Bladdy Landaners

A droubble by otreasaigh

One day, me an’ ower kiddo… sorry… ‘my friend and I’… were gooing for a stroll down Frankley Beeches Rowd.

He spoke expansively. “I’ll tell you something… this rowd am a bit like Tottenham Court Rowd.”

“Owd’ye mean, then?” I asked.

“They’re both the same really… got buildings an’ cars an’ people an’ dog muck an’ things.”

“I bet yow ain’t wrong. Where am this Tottenham Court Rowd, then?”

“Not sure… down south somewhere.”

“Who lives there, then?”

“A kiddo from Essex told me they were all Bladdy Landaners down that way.”

“Bladdy Landaners?”

“Bladdy Landaners.”

“What are them like, then?”

“Them’s a funny lot.”

“Bloimy!”

“They don’t drink Banks’ Moild like what we do.”

“Well, I’ll goo to the bottom of ower stairs!”

“Don’t like the Blues Noses or the Baggies.”

“Well, I’ll even goo to the foot of ower garden!”

“Don’t talk normal like what we do.”

“Well, I’ll goo round the Wrekin on me troicycle!”

“They can’t even say ternimus proper.”

“They can’t say ternimus!” Well, I laffed ‘til me taters hurted.

“They talk funny,” he reflected.

“Very funny,” I agreed.

“Do yow fancy a piece an’ a kipper tie?”

He’d only gone and read me thowts.