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LADS 2

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And let’s not forget (would that we could) posh lads. It sounds like an oxymoron but there is such a thing as a posh lad. He certainly thinks that he and his mates are lads. You can tell this because whenever a posh lad is walking down the street and he is more than a centimetre behind them, he always shouts, ‘Lads! Wait up!’ in a sort of strangled, where-are-my-balls kind of voice (note also the phrase ‘Wait up!’, which posh lad believes is some sort of cool slang).

Posh lads resemble normal lads in one way only: they are of the male gender. But there is no other kind of lad that wears a blazer to the pub, favours collarless shirts, often in a pastel shade, has either no chin or a chin the size of the Tirpitz, lips like sliced gherkins, the complexion of some brand-new ham, and the voice of a recently neutered earl.

All right, two ways: when they get hammered their manners are disgusting and they break stuff. Oh well. At least we don’t have to till their sodding fields any more.

Grumpy Old Men: New Year, Same Old Crap

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