“By the powers, Case Load,” bellowed Our Man At The Bar, thrashing through the sandpit for a useable butt. “What’s all the damned fuss over Jolly Old Bill Ralston telling some sniveling little hack where to get off, Eh? Bit of a do trying to pin Jolly Bill to the plight of some distant cuzzie, Hmm? Need more like Bill – not squeamish about letting you craven cringers have it in fine agricultural terms. Can’t say the same for his tut-tut, fancy-pants, three bags full, wash yer mouth out and pass the smelling salts boss, Mr Rick Ellis, who’s threatening a touch of poker to Billie’s botty. Anyway, there’s nothing I like better than to see you damned scribblers get your behinds tweaked. Reminds me of the time you called Mrs Prebble and asked her if Mr Prebble had packed his bag in favour of a new girlfriend. Preb’s language when he phoned you to help with your inquiries would make a docker blush. Bet you’re glad you kept the tape, eh, ye wee scunner.”