That Jack's is somewhat of a gnathonic and parasitic soul, or stomach, all Bideford apple-women know: […]

[… I]f Louis Philippe would read out of our book, the French would catch the infection, transmit the mails and passengers to Rennes, and thus give them that celeripede character of which they are so fond of boasting.

All the seats for the show are bookable.

Not a favourite son, of course — Lord, no! — more a sort of illegitimate backstairs sort of sprog, you know: a sort of spotty squit that nobody really likes.