Work Text:
Hello? What d'ye want? Ach. It's you, Sorr. Aye, aye, Ah'm well. And yerself, Sorr? Aye, th'lads're all well, and combattin' the Forces of Evil wi' the Lord's help. Nae, dinna fash yersel', Sorr, nuthin' puts the heart crosswise in the lads. Weel, there is somethin' ye could aid me with, aye. The lads' pay, Sorr, it's not what it was before decimalization. Could you be seeing your way to paying the equivalent in new money, Sorr? Aye, weel, Ah have dun the sums, Sorr, an' if ye tak into consideration the buying power o' the penny i' th' Lord Protector's time as opposed tae the devilish inflation o' the current world, and the minimum wage – aye? Ye have a calculator there? Aye, it's a sight more than we've been gettin' the last while. But we're fightin' the guid fight, Sorr. The workman is worth his hire, as the Guid Book says. Aye, aye, weel, as it's a vocation Ah cud perhaps persuade the lads to go on half pay. Thank you, Sorr! And God bless you too, Sorr. God Bless. Aye, bye now. Bye. Bye.
Ye great Southern pansy.
Hello? What d'ye want? Ach. It's you, Sorr. Aye, aye, Ah'm well. And yerself, Sorr? Aye, th'lads're all oot at the minute, seekin' oot the jades an' hags o' the Deil. Thing is, Sorr, ye're a modern man, ye ken weel how the world works, an' some o' th'lads, theer talkin' aboot leavin' theer sacred trust to tak' employment i' th' "public sector". Aye, shockin'. Nae, Sorr, Ah canna hang `em. Not in this day an' age, Sorr. Ah need to provide them wi' comparable remuneration, Sorr. Or at least holiday pay. Aye, weel, the minimum wage is – ach, aye, Sorr, a cryin' shame that the lower classes don't know theer place. But, see, Sorr, the minimum wage – aye, Sorr? Weel, Ah suppose th'lads'd be happy enough wi' half pay, that's a fine thought, Sorr. Aye, the poor sad bastards will think it's a decent raise, ye have that right, Sorr. Aye, Ah suppose it would be pullin' a fast one. Ye're a clever businessman, Sorr. Ye know how it is in today's market, how to control the common man. Aye. Weel, thanks. God bl – sorry, Sorr. Aye, bye- ach, he hung up.
Ye flash Southern bastard.
Put the kettle on, Private. It looks like we can weel afford th' teabags after all.