Fires happen, Colonel.
You see, you know that is the trouble with living half way up a cliff - you feel so cut off. You know it takes me two hours every morning to get out onto the moors, collect my berries, chastise myself, and two hours back in the evening.
Is he?
She sir.
It’s the Bishop!
When three, being the third number, be reached, then lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade at thy foe, who, being naughty in My sight, shall snuff it.
Perhaps he was dictating?
Still no sight of land! How long is it?
That’s a rather personal question, sir.
You sit there on your loathsome spotty behinds, squeezing black heads, not caring a tinker’s cuss about the struggling artist! You excrement!
Dinsdale!
Something wrong with my banter, chaps?
Blimey, whatever did I give the wife?
Well, I think I may be able to help you. You see… your cat is suffering from what we Vets haven’t found a word for.
Well men, we’ve got a pretty difficult cat to confuse today so let’s get straight on with it. Jolly good. Thank you sergeant.
Something’s gone askew on treadle.
What’s new Bruce going to teach, Bruce?
I would tax the nude in my bed. No … not tax.
What is the word?
…
Oh – welcome!
Oh Mr Belpit, your legs are so swollen!
Top-hole. Bally Jerry, pranged his kite right in the how’s your father. Hairy blighter, dicky-birdied, feathered back on his Sammy, took a waspy, flipped over on his Betty Harper’s and caught his can in the Bertie.
Shut up! This is a hold-up, not a botany lesson. Right, now my fine friends, no false moves please. I want you to hand over all the lupines you’ve got.
Another repeat.
I would tax Raquel Welch… and I suspect she would tax me.