Fekkit! I'm far from Erin's shore, it's freezing cold, and ivvrythin's gone all small and shrivelled-up. Mention of thongs just causes the numbness to wear off, and then it starts to h-u-r-t.
Seems like only yesterday that I was in F'amble St., and decanted from my sedan chair to hear young Handle's oratorio. April 13, 1742 t'was. I dispensed half-a-dozen groats to the deserving poor 'twixt Trinity and the Playhouse - resulting in my having to fast for almost a week, due to poverty.
April 13??!! Some fekker has missed a day in this otherwise admirable revival. Take his name, and report it to Dr. McDowell.
Pints of J Arthur in the sun implies you are not one of these young peasants who likes it severely chilled. I always knew you were a sound bloke!
And after Mr Handel's nice affair, we had a German cove called Bach who gave us his Air On A G-String. Would that be related to what you describe so tantalisingly briefly?