Tally Ho! Anchors aweigh and how the Dickens are you?

Simply splendid day at WhackoTowers thus far.  Took the old Land Rover for a spin round the fields, make sure the hired hands were a-busy and not thinking about comely wenches, cider and Mother Russia.  Bloody Communists the lot of them.  Still, the new foreman seems a handy sort of fellow.  Big brute of a cove with a full beard and a penchant for pulling wings off of dragon flies.

Caught him reeling a swan in the other day don’t you know.

“What the hell are you doing man?” I asked him.

“Me fishing me Lord,” he said.  And you should read his bits in a slightly penetrable accent to get the full effect.  He claims to hail from Smolensk but could be a bloody Glaswegian or a Geordie for all I know.  Except those accents are impenetrable.

“Fishing?” I queried.  “Fishing involves fish.”

“Turkey nicer for dinner,” he grunted back.

Well this was a fine pickle, with me the local JP too.  I wouldn’t have sold the bugger a fishing permit had I thought my good grace would be repaid by such rudeness.  And I only sold him the damned thing because the pond has been piscine free since strange Sir Baskerville Whacko dropped a depth charge into it back in ’63.

“Now look here my man,” I said, “that turkey is a swan.  And as such it belongs to Her Majesty, the Queen.”

That foxed him.  “But big bird on your water,” he said.  “That mean it’s yours.  No?”

This Communism must be contagious because I nearly found meself agreeing with the lout.  But I had to stand up for the honour of Old Albion, Queen and Commonwealth.  Especially as PC, that’s Prince Charles to you, is coming down next week.  He’s just gammon for tales like this.  You would be too if you’d been waiting for as long as him to get the old crown planted firmsquare on the noggin.

“Put big bird in back of car,” I told the fellow, speaking foreign to let him know that the matter was now amicably settled. 

He didn’t look too happy, probably homesick y’see.  Used to a kick in the pants these Commies.  The ways of an English gentleman are foreign to them.

Should have got him to pluck the thing I s’pose.  My man, Carruthers, made a frightful hash of it.

Hey ho, one lives and learns.