Just then, a bunch of Brit Folk shambled in through the door - identifiable as Brits, of course, from the shortness of stature - and breath - the pot bellies and beards and the tankards suspended from their belts, and each carrying either a banjo, a bodhran or a shaky egg. They headed for the bar, and one of them ordered six pints of Newcastle Brown and, turning to his mate, added "what's yours, Dave?" "sorry" says the barman; "we're waiting for supplies; there's only Brandy". "Ee, this is a rum do" said Dave's ate/ "No, I said Brandy" says the barman. 'No, it's just a British expression", said another Brit. "You Yanks wouldn't get it". *Say, who's language is this anyway?" growled the barman. "Who's language is this, anyway", the Brits chorused obligingly, sniggering amongst themselves. "You're just turning this into one of your pantomimes",says another. At which, the Brits dissolved into a fit of hysterics, and were unable to make the traditional response.