Lowaicue
英語在香港
For those fortunate enough not to be familiar with the British leadership, this overheard exchange was heard the other day following the visit by the President of Chile to Number 10.
Fellow Brits will see nothing unusual about it.
N. Clegg: I say, Cammers.
D. Cameron: Yes, Nikko, old fruit.
What is furrowing that young brow?
N. Clegg: I just thought of this rather super wheeze for when that Chilly chappy arrives hotfoot and bearing gifts and kind words.
D. Cameron: Do tell all, Nikko, old bean, but be sharp as one must change to welcome the Sam’s mater and pater at four thirty. I say old chap, couldn’t do a favour for a fellow, could you?
N. Clegg: Anything, Cammers. You know I’d do anything for you.
D. Cameron: Will you arrange some life threatening distraction to give me a chance of fleeing the coup. To sit and listen to Sam’s pater waxing eloquent about his sweet peas is just more than a chap can stand.
N. Clegg: Consider it done, oh wonder of the quad.
D. Cameron: Fine. Now what was scurrying round that almighty cerebrum?
N. Clegg: Well, I was thinking. It is usual to present the tribal chief with some bauble or cheap finery on occasions such as this. Well the old buffer is riding high over the spectacular rescue of some working Johnnies. So perhaps we should present him with something to make ‘em happy.
D. Cameron: But they are workers, Nikko, old bean. I have no idea what sort of thing they would want, have you?
N. Clegg: Well I have been going through a few ideas. I thought first of soap but they might not have water, y’know. Then I though of food, but they looked quite ready for the fatstock market, ha ha.
D. Cameron: Better ask George how much is in the old tin. What do miners like?
N. Clegg: Well, I have it on good authority that this kind of cove drinks a lot of alcohol.
D. Cameron: Case of Moet?
N. Clegg: No no no. Wouldn’t have flutes. No I was thinking of beer.
D. Cameron: Beer. Spiffing idea, Nikko, old sport. Shall we send them a barrel each?
N. Clegg: Bad idea, Cams. Tres bad idea. These chaps will drink it all in a day and start beating their wives and children. I thought perhaps a bottle each.
D. Cameron: Super, Nikko. A bottle of beer each it will be. Jolly good miners’ type tipple. Shows that we too are chaps, just like them, what? Now if you could raise the old alarm at about five, the pater will be in full sweet pea flood and I can leave, ostensibly for the lavatory, and slip down the back stairs, past cook, who will be sozzled by then, and into the kitchen garden From there it will be but the shaking of a hound’s tail before I meet you in the Gartered Bullock. Good show.
Fellow Brits will see nothing unusual about it.
N. Clegg: I say, Cammers.
D. Cameron: Yes, Nikko, old fruit.
What is furrowing that young brow?
N. Clegg: I just thought of this rather super wheeze for when that Chilly chappy arrives hotfoot and bearing gifts and kind words.
D. Cameron: Do tell all, Nikko, old bean, but be sharp as one must change to welcome the Sam’s mater and pater at four thirty. I say old chap, couldn’t do a favour for a fellow, could you?
N. Clegg: Anything, Cammers. You know I’d do anything for you.
D. Cameron: Will you arrange some life threatening distraction to give me a chance of fleeing the coup. To sit and listen to Sam’s pater waxing eloquent about his sweet peas is just more than a chap can stand.
N. Clegg: Consider it done, oh wonder of the quad.
D. Cameron: Fine. Now what was scurrying round that almighty cerebrum?
N. Clegg: Well, I was thinking. It is usual to present the tribal chief with some bauble or cheap finery on occasions such as this. Well the old buffer is riding high over the spectacular rescue of some working Johnnies. So perhaps we should present him with something to make ‘em happy.
D. Cameron: But they are workers, Nikko, old bean. I have no idea what sort of thing they would want, have you?
N. Clegg: Well I have been going through a few ideas. I thought first of soap but they might not have water, y’know. Then I though of food, but they looked quite ready for the fatstock market, ha ha.
D. Cameron: Better ask George how much is in the old tin. What do miners like?
N. Clegg: Well, I have it on good authority that this kind of cove drinks a lot of alcohol.
D. Cameron: Case of Moet?
N. Clegg: No no no. Wouldn’t have flutes. No I was thinking of beer.
D. Cameron: Beer. Spiffing idea, Nikko, old sport. Shall we send them a barrel each?
N. Clegg: Bad idea, Cams. Tres bad idea. These chaps will drink it all in a day and start beating their wives and children. I thought perhaps a bottle each.
D. Cameron: Super, Nikko. A bottle of beer each it will be. Jolly good miners’ type tipple. Shows that we too are chaps, just like them, what? Now if you could raise the old alarm at about five, the pater will be in full sweet pea flood and I can leave, ostensibly for the lavatory, and slip down the back stairs, past cook, who will be sozzled by then, and into the kitchen garden From there it will be but the shaking of a hound’s tail before I meet you in the Gartered Bullock. Good show.