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Look at that. christmas dinner, you can't beat it can you? It really makes you glad
to be British, doesn't it?
You've got your turkey, which doesn't come from Turkey, but from Norfolk. You've got
your spuds, named after our own British king, King Edward. You've got your sausages, wrapped
in bacon, a beautiful combination of British pork. And then there's your brussel sprouts,
from Brussels, but no one likes them anyway. All washed down with a nice glass of wine
from the new world, i.e. somewhere that used to be British two hundred years ago. And then
there's mince pies, lovely British mince pies.
Cause, originally in the 17th Century they were savoury, made from partridge, rabbit,
hare, pigeon and pheasant. Didn't know that did ya. No. And here's something else I bet
you didn't know. Last year, I heard, three hundred people ended up in hospital, because
they didn't cook their turkeys properly.
It's true, three hundred, fine, upstanding people, who had their Christmas dinners ruined.
Three hundred regulars, who couldn't pop down the pub for a swift one after the Queen's
speech, on account they're retching their guts up for all they're worth.
More's the point, three hundred pub landlords with an empty stall at the public bar, on
this one special day when the landlord and his regulars should be together.
So please, ladies and gentleman, think of your pub landlord this year and remember the
words of Winston Churchill, if your turkey juices are still pink, stop and think. Merry
Christmas everybody.