“Right, lads. The year'll change in a few hours. We’re already pissed. Let’s find us somethin' to shag.”
“Plonker. We barely standin' on our feet. Do ya want the birds to steal our dosh and get us grassed up? And stop waving that bleedin' bottle of whiskey. Makin' me dizzy.”
“Whateva, Trevor. I’m off.”
“Bloody ‘ell. You prick. Trev's brown bread. And he blinkin' well told ya not to wave the bottle.”
“What you on about?”
“Smashed 'im in the 'ead. Now it's gushin'.”
“Grab ya glass, then, twat.”
