As long as nobody is trying to poach my gardener fatty, that's all I'm concerned about.
Incidentally, that front hedgerow is a fucking disgrace. And precisely what is that batch of foreign looking plants that have suddenly sprouted up behind the ninth hole? And who urinated 'Flashman is a booby by fatty' in the bunker next to it? Christ, whoever it was must have supped six gallons to squeeze that lot out. There was a even a trail of it leading off onto the green, where someone had made an attempt to depict me in an intimate pose with a handicapped gibbon. Either that or the mayor's wife.
I don't pay you six groats a week to take the piss, young man. If you don't get your arse in gear, I'll have you back on Scarecrow duty this weekend.
On second thoughts, you're welcome to him. I've just spotted a thumbprint on my brandy bottle and a trail of muddy footprints leading to my larder. He just can't keep his hands off my 'Curly-Wurlys', the thieving bastard.
The urine may be mine but if you look closely you'll see that the handwriting is Archie's.
If I don't get a pay rise by the end of the year, I'm off to Leach Hall to take up the position of bike stand.
your humble servant
fatty.
Sir, that is an outrage! There have been fatty's working at the Towers since our great great grandfather's times.
Besides, you'll forfeit that afternoon off I promised you in June 2006. I demand to see proof of this so-called 'dental check-up' by the way. You've only got six teeth in your head anyroad, by my reckoning. And two of them are your grannies.
Don't make me resort to 'photographic persuasion', my lad. I've not forgotten those snaps of you with Molly the Shirehorse, y'know. How you got those legs up there beggars belief. You must be double jointed. And I don't mean a spliff in each hand.