1973: chilli 'n' trepidation were playing the devil with my small intestines and my borborigmus was often louder than the engine of the Rolls — Kyril Bonfiglioli, Don't Point That Thing at Me (Penguin 2001, p. 94)

Fancy again, Lady fisheresses (I appeal to good old Tory young ladies who land big salmon every autumn in or about the Gordon-Richmond estates in Scotland), how much jollier it is to see the monarch of the stream on the grass than to ‘rink’ at Prince’s, or to be carried round Belgravian drawing-rooms, half dead and quite knocked up, in the mazy waltz. Not that Prince’s is a bad place by any means, nor ballrooms either. / Now, is not this a romantic opening? I am going to talk about cockney fishing twenty years ago.

A vaccine non-responder is a person who does not develop protective surface antibodies after completing two full series of injections.

My name is Puffcheek—Prince Puffcheek, son of King Mud, who is sovereign in these parts; and my mother is a respectable froggess, of Italy, whose family comes out of the Po.