Chancellor of the Exchequer Ian Risk and Nigel Farage were sat at the kitchen table, having a good go at the bottle of sherry scavenged by Nigel, when they were joined by a jubilant King Boris and slightly compunctious Snetterton. Boris slapped his thigh.
“Bally-ho! There’s something very arousing about thrashing one’s butler, wouldn’t you say chaps?”
Ian and Nigel looked towards Snetterton. He didn’t look very aroused.
“I can’t say I’ve ever thrashed a butler,” said Ian, pouring himself another sherry. “But I tripped over a milkmaid, once.”
“Oh, I’m always tripping over milkmaids,” replied Boris, pulling up a chair. “As luck would have it, I always fall quite neatly on top of them. I am like a bit of toast, jam side down every time. Huzzah!”
Nigel took an urgent slug of sherry, hoping it would dislodge the hideous mental image that had just formed in his mind.
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