I say! You! Yes, you with the jeans and the wellington boots!
Did you set out this balmy evening to offend me?
Was it your intention to override the dusk chorus of irritable reptiles and sexually frustrated hounds with your ill-mixed cacophony of song and verse, which is appreciated by none other than the subconscious that emits such a painstakingly antagonistic screech?
Isn't the fact that I'm currently holding my novel some 2 millimetres from my face a gesture which obviously cries "FUCK OFF, YOU KUNT, I'm otherwise engaged?"
Are the vocals you are currently departing with absolutely necessary in such a confined space?
Are you aware that you are literally seconds from being introduced, rather quite violently, to the label that dons my bottle of ale?
No?
Well I'll be off then, you fucking twat!
And with that, Slap exited the local shop and wrote a load of bollocks on the internet.