(enter old weather beaten, gin sodden wretch, pushing trolley)
Cocktails! Cocktails! Git 'em while they're cold! Cocktails!
Wassat madam? Bloody Mary? No, she's gone 'ome & I'm takin' 'er place.
Cocktails! Yus sir, I got gin. I see yer broke yer arm. Wanna gin-sling, then. Heh Heh!
Olives? 'Course I got bleedin' olives. Wot kinda Ward Steward would I be wivout olives?
Ward Steward, misses. Ex bar-steward of the SS Viagra, wot finally went down in '66. All hands.
Cocktails! Cocktails! Cocktails! No! Yer can't 'ave ice, bloody stuff sank the Titanic! Cocktails! Cocktails!
(slowly departs into next ward, persued by a whole gaggle of folks with crutches, zimmer frames, and pronounced limps)
(L. I. M. P. S. pronounced "limps")