OK. I wrote this nearly ten years ago, probably the first fiction I ever wrote. It was in response to a thread on The Easter Bunny supposedly raping some woman. You can find the rest if you go to ASSTR, authors, Jane Urquart (Janey)
The original action is set in Eddie's Interstitial Bar and Grill, the whereabouts of which one of the characters tries to explain. The characters are supposed to be a couple of scarecrows, but it is a bit strange and I cannot think what was running through my head when I wrote it. Probably I'd lent the brain cell to someone, or perhaps I sneezed it out. I offer it only as an example of how not to do dialect because it is bloody difficult to read. Oh yes, and I used Lord Lucan as a nom dee ploom because I can see the old family seat from my window. Or I could if the snow would let up. I don't expect a TPA greater than 1.1.1., but you can please yourselves, and I'm sure you will
"Interstishul' yer say?"
There I is, sat in a corner of the local's bar in the 'Jovial Tar'. What a bloody daft name that be. 'Twere the Jolly Sailor afore all they buggers from up London moved inter t'village an' landlord thort 'twere too commin fer the likes o' they, so 'ee got the brewry ter change it. Anyways, I'm wi my mate George an' ee's just used this big werd.
"S'right," says George, blowin the froth off 'is beer. I ain't never too shore about the froth on the beer 'round 'ere, cos 'tis very likely that the glasses din't get rinsed proper like.
"Wassit mean then?" I sez. Well now, George 'as bin ter collidge like, an'ee usually knows big werds, ee come up wi demograffix once, but tha'sanother story.
"Well." 'ee sez, pickin' up his glass an' takin' a long shlurp, while I watches 'is mouse-tach float out across the surface o' the beer.
"If'n yer don't put that fuckin' glass down an' tell I," I sez, "you'll be pissin' granulated glass fer the next bloody week.
"Alright, alright, keep yer 'air on," sez George, lookin' straight at where mine use ter be, "Oi'm commin' to it. It's like this. You know as to 'ow grains o' sand an' gravel don't fit together, leastways not afore the cement gets mixed wi' it.
Well the spaces in between's called interstices, an' as an adjective it's interstitial.
"An' you reckons there's a bar wi a six foot bloody rabbit there? You'm pullin' my pisser, you are."
"You two arguing again?" It's Jenny, the barmaid. She got a face as would make a corpse stiff an' as usual she's got on one o' they low cut tee shirts an' no bra. If she stays there leanin' over wipin' the table much longer I ain't gonner be responsible fer me 'ands. She straightens up just in time.
"Landlord'll throw you two out again if you don't stop," she sez.
"Last time," sez I, " we wuz playin' nothin' more 'armful than guessin' the weight of 'is wife's tits, an' that weren't why 'ee threw us out. 'Twer me sayin' I'd go down ter the butchers an' see 'ow much a bowler 'at full o'steak weighed wot upset 'im."
Fuckin' big bowler 'at you'd need too.
"Still threw you out 'though didn't he?" She walks off pissin' 'erself laughin'.
George is grinnin'. "D'you go down the butchers then?"
No I bloody din't. I just glowers.
"Now, tell I about this damned bar," I sez.