the year's already wheezing knackered: like a post coital toad the old tropes spilling from the cupboard "those who have the money are not our sort they're (whisper it) the other sort whistle up a front page, an old story we're all freedom fighters now shuffling to hide the sacks of cash the plucky offshore outsiders it's a tough old business, freedom and if we have to reach a little into recent memory, well then it's amazing how quickly it comes back to you, in the pinch and it's a grand old tradition we built this place anyway fuelled it with blood, anyway and say there are obstacles well, £55K doesn't buy you much these days, except Theresa and she'll get you anything you want" and he's off, whistling something of the spiv to the walk the sudden smell of ash