Classic FM or Radio 4?

This was Gina playing quoits (improvised with a croquet mallet, a tent pole and a set of rusty horse shoes) at possibly the most sedate barbecue I've ever attended. The merits of various radio stations were discussed over Pimms & lemonade, and strawberries & cream were eaten under a pine tree sheltering us from the rain.

Of course, returning to Edinburgh on a Saturday night via public transport showed us the flipside of British culture. The fellow passengers in our carriage included 2 sisters accompanied their mother, frequently described by one daughter as a "f***ing alcoholic b***h" (replying with such bon mots as "shut your mouth" and "you're a f**king terrible daughter"), as well as miscellaneous drunk teenagers swigging from stubby bottles of Stella and wondering if the conductor would arrive to make them actually buy a ticket.

Manky teen #1 (to drunk mother): Where have you been tonight, darlin'?

Drunk mother: Oh, I was at my sister's 50th. F**king old she is! What about you boys?

Manky teen #2: We were at a beach party! Goan' out in the centre the now! Did you have a good time wi' your sister? What were you drinkin'?

Daughter #1: F**ckin' EVERYTHIN'.

Thus follows a few minutes of cacophonous banter...

Manky teen #1 (to drunk mother): how old's your daughter?

Drunk mother, passing picture of daughter #1 to teen: She's 15.

Manky teen #1, passing picture around: Fifteen, f**k, you're fifteen! Fancy a shag?

Drunk mother: Language, boys, language!