"If you think I'm going to put that in my mouth and lay myself open to some juvenile twat adding puerile captions to the photograph on his bollocky blog you can fuck right off."
Special trained troops help to escort Camilla from the "all you can drink" whisky exhibition.
And so the agent says "And what do you call the act?" and the little girl says "The Aristocrats!"
Every year, it fell to Hamish to get rid of the unwanted (i.e. all) haggises.
Liz fails to find any amusement at Philip's antics. Again. She has seen him give a 'Glasgow kiss' before, albeit never to the winner of the 'Glamorous Granny' competition.
"Oh, look Charles, whatever is Camilla doing now?"
"I'm not sure mater - Ann, isn't that the chap that you introduced to Camsy as 'Mr Caber'?"
"Heather? A bunch of fucking heather? You mean to tell me that the head of the British Commonwealth, the chuffing queen of England comes to your poxy locality, gets bitten by 2 squillion fucking midges, is forced to eat local fucking 'delicacies' that a starving dog would vomit up, has to listen to the worst music in the solar system (apart from country and fucking western) and watches a loaded of hairy-arsed twats in skirts hurl wood about in sub-zero temperatures, and all you can give her is a bunch of fucking heather? You didn't even bother to buy something from the BP station, did you? No, that would have meant sticking your hands in your pockets, you tight-fisted brat. No, you thought 'Oh, there's some weeds at the side of the road, that will do fine', didn't you. I've got a good mind to make you sit on Philip's lap for the rest of the afternoon.