Comrade Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps looked up from his newspaper and attempted, with no great success, to look serious. “I say, Bertie,” he whispered. “The running dogs of the capitalist hegemony are on to us.”
“Do speak English, Barmy,” said Comrade Wooster, wondering whether a copy of Das Kapital might serve as a makeshift cricket bat.
“Look! It’s in the paper: ‘Toffs in charge at the Morning Star.’ ”
Comrade Wooster took off the Lenin cap he was wearing against the advice of his man, Jeeves, and sighed. “Barmy,” he said. “Abandon all further brain work. It doesn’t suit you. This is all part of Comrade Jeeves’s masterplan.
“Do you think that we could overthrow the established order if we had proper jobs? No, as Comrade Aunt Agatha says, the revolution is only kept alive because feckless, wealthy and idle young men like us can afford to work here.”
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“Gosh!” said Comrade Barmy. “Bring on the bally revolution!”
“Yes, quite so,” said Comrade Wooster. “But perhaps after lunch.”