"Qu'est-que c'est, 'load of crap'?" asked Jean-Paul le Clerque, the French-Canadian engine room rtificer.
"Cor, stone the crows, me ol' china," replied Steve-Ahab "Smudger" Smith, the chirpy cockney steward, "See, yer Airnglo-Sexon word 'crep' meant 'charff' right - that's, like, yer rabbish, innit, see? Then, in the nineteenf cent'ry, along comes this geezer Thomas Crapper, right? An' 'e invents yer flashin' wa'er closet, dun 'e? So, nair yer got yer dabble-yew cee, right, wot sez "Crepper" on yer cistern. So, by a process of, like, association, right, it gets called yer crepper, right? So nair, by the sime token, right, wot goes in the crepper becomes crep, see?"
"Mais oui,"
"Yeah, an' that an' all. So, nair, yer crep, yer charff, right, h'artickerlites yer noo meanin', like, innit, know wot I mean, see, right, innit?"
"Ah -  how you say? - not 'alf, n'est-ce pas?"

The purser's head appeared in the doorway, followed immediately by his body. And his arms and legs.
"Where can I find Number Two?"
"In ze crapper, ah expect!" replied Jean-Paul. He and Smudger looked at each other, then burst out laughing, to the puzzlement of the purser, who went on his way, a quizzical expression playing over his tanned features.
"F*cking stupid tw*ts"


With apologies to Dudley Pope.
Glossary available on request