Look at this crew.
Wrung out, bedraggled, and stumbling up to the end of the bar with nerves frayed by a week of piddling little firecrackers. You call yourselves English? Not Gordon, I know how he feels about being called English. He’s Scottish, or Polynesian or something, I’m sure. He’s not here?
I made this Smoke of Scotland for Nothing??
Hey Mike! I couldn’t find pumpkin flavoured beer, so I pureed the Halloween jack-o’-lantern off my neighbour’s front step and added that. Should be fine.
I see Graybo’s quite enjoying his gin and tonic as he watches Pete sweat through this year’s NaNoWRiMo marathon. Nice word count you’ve got going there Pete. You pint’s gone flat. Why don’t you have some of that sparkling crème de menthe Graybo so generously ordered for Lyle? Lyle won’t mind. Look at him. He just called the coat rack a jizzing puckered fuckwit for blocking his way.
You tell’em, Lyle!
God, I love that toolhead.
Anna! I saved you a bottle of tequila and I have a case of marmite for you which I’ve poured into a plastic bucket and properly labelled, Grout. It will get to the US, no problem.
Clair, your hot rum is right here and you’re just in time for the toasts and the exploding birthday cake.
To Lyle! May his scorched-earth tongue be ever on my side. Wait. That didn’t come out right.
Let’s hear it, people. To Guy Fukkes Lyle!