International Stereotype Theatre: UK Edition!

I think we may have stumbled upon a potential recurring feature here at the YAB, when we took the noble nation states of Liechtenstein and Switzerland to task over an errant invasion plan back in January’s International Stereotype Theatre post. And since we’ve made it abundantly clear that holiday-accurate dating is not high on our priority list, we bring to you now how a couple of jolly gents from England spent their Fourth of July. Yesterday.

Alistair Beachem: Well I say there, gov’nor, lovely weather we’re having today. I mean, sure, it’s raining and overcast and the dampness has made me a completely depressed sod, but at least the temperature has cracked 50 today.
Neville Worthington III: 50, you say? I must object, Alistair. It’s rather baltic out, so much to say that it’s mighty nesh outside. 50? My dear friend, I’d be dead if the mercury reached 50!!
Beachem: Forgive me, gov’nor. I see where the confusion doth lie. I was speaking meteorologically in an American tongue today – 50 would be the reading on the Fahrenheit side of the aisle.
Worthington: And praetell why, gov’nor, would you do make such a pants move? That’s not just poppycock. It’s pish-tosh rubbish poppycock.
Beachem: Give the Yanks their due, gov’nor. After all, it is their Independence Day.
Worthington: Yes, I feel like I’m going to throw a whitey, gov’nor. How can you possibly celebrate the Yanks’ Independence Day. After all, it is the BIGGEST UPSET in the history of the world, and we’re on the losing end. Bugger!
Beachem: I heartily apologize. Lord, pierce my heart with a bullet, for I have commit treason in the eyes of the crown.
Worthington: Calm down, gov’nor! Where do you expect the Almighty to procure a firearm?
Beachem: Well-played, gov’nor.

(a third man enters, excitedly)

Nigel Fischenchipper: Come hither, gov’nors! I’ve got an idea that’s easily the brightest crayon in the box!
Beachem: Brighter than fruit AND cake?
Fischenchipper: The Queen will knight me for sure. She’ll even let me sit at that perfectly circular table she always makes such a big deal about.
Worthington: We’re all ears.
Fischenchipper: I propose a sneak attack on the Colonies!!!
Beachem: (spits out his tea and drops his English Muffin on the floor) WHAAAT?
Worthington: (does a spit take while brushing his below average teeth) BLOODY WHAAT?
Fischenchipper: The way I see it, the war’s been over now for nearly 231 years. Those blokes’ll never see it coming!
Beachem: But why, gov’nor? Why even bother?
Fischenchipper: For they have taken our greatest asset stateside!
Beachem: A Double decker bus?
Worthington: Fawlty Towers?
Beachem: The excellence that is Oasis?
Fischenchipper: Nay! DAVID BECKHAM!

(all three men down a pint of ale and in a pristine act of hooliganism, kick the arse of a nearby Arsenal fan)

Fischenchipper: You see, if we strike now, on their day of days, they’ll glad return ole’ Becks to the Old Country in exchange for our swords in their sheaths.
Beachem and Worthington: BRILLIANT!
Fischenchipper: You sound like Irishmen.
Beachem: Sorry, gov’nor. Well, if this crusade is to succeed, we’ll need an inside man, a true Benedict Arnold. Any suggestions?
Worthington: What about South Carolina? They’ve never officially rejoined the Union!
All: HUZZAH!

(for no reason whatsoever, an old man runs across their path chasing scantily-clad women to a jovial tune, at slightly sped-up time)