... and that's the longest word in the British Isles, Boyo! Havin' just read that 4 star review below, I tells you's, the writer in't any fancy art critic, but a chippie vendor in Swansie named Gean Rhys-Jones, fair play, with extra brown sauce. He comes from coal minin stock, I swears it at you, mind you, not rude like. That's why I thinks he likes to dish the dirt on others, like diggin for spuds and fryin anythin he finds, mind. I tasted that fancy shmancy 'toffee bar', mind, and it was pretty damn blasus let me tells yous, because I like to be straight, here, sees, like. See, Gean Rhys' Mam gave him a girl's name. How pretty you looks t'day, Jean, we'd flatter him like, at school. There was nothing mean in it, mind, just that his cheeks went so shockingly pink when we'd borrow his bag of chockies. Now, I thinks Jean's still getting his own back, sees, just like his Pa in the Valleys who used to ride his bike straight into the 99 van, just so's he could negotiate a free Mr Whippie red sauce, which is what I thin Jean was doing in reviewin, like. Mind, he's no Dylan Thomas! Sees, you never knew what that boyo's sayin, as he always had his mouth full, and was chewin like, mouth open, smilin. Come to think on it, mind, the longest word in the language isn't Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllanty; it's when you're trying to hears to what pretty-cheeked Jean says, mind, in between his noisy like, chews and droolin, if you Jones it all up.
