You want to put that crimply old shirt on my belly, and you want to halfheartedly rub a hot iron on it?
NO SHAGGIN’ WAY!
You gotta be kidding, roigh?
You don’t even wear ironed shirts.
You don’t even wear shirts, when you can get away with it, which is most of the time.
You don’t even wear ironed t-shirts.
Shag off with yourself, will ya.
Ironing? You’ve got to be taking the piss, roigh?
I hate ironing.
What a load of bollix.
The ironing board and I have come to an agreement. The very very very little bit of ironing I ever did was still too much for him.
No more ironing.
The ironing board and I are now fully aligned.