"Oi! You takin' the piss ow, you fahkin' cun'??"
"I assure you young man micturation is farther from my mind than the lubricious, cinnabar teat of my dearly departed Matron. I have not, even for the briefest of moments, considered taking my 'piss out' as you put it."
"Wot the fahk you on a'bow?"
"Merely this: if we are to extricate ourselves from this aero-plane hangar in the middle of this nameless Central American country thereby avoiding the climactic skirmish between the large breasted mercenary soldiers of fortune and the druggists of vaguely defined Latin extract, and deposit ourselves back into the safe and sleek, oak paneled halls of our Masterpiece Theatre solemnity where every man knows his station, we must do so post haste!"
Mr. Homo stopped to catch his breath and Biggles, who was immediately angered by the reference to men and their station regarded him with grizzled contempt.
Sure enough, from the edge of the plastic rainforest came well oiled, poorly camouflaged girls with ammo diagonally strapped to them, running with a strange almost preternatural slowness. All of this had the utterly fortuitous effect of accentuating their improbable titties. From the opposite direction, the gun-mounted jeep with Hispanic yobbos tore through the brush leaving dust clouds in its wake. Mr. Homo put a clotted-cream-fed hand on Biggles' shoulder, using the other hand to consider the hopelessness of their situation. "Well Biggles my boy," he said with equal parts resignation and condescension, "it looks like our luck has finally run its course." Biggles shook his head in disgust. "You ars'k me, it looks like your fahkin' luck's runnin' down yer fahkin' leg. Fahkin' ponce!"
"preternatual slowness" -- asshole.