Bernard turned and looked at...what could only be a reject from the upper-class twit of the year tourmnament of Monty Python fame. In his dapper clothing, the chinless wonder he beheld looked the very epitome of overbred and underfed, and Bernard was thoroughly confused by it. At least he wasn't American though.
"What?! What are you talking about? This is London! Now what have you done with Manny? And...whereabouts in London am I?"
His head ached, and being awake for more than ten minutes without wine was really starting to bother Bernard. He smacked his forehead with a grubby palm, and blinked, staring at Bertie in a complete lack of comprehension.
"What the hell's going on, Mann---man? Why is London full of Americans, it's MARCH! And I really want a sandwich. Bacon, with jam and pickles. And a cigarette."
A dreamy look crossed Bernard's face, and he began to fantasise about the sandwich. It would undoubtedly be the greatest sandwich in the history of time, and he, Bernard Black, would be its consumer. Consumptor. Eater. Inhaler. Wanter. Dammit, he wanted that sandwich.