Yeah, hop in; course I’m going to the reception: I’m the photographer. You with the Japanese bride or the Swiss groom?

Oh, you must be one of the Swiss then. Phew. You looked a bit British at first glance. No offence, right, but you Caucasians are a bit difficult to tell apart—‘cept the gingas.

What have I got against Brits? Well, it’s nothing personal, like, but you’ve got to admit: they’re lazy bastards, innit? Protestant work ethic? Nation of shopkeepers? My arse. You don’t see many of them getting up at five o’clock in the morning of a weekend to unbundle three hundred copies of the Sunday Times, do you?

They all think the country owes them a bleedin’ living. Chavs, anorexics, football hooligans, social workers… Send the lot of ’em back to bleedin’ Vikingland, that’s what I say. Can’t speak the Queen’s English. Can’t cook. Can’t sing. Can’t dance. Every Saturday night you see their pasty faces out on the street, drunk as you like, throwing up in the gutter, shouting at each other. Then they stagger into our takeaways, expecting us to serve them when they can’t string three words together.

So you a Swiss banker then?

Fashion designer, eh? I had that Linda Grant in the back of my Minolta once. Nice Jewish girl. Bet she knows a bit about banking as well though. Stands to reason, dunnit?: they all do.

You one of them gayers? They’re all gay round my way. I like your cravat. I was saying to Duane, at the photo lab: thing about gayers is they know how to accessorize … [Leans out of window to shout at another driver:] ARE YOU FACKING BLIND?! … Bleedin’ breeders. Can’t dress. Can’t disco. Can’t drive…