Anti-Hammerstein, or Something

    I wandered in to a tiny pub and sat at a table with a pint of Spitfire. The lanky young barman who had served me walked over to the barmaid who was busy at the till and squashed his pelvis up against her ample backside.
    "Ooh, this is cosy", he said.
    "Do you mind!?", she retorted, shoving back her rump in order to push him away.
    "Oh, keep going, keep going, I'm almost there", he said. Another young barmaid arrived for work. She began rubbing her neck vigorously, complaining of having hay fever.
    "I've been itching like fuck all day", she said to the lanky young barman, "Kelly gave me some of them hay fever pills. Anti-hammerstein or something. But they ain't working".
    After a second Spitfire I meandered along the village cobbles. Outside an antique shop sat the proprietor, a grizzled woman in her sixties. A fat black Labrador lay at her feet, staring at its front paws intently. Suddenly, it made a hideous retching noise and vomited up some frothy spume over the woman's sandaled foot.
    "Wot's wrong with yer, Bessie, you daft old thing?" she said as she wiped it off with a tissue.

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