Hey, legendary rock manager Sam Cutler. Whatcha doing?
“Oi’m ‘aving a bit of a kip. Need to get off me toffee-suckers.”
Toffee-suckers?
“British slang for ‘feet.'”
No, it’s not. Why so tired?
“The new gig, me son. Oi’ve been entrusted wif a most important job. Highest post in all of Glorious Albion.”
…
Oh, God, they put you in charge–
“Oi’m producing the Royal Wedding.”
–of that damned wedding. Are you the best man for this?
“‘Oo else could even attempt such an undertaking, me son? Everything’s coming together quite smoothly. Got the stage built.”
No stage. It’s in a church.
“Loaded in the nitrous tanks.”
I don’t think the Queen does whippets, Sam.
“Found Elton some twinks.”
Okay, that’s good work.
“It’s all a piece of draculas, innit?”
Draculas?
“Cake rhymes with stake, so there you go. Draculas. Cockney rhyming slang.”
That’s not how that works, and you are not a cockney.
“The wedding’s gonna be the party of the century. Just a complete knees-up. Santana’s gonna open. Just a wunnerful day f’r the whole nation. Rule Britannia and the like.”
Who’s doing security?
“Oi learned me lesson from Altamont, you todger. Don’t accuse people. It’s rude, innit?”
So who you got?
“A couple dozen disgraced ICE officers.”
This should go well.
“God save the Queen, me son.”
a gusseted Chelsea Boot
I can’t see a sock anymore without thinking… well nevermind, but look at Sam’s sharp socks.