No I don’t want a pack of cards. You are just buttering me up so I lend you money until your DLA cheque clears.
No I don’t want to hear about your dead husband. You just want money to get shit-faced on brandy.
No I don’t want that shop-lifted top from Baby Gap. It’s weird that you know I have a nephew and I know you will ask me for money later to buy crack. It’s too small anyway.
No I don’t want to have banter with you because every time you come over you have left your wallet in your other trousers. You run your own business man, stop being so cheap.
Brewed Boy does not accept credit unless you have an original tactic. The bar has been raised blaggers.