Two toff guys chatting at the wash basin while I’m draining the weasel:
“You see that’s the difference between us. I was taught at Harrow to wash my hands.”
“Quite right dear chap, but then of course I was taught at Eton not to piss all over myself.”
Mate, if it came to fistycuffs, my money’s on the Eton chap. The prospect of not eating the soggy biscuit afterwards would spur him on to a national back bone constituting victory. But then the Harrow boy would club him in the back with an amputee’s limb, so who wins? That is forever the question old bean. Sorry for not calling back the other night – I was off on a teeth grinding mission and was on the phone until 5 or 6. I assumed that cheese on toast and bed would have been procured by your good self by then. Be up for some Lundun tawn linkage in the near future though.