[Nondescript British pub]

Bartender: How’s the work getting on?

Patron: Could be better. I think everyone’s having a bit of the hardship these days. These are lean times.

Bartender: Not for a man of my profession.

Patron: Heh. I think you’re right.

Bartender: Care for another?

Patron: Trying to bleed me dry, are you? Sure. What’s the bother?

Bartender: Going to be checking out the American football match over the weekend?

Patron: Actually have to for a business contact. Can’t say I’m all that chuffed about it.

Bartender: You know those Yanks have to push their sports on the world. Not unlike everything else I guess.

[Vintage red phone booth flies open]

Philip Rivers: Ya betta ask someboddddaaaayyyyyyy!

Patron: Begging your pardon?

Rivers: Pip pip, right-o beggin’ ya pardon, govnah. Wots a roight propur chap from the colonies like moyself doing on the Sceptred Oy-ull? It’s a curious fing! Maybe it’s me eyes, but this be a bloody country of ponces! A wee bit dodgy, it is!

Patron: Now you’re just being rude.

Rivers: Well bless me cotton socks! Right bunch of tossers you are. Finding me manner bawdy, aw ya poppet? Don’t want to set the cat amongst the pigeons, if you follow me tone.

Patron: Whatever are you rabbiting on about?

Rivers: Oh nothing. JUST TRYING TO SAVE MY TEAM’S SEASON LIKE WE SAVED YOUR LIMEY ASSES FROM JERRY IN THE GREAT SECOND WORLD WAR! CAN YOU FOLLOW THAT? PARDON? COME AGAIN? PARDON? PISS OFF!

And Fidel Goodell’s got King Philip the Laserfaced over here like some traveling circus ringmaster to get you leftside driving soccernistas to see the light. SUBMIT TO THE WILL OF OUR SPORTING EMPIRE AND MAYBE YOU’LL GET A FRANCHISE OF YOUR OWN! I can see it now: The London Figgy Puddingtwats. We’ll even give you the Cutler of your choice.

Rivers: I, for one, don’t want it to happen. How can it when your food fucking sucks the grits out of my shit. I can’t even get my Piggly Wiggly here. WHAT DO YOU HAVE AGAINST PIGGLY WIGGLY, YOU TWEEDY TOFFEE-NOSED CUNTFOUNTAIN CUTLERFUCKERS?! YOU ASSHOLES DON’T KNOW NOTHING ABOUT DOWN-HOME ALABAMA SEVEN-LAYER CASSAROLE! THAT’S WHY THE PILGRIMS LEFT YOUR GODDAMN COUNTY! NO PIGGLY WIGGLY! THAT’S YOUR PROBLEM, YOU POXY PRATS!

And what’s this shit?

Your goddamn newspapers are written in a cockamamie tongue that’s harder to read than the Bills defense. What the fuck does eggy mean?

THAT’S NOT A WORD! SPEAK AMERICAN!

[Balls up newspaper and throws it across the bar. It hangs in the air so long that it disintegrates before it hits the ground]

Bartender: Right! I’m gonna have to ask you to leave this establishment!

Rivers: I’ll take off when I’m good and fockin’ ready, boyo.

Bartender: I think you should be taking your leave now while you can.

Rivers: Why? You got some burly Brit you think can move me? What’s he gonna do, kick me in the shins? Yae mus’ be takin’ the piss wif me, chappo.

Bartender: Not exactly.

[Porticullis flies open]

Shawne Merriman: GWWWARRRR! FOUND USEFUL OUTLET FOR FORCED ENTRY OUTSIDE FOOTBALL!

Rivers: Shit.