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I might just see you there, PJ.
Mahon Point though, is Cork's Southeast Hab Zone – a low-rise concrete sprawl far from the decent Grud-fearing city centre and accessible only by perilous overland route.

With hindsight, China's social credit system (which is gaining favour amongst our own apex parasites) would fit in very well with Mega City One...

See, you might have written that in actual Chinese for all it means to me.
Just plain thick in money matters, I am. I'm the sort who'd buy pretty copper coins with ugly paper money. (I mean, the coppers are very shiny.)
What we need* is a Mega-City One price index to give us an idea of what things cost in Dreddworld.
Like, how much should you expect to pay for a treemeat hottie? What (if anything) should you tip the robo-waiter in a high-class eaterie? What would be the price tag on a pair of kneepads fancy enough to provoke an ARV on Hayte Street? If you need to, say, remove a competitor with the aid of a team of blitzers, how much would that set you back? (Ignore that last question, Judge – I wasn't being serious.)
And what's the point of cash? With most cits on welf, the prime purpose of cash seems to be to fill briefcases that change hands solely for nefarious purposes.

(Yes, yes – I know that the whole set-up is fictional, and the needs of the story dictate all the incidentals, etcetera, etceteraah, but just play along, huh?)

*need, I tell you

Sorry if this has been asked a dozen times already, but what is the exact nature of creds?
Why is there a paper Mega-City credit? Even assuming that the physical cred isn't made out of actual paper, it still seems a little bit old fashioned, dunnit?
And what's the cred worth? Famously, four of them would have bought you an ice cream back in 2103, but it's possibly ill-advised to apply the Freezy-Whip Standard to a whole monetary theory.

Economics were never my strong suit (which might explain why I live in genteel poverty).

Rico, Rico, Giant & Giant.

This would be my second choice.
Not only is it a clever Dredd reference, but it reflects that cats don't give a toss what names people give them and will do their own thing regardless.

(I am reminded of rambling once through a leafier part of leafy Surrey one Sunday afternoon years ago, when I heard a well-bred voice calling, "Lola! Lola!"
A moment later there came the pounding of heavy feet and the rending of branches, and crashing through the undergrowth came Lola – just about the biggest effing dog I've ever flinched from. Lola wasn't aggressive – merely off the leash, and thus a hazard to anything smaller than a moderately-sized armoured fighting vehicle. In Lola's wake came Lola's owner: a woman of smaller-than-average build. How she hoped to halt or restrain Lola, I can't even guess. My impression was that it would have taken at least a couple of rodeo champeens well-versed in hog-tyin' ornery steers.)

So anyway, name your cats as you like. Number them off from the left if you want. It'll make damn-all difference. At least they'll be staying on the right side of twenty stone.

Guffaw! 

"Yawn", "Sigh", "Deep sigh", and of course the ubiquitous "Aargh", were widely used as spoken words in our house when I was growing up.
They might not have come from 2000AD, but their roots in comics are undeniable.

I think that in future, anytime I have to class up my appearance, I will straighten my tie in the mirror and say:
"Stak! He wears a suit!"

I like it    Think I'll follow, er, suit, on the one or two days a year I don't dress like a Norman Rockwell hobo.

For when you're undoubtedly rocking the Max Normal look. 

https://live.staticflickr.com/3898/32481087350_ca22b95935_b.jpg

Well if that's the way this thread is going, then let's take it all the way and flog this (well-dressed) horse into the ground.

[Gimme the pie, Charlie!]

Not out loud, but in moments of hard decision and cold certainty – when I'm committed to what needs to be done:

"Gimme the pie, Charlie!"

(Like when I want that pie, for instance)

Cool Beans.

I have to agree with pretty much all of this.

I don't like everything Lapham's done, but this - while not perfect - is one of my absolute favourite comics.

At least now I know whose telescope was spying through the window of my new gaff today. Good job I'm getting curtains installed tomorrow. 

That's not me. I keep myself and my telescope in Cork. It's probably a peeper licensed by Dublin City Council.
Do you have authorisation for those curtains?
What have you got to hide, citizen?

Surly, Mean, Vicious, Brutal.

Winner!

I think that in future, anytime I have to class up my appearance, I will straighten my tie in the mirror and say:
"Stak! He wears a suit!"

Four of them, you say?
How about,
Groucho, Chico, Harpo and Karl
from 'A Day At The Block Wars'?

A man sits forlorn in an "I Honked On An ABC Warrior And Lived" t-shirt, his LRD filled with supermarket whiskey. Ragged 1980s progs carpet the floor around him. An old congratulatory letter from Tharg is held in his nerveless hand.
It has all been for nothing.
He has been a fraud all along and now the whole world knows it.

They're planning the first iso-block in New York.

You may or may not know Fred from Dancing with the Stars and the Tommy Tiernan Show, John.

Alas, no. I don't watch a whole lot of TV, so that's your career as a name-dropper coming to a grinding halt.