Ah, Merrye Englande, lande of greene pastures, strewned with the glorious bright hues of ye empty crispe packets. A lande of noble beastes, imbibed with the effervescent goldene tonic of Miss Stella and Mister Artois. A cheery playground, of playfulness, of rapscallions in theyre Nike finery, cheape golde a-glistening in the moonlight, as the boys doth beateth on your heade with a yarde of fine English Oake... oh glorious England.
More tea vicar?