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SCAB. SCAB SCAB. The roar ripped round as the Yorkshire miners invaded the Nottinghamshire pits. SCAB. SCAB. SCAB.

Some years later three fresh faced young men, travelling down the M1 called in a chippie in Barnsley. As trade was slack the ladies decided to use their Yorkshire charm on the innocents.
“Where are you from lads? they asked.
“Er, Nottingham.”
“Oh, bloody SCABS are you?”

On settling the bill, the lads offered a sizeable tip.
“What’s this?” they cried. “We might be poor in Barnsley but we’re not poverty stricken.”

The lads requested ten minutes to get out of town.

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