Long-lost Jaggedone's CIA (Cockroach Infiltration Army) coincidentally had one of its starving, scavenging, unemployed star reporters looking for bare morsels in a boozer in Doncaster, and overheard the following conversation. He sent it back to HQ, where the CEO was strung-out in cobwebs listening to a lullaby, after deciding to become non-active because of editorial differences of opinions.
However, this particular conversation just needed to be published, so here we go:
The main participants, Ethel and Mildred, were both wearing hairnets, and swallowing half-pints of bitter in a cosy corner of the Dragon's Head in Doncaster, UK.
Ethel: Mildred, what do you think of all this BLM stuff, dear?
Mildred: Oh, that British Louts Moaning thing? Ooh, it's terrible, ain't it?
Ethel: No, I mean that thing with black lives.
Mildred: Oh, that. I've heard they have rather big things.
Ethel: Oh, Mildred, you are naughty! Go and get me a half, and cool down, luv. By the way, I remember that Linford Christie with a huge bunch of grapes dangling, do you?
Mildred: Ethel, you are so naughty! No, I didn't see a thing, because I went to church that morning.
Ethel: Mildred, I did too, but I just couldn't help seeing them dangling, and it didn't matter, because my old man was on the sofa with a pint of best Yorkshire bitter and didn't see anything either, he swears.
Mildred: Well, that clears that one up then, doesn't it? By the way, the priest said high from his pulpit that The Grapes of Wrath are quite poignant, even today.
Ethel: Mildred, are you slightly tipsy? Burp.
Mildred: No, dear, but you are so naughty. By the way, when was the last time you did it?
Ethel: What?
Mildred: It
Ethel: Oh, that. Can't remember. The only thing moist coming out of there is a half-pint. Now get along; I'm thirsty, and I need to go to the hairdressers for a blue rinse.
Mildred: Ethel, dear, but does that really matter?
