Slavically accented English

Britain's Peregrine Worsthorne, 36, is a tough-minded Tory journalist with scant regard for preconceived opinions—his own or anybody else's.

Xander: I'm sick of being the guy who eats insects and gets the funny syphilis. As of this moment, it's over. I'm finished being everybody's butt monkey!

Samuel guzzled some golden liquid from a hip-flask plucked from a pocket of his brocaded dark blue jacket (which clashed outrageously, as every item of his clothing always did, with every other, with his orange cravat, maroon shirt, “M' favourite wesskit,” – taut over his farctate belly – of mustard yellow with pink buttons, red britches held up by another cravat, this one green, for a belt, orange socks – “To match the first cravat, of course!– and silver-buckled shoes so shiny black as to be ugly).