As Portugal is officially this country's oldest ally and also in the EEC I would think most definately yes. However following your train of thought Haydn has probably changed his name to Strawden to throw us off the scent.
Ah but I don;t think even the grand fraud he's perpetrated on us all i.e doing a runner with our burgee money, would really qualify for extradition. Suggest we arrange to pop down to Plymouth and hide his boat, Meet A Farter, and then only give it back when he comes up with the goodies.
Actually Longjohn's down that way, i.e. west of Swindon so it's all the same innit, perhaps he can pop on his rubber gear and nick his props or something and hold 'em to ransom.
Longjohn whaddya think? Hang on I'll have to shout 'cos the old chap's a bit Mutt 'n Jeff. LONGJOHN, HELLO, COME ON WAKE UP YOU OLD DUFFER. Whaddya think? Yes I know it's Thursday and it's not your day out today but wake up, nursey says you're needed.
Bloody hell with a gob like yours who needs a phone? Have already serviced nursey, matron's next in line.
Several points in our favour, we can PM Colin and request he holds HLB till we can all fly over and lynch him + I know exactly where meek a farter lives and can quite easily chain it by its props to one of the piles. Advantage of this is that he will not see said chain, so when he goes to move m a farter it will pull out his shafts and he'll sink!!
Doesn't get us our dosh back, but piccies can be posted with B1 and we'll all feel much better (except Haydn!)
Glad to see Nursey managed to wake you up then. Now you better leave poor old Matron Pauline alone, at her age she can't take being up after nine o clock
Sounds like a reasonable idea re Meet a Farter but chaining the props probably won't do it, he'll just think he needs more power so will add Solly to the tank, 'cos that cures everything and the only way he can pay for the Solly is with our dosh. 'Course the Solly'd probably eat a hole in one of his pistons too.
Inspector Knacker of the Yard was waiting for flight 905 from Lagos to disembark. With him were a squad of heavily armed officers, sniffer dogs and a couple of ripe bananas in his pocket. His tip-off had come from a London newspaper whom, he surmised, were miffed at being pipped to the story by the Accrington Stanley Gazette.
A straggle of people began to file in. The officers came to attention; several went deathly pale as they saw each passenger wearing identical blue T shirts with a yellow pattern in the middle. The dogs whimpered and with tail between their legs ran off. Which passenger was hlb? The inspector pondered for a moment and then whispered to his DC “get pens and paper”.
As each passenger filed through they were asked to spell aeroplane. The Inspector had his eye on a shifty sod and when he wrote “airoplane” he signalled to his men who trained their weapons on the suspect. “Get your hands up” they shouted. “Please, please” screamed the suspect “I need the loo, I’m desperate, it was a Queasy-jet flight and they’d no loos”. The Inspector instructed his men to accompany him to the nearest toilet.
Knacker had made the greatest mistake of his career. In the ensuing explosion, the terminal was ripped apart; sunk in a tidal wave. Seismographs went off the scale; the Luton tectonic plate moved to Milton Keynes; a narked voice was heard from the direction of the Queen Mum’s coffin; the Prime Minister was on the 6 o’clock news calming the population.
Meanwhile, the suspect got clean way. Would the long arm of British justice collar the felon and, if so, when?