we are all gonna die

Jes? Is that really you?

Forgive the tears, son, it's just... well... it's been so long and... [*choke*]... your mum and I were certain you had... I mean... with your little pram overturned and empty...the bloody paw prints...Gad, man! They were everywhere! Hundreds of them, each as big across as my palm! Can you ever forgive us for... thinking the worst?

So, now that you're back... um... could you see your way clear to [*ahem*] loan me a fiver? Or a tenner would be even better, you know. Just until the New Year?

I'm a bit tapped out and your mother's mmmmmm cough medicine is so bloody steep we can barely keep food on the table or coal in the grate.

Jes? Jes!!? Don't show me your back young man! We gave you LIFE! Y'hear me??? Come back here this instant!

i wants the bloomin' governor 'imself and none of 'is cheeky lacklies

How dare you speak to Aimless like that, you yaws-ridden guttersnipe? Take your hands out of your pockets and re-attach them to your wrists this instant!!

I’ve knocked around the world for a good few years now and I’ve seen a thing or two but I have never in my life seen such a slovenly, slouching, unkempt, rat-infested, pustulating, semi-lethal-gas-exhaling apology for a smegma-biscuit as you appear to be!

Coming here with your fancy talk of comets and space ships and bleeding elites, flashing your apostrophes around, spraying our women with your glutinous brown spittle, thrusting Lynskey’s head into an oildrum filled with leprous camel’s vomit – you ought to be locked in a small tungsten canister, with your knees chained to your upper lip, and nothing to eat except re-heated stew from Wandsworth Borstal in 1925 and nothing to listen to except Ann Widdecombe Sings Meatloaf! And stop your whingeing, it was all in the Queen’s Speech.

Comets, indeed! I never heard such undiluted–– [is hit by vast blazing object with gaseous tail five trillion miles long]

Good on you, Rex! Now, you hold him, while I hit him!

I'll kneel behind 'im an' you push 'im over back'ards.

Guvnor Drunk ain't it, then, eh? Drunk can yer tell me, after we die, do we become angels or them ghost thinggies?

Here is a metaphysic I understand. It's clear upon close investigation. Up to closing time, angels. After closing time, ghosts.

The real secret to "life after boredom" can be found in the back catalogue of Neil Hannon's the Divine Comedy. After a brutal, painful spin off this mortal coil we find ourselves to be "more like Alfie". This is a different experience for everyone and even different 'Alfie's' come into play for people of different denominations. Garnetts for C of E, Ramseys for Wesleyians and the lovable TV comedy puppet A.L.F. for all the airy fairy tree huggers out there.

Take your pick.

Couldn't I have a shovel instead?

Garden shears for me.

I'll take the hoe...every....time

Sorry, I come bearing picks and picks only. Take one.