hear dat, Mick-a-roo, but what would proly worry me more’d be if I were in’at corner all

up in arms n shootin spitballs atcha.. and the Lady Andrea (although you may be duckin’

blows wit her lovin’ hubby unless you performed a proper may-I-cut-in-yessir-you-may),

‘cause I’d lost my sense of everyman profundity and a love for the little things like belly

buttons and whibbits on bellies and tiny tin horns and palak paneer and cashews and ale.

Now get out there and cut a rug, MickeyMantlepeace, we

ain’t growin’ no wallflowers ..in this ‘ere garden of stone.