Flames of Hell

I had a call from mum while at The Basketmakers having a swift couple at lunchtime. "Are you in the pub? I thought so" she laughed. Returning through the North Laine (the best part of Brighton, already invaded by Starbucks and under serious threat) I remembered being shocked the first time I went to the pub with my dad for "a swift half", and discovered this could mean three pints.
It wasn't until I had my own children, and well after dad had died, that I realised that that his exclamation in extremis - "Fffffflames of hell!" wasn't quite what it seemed. I never heard my father use the f-word, not something my children will be able to say.