But on the other hand, is it what the public wants? I mean with the new permissiveness, not to mention the balance of payments.
No parrots were involved in an accident on the M-1 today when a lorry carrying high-octane fuel was in a collision with a bollard. That’s a bollard and not a parrot. A spokesman for parrots said he was glad no parrots were involved.
No, I’m afraid not actually guv, we’re fresh out of parrots. I’ll tell you what though … I’ll lop its back legs off, make good, strip the fur, stick a couple of wings on and staple on a beak of your own choice. No problem. Lovely parrot.
You Americans are all the same. You’ve got no balls!
Ah, well I’m afraid we have to stop the film there, as some of the scenes which followed were of a violent nature which might have proved distressing to some of our viewers. Though not to me, I can tell you…In Nova Scotia today, Mr. Roy Bent of North Walsham in Norfolk became the first man to cross the Atlantic on a tricycle. His tricycle, specially adapted for the crossing, was ninety feet long, with a protective steel hull, three funnels, seventeen first-class cabins and a radar scanner. Mr. Bent is in our Durham studios, which is rather unfortunate as we’re all down here in London. And in London I have with me Mr. Ludovic Grayson, the man who scored all six goals in Arsenal’s 1-0 victory over the Turkish Champions FC Botty.
Your cat is suffering from what we vets haven’t found a word for. His condition is typified by total physical inertia, absence of interest in its ambience - what we vets call environment - failure to respond to the conventional external stimuli - a ball of string, a nice juicy mouse, a bird. To be blunt, your cat is in a rut. It’s the old stockbroker syndrome, the suburban fin de siecle ennui, angst, weltschmertz, call it what you will.
All right, Louis XVI!.. listen to me, smartarse, when you’re King of France,… you’ve got better things to do than go around all day remembering your bloody number.
(There was a giant parrot in London last year, saluting MPFC! Just learned about it: http://www.adweek.com/adfreak/50-foot-dead-parrot-drops-london-promote-monty-python-reunion-158938)
Bloody Romans.
Bet you’re gay.
On my left is the Minister for Home Affairs who is wearing a striking organza dress in pink tulle, with matching pearls and a diamante collar necklace. The shoes are in brushed pigskin with gold clasps, by Maxwell of Bond Street. The hair is by Roger, and the whole ensemble is crowned by a spectacular display of Christmas orchids
I can do it when you’re near.
Regards,
Shodan
Next week we’ll be showing you how to pick up an architect, how to pull a prime minister, and how to have fun with a wholesale poulterer. But now the men of the Derbyshire Light Infantry entertain us with a precision display of bad temper.
I haven’t written a mountaineering sketch.
I want to see a sketch of Eric’s. Nudge Nudge.
Well, last week we showed you how to become a gynecologist. And this week on ‘How To Do It’ we’re going to show you how to play the flute, how to split an atom, how to construct a box girder bridge, how to irrigate the Sahara Desert and make vast new areas of land cultivatable, but first, here’s Jackie to tell you all how to rid the world of all known diseases.
No you’re not, you’ll be stone dead in a moment.
That’s the way it is, my loves. Blame the Catholic church for not letting me wear one of those little rubber things. Oh, they’ve done some wonderful things in their time. They preserved the might and majesty, the mystery of the Church of Rome, and the sanctity of the sacraments, the indivisible oneness of the Trinity…but if they’d let me wear one of those little rubber things on the end of my cock, we wouldn’t be in the mess we are now.
Welcome back. And now it’s time for part eight of our series about the life and work of Ursula Hifier, the Surrey housewife who revolutionized British beekeeping in the nineteen-thirties.
Well most things we do for pleasure nowadays are taxed, except one.
What do you mean?
Well, er, smoking’s been taxed, drinking’s been taxed but not… thingy.
Good Lord, you’re not suggesting we should tax… thingy?
You bastards! You vicious, heartless bastards! Look what you’ve done to him! He’s worked his fingers to the bone to make this place what it is, and you come in with your petty feeble quibbling and you grind him into the dirt, this fine, honourable man, whose boots you are not worthy to kiss. Oh… it makes me mad… mad!