Good God, I thought to myself, one has yet to resort to that malarkey. My Moustache Wax is lovingly handmade in Norfolk, Great Britain.
The blaggard in front of me was in truth a snake oil salesman, a chancer a charlatan no less. I decided to take my leave of this thoroughly disagreeable fellow but not before giving him a jar of my patent pomade and suggesting he attend to his drooping hirsute appendage forthwith. Huuuumph.
I wended my weary way back to my makeshift cabin, cleaned my teeth in an effort to get rid of the stubborn bad taste in my mouth and dived in to the bunk. The crisp cotton sheets coupled with soft downy pillows and the gently rocking of the sleeping car ensured that I fell into a deep sleep within minutes of being horizontal. My dreams that night haunted with a coterie of purple faced buffoons or were they indeed ruddy arsed baboons? Fawcett.