A few years ago, the street sellers of the Newcastle Evening Chronicle were often to be heard shouting "chronicle" in various guttural, incoherent ways at regular intervals. They would range from what sounded like an after-dinner belch to the infamous "Ronny Gill".
One day a friend of mine was walking through town and happened to look across at one of the sellers, who was wearing the typical look of deep disinterest and general misery. Without ever cracking his wretched facade, and in the same flat, bored tone that he and his colleagues were synonymous with, the guy shouted, "man kicked to death by one-legged chicken".