Gent: Good morning, I'd care to purchase a chicken, please.

Butcher: Don't come here with that posh talk you nasty, stuck-up twit.

Gent: I beg your pardon?

Butcher: A chicken, sir. Certainly.

Gent: Thank you. And how much does that work out to per pound, my good fellow?

Butcher: Per pound, you slimy trollope, what kind of a ponce are you?

Gent: I'm sorry?

Butcher: 4/6 a pound, sir, nice and ready for roasting.

Gent: I see, and I'd care to purchase some stuffing in addition, please.

Butcher: Use your own, you great poovy poonagger!

Gent: What?

Butcher: Ah, certainly sir, some stuffing.

Gent: Oh, thank you.

Butcher: 'Oh, thank you' says the great queen like a la-di-dah poofta.

Gent: I beg your pardon?

Butcher: That's all right, sir, call again.

Gent: Excuse me.

Butcher: What is it now, you great pillock?

Gent: Well, I can't help noticing that you insult me and then you're polite to me alternately.

Butcher: I'm terribly sorry to hear that, sir.

Gent: That's all right. It doesn't really matter.

Butcher: Tough titty if it did, you nasty spotted prancer.