“All assembled, sir!” he barked, resplendent in his uniform.
“Very good.”
The second man, short, rotund, and violet of hue, began to amble, up and down the line of the assembled eleven, fat thumbs stuffed into the pockets of his yellow, checked waistcoat, between which swayed a thick gold watch chain.
“Here, at Corinthian Thatch Bakery, we are a family firm,” he began. “We have been serving the towns, villages and hamlets of these environs for many generations; all without hint of complaint nor scandal.
He reached the end of the line and began to walk back, closely studying each face in turn.
“So, when one of my bakery family, who I each consider as a distant cousin, brings shame upon my business, I am incandescent! Incandescent, I tell you!
On the hard “c” of the word, small globules of saliva sprayed forth, soaking the poor individual in the third position. Mr Fisher, the source of the spray, withdrew a small slip of paper from his trouser pocket.
“So, I will ask this only once. Would the person,” he folded the slip of paper. “Would the person who piped ‘Jizz Box Monkey Balls” onto the birthday cake of our local M.P., please take on step forward.”
There was some shuffling and exchanged glances between the pipers. Then, all eleven stepped forward.