George and Fred

'I blame that Terry Scott.'

He said it around a roll-your-own. Flakes of tobacco spilling out of a jumbo Rizla.

'Eh!' George took a swig of Special Brew, two-handed.

'I mean, who lives in Dulwich?' Fred said, blowing a huge smoke ring, playing hoopla with George's fishing rod.

'It's probably just one of their jokes.' George replied.

He shifted a buttock, wincing a little.

'Why do they never give us something decent to sit on?' He went on.

'Parker Knoll? A Barcelona Chair?' Fred giggled.

George grimaced, 'I'm just saying, is all.'

He pointed at the red-with-white spots plaster beneath his rear, then looked at the glowing tip of Fred's reefer.

'Come on, pass it over, Fred.'

Fred handed it over, George took a deep draw and held it, before blowing two jets through his nostrils.

'Ahh... good shit.' He smiled for the first time, tugged at the point of his beard.

'Terry Scott, my arse. It started ages before that.' George looked at Fred, lip curled, in spite of the draw.

'You reckon?' Fred said, keeping it light.

'Oh yeah, that prick from Bromley! As if, I mean, what have we got to be laughing about?'

IP 06/11/09
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Gnomes_of_Dulwich