John Smith was an up-country caterer in a remote part of Africa. We
called him Joseph, after other shining lights in the trade.
I don't think I ever saw him quite sober, but, on the other hand, never
heard of his being drunk. He was not good to look at, being fat, bald
and red-faced.
A stranger once called him Joe. Our host was indignant at the
familiarity, and snapped: "I'm Joe to me pals, John Smith to me
acquaintances, Mr. Smith to you, damn you!" Coming across to my table,
he winked heavily, and said in a hoarse stage-whisper: "P'raps you've
'eard a bloke say that afore?"