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Fam sits quietly at afternoon tea...
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| I... Am... Death. You will give me NS or face my wrath. | |
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| Where'd you git that gitup, matey? Oy! Cor Strooth! | |
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| This is your final warning, Fam. Relinquish NS to me or perish a thousand horrible deaths... | |
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| Crikey guv'nor! Who's playing a merry prank on me, eh? Fancy a shag, lovey? | |
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| Always the hard way with these limeys... | |
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