Anyway next December when I call on my butcher (with whom I am on first name terms) I shall be saying something like this -
Good morning James. You know that large-breasted, Puccini-lovin', oven-ready turkey I bought from you last Christmas?
You know! 24 pounds, Emmerdale fan, huge breasts?
Number bloody 93! Honestly James! Your memory is dreadful.
Well! This year I want my turkey to be a bit less Dolly, a bit more Kate. Likes the White Stripes, Pixies, that kind of thing.
Parton! Moss! Smaller breasts man, smaller breasts. Last years was good. But there was just too much of it. More than a handful's a waste you know.
Right. Ok. What'd you say your name was again....?