Juss' Like 'Is Muvver

   A burly man with a blonde crewcut strode into the pub. Behind him trotted his son, a thin, sheepish looking boy around seven years of age. Then came the man's father, a wiry, hard-faced old geezer, also sporting a crewcut. They sat at a table.
    "Oi!", called the younger man to the barmaid, "Wot can we 'ave for lunch?"
    "I can bring you the menu if you like?"
    "We want chips."
    "I'm sorry, chips aren't on the menu."
    "Never you mind abaht not bein' on the menu, you go an' tell 'im to make us some chips." The barmaid, clearly rather rattled, disappeared up the stairs to speak to the chef. The man sat down with his son and his father. The boy had a glass of lemonade and was drinking it through a straw. The old man sat staring with melancholy at his pint of bitter. Then he looked up at his son and said, "That fahkin' cunt wiv the van come rahnd to pick up Frank's furniture on Fursdee. So that lot's all gone. Finally."
    "Oh, good. Finally, then... Oi! Slow dahn!" This last order was to the little boy who was galloping through his lemonade. The boy stopped drinking and now looked around the room forlornly.
    "Don't want a fuckin' bellyache, do ya, Danny?" said grandpa to the boy. The boy said nothing and just continued to appraise the room with sad eyes. "Wosser matter wiv 'im?" said grandpa to the man, who was now striding towards the street door with a cigarette plugged in his callous face.
    "'Oo knows? 'E's fuckin' weak, juss like 'is muvver." He then stood in the open doorway, with his legs apart, and lit his cigarette, blowing smoke back inside the pub across the people eating their traditional Sunday roast, "I'm fuckin' well sick of it."

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