“Blimey, Len, this bed weighs a ton!”
“Put your back into it, Perry.”
“Just so long as we find the amber nectar!”
Len gave a shove, but the bed with the moaning Frenchman would not budge.
Len gave another shove.
He fell back.
A sticky red substance was splattered all over his face and arms. He licked some of it off his lips.
Len looked round, but Perry was nowhere to be seen.
Where had he got to?
“That bastard! I bet he’s found the beer.”
Just then a voice called from on high.
It was Perry, who had made his way scrambling up the styles of what appeared to be a giant strawberry.
“Len, it’s definitely not the amber nectar. I can confirm, however, it is strawberry!”
“Not bad,” he went on, “even if it lacks cream.”
“Doesn’t look like there are any cows around here, mate.”
The Frenchman, who had been silent for a while, began to moan.
“Je meurs,” he said. “Now to cease upon the minuit with no pain.”
“Pan?” said Len. “It’s strawbs. You know, strawbs and cream. Except there’s no cream.”
“Zoot alors,” said the Frenchman. “I am not the cow, or the vache qui rit.”
“Could have fooled me,” said Perry. “After all that fuss you’ve been making down there, you moaning minnie.”
The Frenchman sighed.
“My Aussie chums,” he said, “in spite of my great faiblesse, I shall attempt to make la crème for your strawbs.”
"It's not creme we need, mate, it's the amber nectar."