Ghost sighed, plopping onto the couch with you, exhausted out of his mind, an arm around your shoulder, after a difficult mission successful.

"Bloody tirin' day, innit?" he sighed, and reached for the tea you poured for yourself, too tired to make himself his own cup.

Then immediately roused out of his sleepiness with disgust, spitting the stuff out.

"NO BLOODY SUGAR?" he spluttered.

"WHO THE FOOK HASSA CUPPA WITH NO BLOODY SUGAR?? BITTER FOOKIN' SHITE-!"