Eddie:Here we are; spot the ball competition, page thirteen!
Richie:[Laughs] Lucky thirteen!
Eddie:And the winner is...
Richie:Yes! Yes! YES!!
Eddie:Mister T Venables Wembley stadium, London.
Richie:Goh, Bastard! He wins every week!
Eddie:Do you know, I think he might be the photographer.
Richie:Look, look, look, look [points to the paper] His balls have got to be there! They're underneath his shorts, I drew 'em in, both of them!. They can't be over there in the goal mouth... Unless it's a ladies match.
[They both peer closely at the paper for a moment]
No, no it's just a perm. Oh well, that's another twenty five quid's worth of postal orders down the Swannie.
Eddie:I wonder if they mean the football, Richie?
Richie:Don't be stupid! That could be anywhere! I mean use your head, Eddie. I mean, honestly, if I wasn't here; where would you be?
Eddie:In the pub.
Richie:No, no, no, I mean mentally, where would you be?
Eddie:Inside Maria Whittaker's bra.
Richie:Uh, Uh! Nice venue, can I tag along?
Eddie:You haven't got the bus fare, mate. [Taps the side of his head] Besides which, you've just lost all your money on the spot the balls competition.
RIP Tel El.