—Poor old Chuck.
—Who?
—Chuck Norris. Walker, Texas Ranger.
—I’m confused. Who’s signed for Rangers?
—Wha?
—I dunno. Yer said Chuck Norris and some bloke called Walker—
—Fer fuck’s sake, yer numpty. Chuck Norris the actor. ’E’s passed away. Tha’s what I meant.
—Ooooh. Now I’m wi’ yer. Yeah, Walker, Texas Ranger. Tha’ was alright, weren’t it?
—Yep. Eighty‑six, ’e was.
—Not a bad innings.
—Yeah. I’d be ’appy wi’ tha’.
—You won’t make it to tha’ age.
—Wha? Why?
—Too many bacon sarnies furrin’ yer arteries up.
—Bollocks. You can talk.
—Ah yeah. I won’t make it that far either.
—You gettin’ cremated or buried?
—Cremated, mate. Straight there. None o’ tha’ church shite.
—Yeah, same, I reckon. Don’t wanna cost a load fer dyin’. Seems yampy.
—Yeah. True.
—We eatin’ today?
—Nah. I’ve got a gippy stomach.
—’Av yer?
—Yeah. Bad, it is.
—Yer not gonna fart, are yer?
—I daren’t, mate. I’d worry I’ll shit meself.
—’Old it in then. We don’t want a shit storm.
—Does yer coffee taste alright?
—I was wonderin’. I reckon the milk’s on the turn.
—Yeah. Although, ’ang on.
—Wha?
—Tha’s a funny way o’ puttin’ it, ain’t it? “On the turn.” Wha’ does tha’ mean?
—Goin’ bad.
—Yeah, I know tha’. But why “on the turn”? It’s not turnin’ anywhere.
—It’s just a sayin’. Like “flash in the pan”.
—Ah yeah. Where does tha’ come from?
—I know tha’ one. Seventeenth century, mate. If yer fired a musket an’ the gunpowder flared but no ball fired, it were called a “flash in the pan”.
—Righ’. I’ll be doin’ tha’ later.
—Eh?
—Flashin’ in the pan. The trots. The shits—
—That’ll do. Fuckin’ ’orrible, tha’.
—Yer wanna be in me guts.
—I don’t, ta.
—Righ’, shall we ’av another brew?
—Yeah, but ask ’er to check the milk. It’s turned left an’ gone up the High Street.