Unlike the steroptype some of my English countrymen are portraying, I'm a Yorkshire Lad. So when I'm not farming and occasionally fornicating with sheep, I'm busy mining coal, and in my spare time like to put on my flatcap, walk along the dry stone walls and drink pints of bitter in a thatched roof, dimly lit pub in some god-forsaken middle-of-nowhere pub on the moors that gets swallowed by fog half the time and is staffed by the strangest group of people in the world who seem highly mistrustful of anyone from "not 'round here".
Topics of conversation include how much we all hate southerners, who makes a better bitter, and why lager drinkers are "nancy-boys"