(Alf Git is turning off the TV)

ALF GIT: Nyeah...

FRED GIT: What was that?

ALF GIT: Some bloody sit-com. "Life begins at Forty". Try telling that to John Lennon. What are you writing there?

FRED GIT: Christmas Card.

ALF GIT: You're not sending a Christmas Card, are you?

FRED GIT: Just the one, Queen Mum, as usual.

ALF GIT: Ah, fair enough. What does it say?

FRED GIT: I've written her a little poem: "Wipe that radiant smile off your face, you old witch!" I couldn't get it to rhyme though.

ALF GIT: I hate poetry - the only poem I've got any time for is 'Death The Leveller', nyeah.

FRED GIT: Hoh, I see number 43's curtains have been drawn for the week and there's a massive build-up of milk outside her door.

ALF GIT: Yeah, I reckon something's gone tragically wrong there. Heh heh heh heh heh.

FRED GIT: Not as tragically wrong though, as him next door...

ALF GIT: Heh heh heh... Teach him to use a flymo...

FRED GIT: Heh heh... Right thru the lead...

ALF GIT: That was funny. Heh heh heh...

FRED GIT: At the time yeah, but not any more it ain't. His grass is growing out of control, it's sticking through our fence...

ALF GIT: Is it?

FRED GIT: Hmph, I saw his wife in the garden here today. I said to her "Oi! Snap out of it! Get your bleeding grass cut - he's been dead three days" She didn't see me though, I was hiding behind the fence.

ALF GIT: When's the funeral?

FRED GIT: Today.

ALF GIT: Good! Are they gonna burn him or bury him?

FRED GIT: Up the chimney.

ALF GIT: Yeah, that's how I'd like to go, have my ashes scattered in the old back garden - when her next door's got her washing outt.

FRED GIT: Take her weeks to get you out of her knickers. Here, do you remember that time they asked us to feed their cat while they was away?

ALF GIT: We fed it alright...

FRED GIT: To the rottweiler down the road - very messy. And then they rang up to say they was looking forward to seeing their little pussy again...

ALF GIT: Lucky we got it all on video.

FRED GIT: Talking of dogs, I reckon ours is on his last legs.

ALF GIT: Nyeah, I shall miss him. He was good entertainment - particularly since he went blind and we started moving the furniture around.

BOY SCOUT: Excuse me?!

FRED GIT: Who's that in?

ALF GIT: Bob-A-Job week.

FRED GIT: Snivellin little git. Why can't you do it for nothing?

ALF GIT: Nyeah!

BOY SCOUT: Can I go now please? I've been here two weeks!

ALF GIT: No! You can start on that loft conversion, I ain't giving him a bloody penny for nothing. And don't forget to dig that damp course neither... nyeah...

FRED GIT: ...and do your toggle up

ALF GIT: ...and stop being so small

(The Old Gits edge the Boy Scout up the stairs)

BOY SCOUT: Aaahhh!

(Boy Scout trips and falls going up the broken stairs)

FRED GIT: And mend those stairs! Snivelling little git, I hate that Baden Powell.

ALF GIT: Fancy popping round next door while she's still at the funeral and turning off the heating on her tropical fish tank?

FRED GIT: /FONT> Yeah!