Further dispatches from the front line of the class war

Back to Wimbledon. There's a flower stall just by the station. You can buy roses there for Tim. His favourite. Maybe they'd make a nice commiseration gift? Thousands of lower-middle class half-wits, taking a short break from their innate misanthropy to shower the great loser with rose blossom.
Anyway. This flower stall offers you free smells. The free is underlined, they're that proud of it. That's right - they don't charge you for breathing near their flowers. What sort of insane business model is that? Everyone will just go up, smell their flowers, and not pay. Madness. They're bound to go bust within weeks.
Or maybe days. However long it takes before the last remaining English bloke is knocked out, and the hordes of Daily-Mail-istas abandon their pretense of being interested in sport, and return to more natural bigotries.
And damn this heat, too.