"Aah Caruthers... Take a letter will you... My dear scheming evil Frenchies and in particular that traitorous and hapless toad James Fitzjames, 1st Duke of some God foresaken Scottish dorf which no self respecting Englishman would ever visit, even in the summer when the horrid midgies are away on holiday in Paris disguised as giant bedbugs and biting the arse of the French King. ...I am very sorry to hear that your soldiers have run out of rations and are starving. I myself will be dining on a delicious meal of filet de boeuf en papillote aux duxelle de champignons suavage et paté de fois gras. Up yours..."

"Sorry your generalship." Interjected Caruthers "But we aint got no fillet de beef, nor no pait de fwas graw neither. It's pork for scran today," and then he ducked skillfully to avoid the boot which his boss hurled across the room in a fit of pique.

"NO BEEF!" The Duke span around, his face fuming red, "I march an army all the way across some greasy olive oil eating continent only to be told that me, an Englishman, cannot have beef for dinner. Who am I going to have to shoot Caruthers, are you responsible for this?"

"I'm sorry sir, but it's a very nice cut of pork, and there's some sausages too."

"But Caruthers. I was planning on inventing a dish to celebrate the anniversary of my great victory at Blenheim, I was going to order that the beef be wrapped in paté and mushrooms and baked in pastry. Beef Blenheim I was going to call it and every Englishman would eat it on this day for a thousand years."

"Sounds very nice sir, but why don't you have the pork instead... I can roast some spuds too if you want."

"And can I have jelly and ice cream for pud? With hundreds and thousands. Oh please Caruthers, tell me there's jelly..."

"As you wish sir, as you wish."