits and one bitter scowl that says “‘ello mumsy, run me a bath, thy would like to take a tubby then this after. Innit?”
That, young fellows, is a bother and display of folly to be John Lydon
As it were, I was there to spend a couple quid on breakfast creams.
In England, a Parker Posey is a chap who parks petrol automotive carriages in ye olde lot when dining at cuisine boroughs and moshy inns.