Blimey Mate. My turn at the cricket.
I two would never survive a real emergencian faldarol melee the crickets at the batt and the crowds milling and seeming what. One old blind Toff corking his Scotch just to shut the noise out he can hear the whiskey blending. The barrel chest Toff his arms dragging knuckles upon the ground his whoule demeanor a frown his very frame the orangetang walked into the crowd swinging. The crickets chirped we love the Toff. The crowd went wilder. His one eye blinking. The whiskey leaving him now blending into the wool he wears those unders. Unsure of himself now he makes his way to the exit ramparts waving. A group of young children mar the road and lean into the wording on the signpost. The Toff is Toff its all he knows off. He slipped his tie into his pocket off. He limps to the end of the tarmac and flips off. Past the winding into the leaves as he goes. Almost lurching now he nears the Spirits Store and waits for victims to rapprochement. They toss the twopence and the uppence comes he has his final purchase. He coughs. He drinks his Scotch and splays his brass upon the grassy knoles. And as he sleeps he heres the crowd roar.
He is the Toff. *p
*p many thanks to JOhn CReasy for Richard Rollison and his 60 Toff Adventures
this author did this story cold from memory and made up as an emulation.
Call it a CharlaX Paroday.
