Me heap big fan Cicely Courtneidge… She fine actress … she make interpretation heap subtle … she heap good diction and timing … she make part really live for Indian brave.
Well, sir, we had a fishy consignment in this morning, so I could nip down to the basement and see if I can come up trumps on this particular requisite-t-t-t-t-t. So it was halibut… or… ?
Burma!
Well, if you can imagine the size of Nelson’s Column, which is roughly three times the size of a London bus, then Tchaikovsky was much smaller. His head was about the same size as that of an extremely large dog, that is to say, two very small dogs, or four very large hamsters, or one medium-size rabbit if you count the whole of the body and not just the head.
Number fifteen. The naughty bits of Reginald Maudling.
Kipling Road was a typical sort of East End street, people were in and out of each other’s houses with each other’s property all day. They were a cheery lot.
An interesting point about these boys is they all have one thing in common. Hip injuries. Not far away the crowds are flocking to see a member of the famous Royal Canadian Mounted Geese.
First offense? Yeah, crucifixion.
It’s…
Good morning, gentlemen. This is a twelve-story block combining classical neo-Georgian features with the efficiency of modern techniques. The tenants arrive in the entrance hall here, and are carried along the corridor on a conveyor belt in extreme comfort and past murals depicting Mediterranean scenes, towards the rotating knives. The last twenty feet of the corridor are heavily soundproofed. The blood pours down these chutes and the mangled flesh slurps into these…
Defeat at the castle seems to have utterly disheartened King Arthur. The ferocity of the French taunting took him completely by surprise, and Arthur became convinced that a new strategy was required if the quest for the Holy Grail were to be brought to a successful conclusion. Arthur, having consulted his closest knights, decided that they should separate, and search for the Grail individually. Now, this is what they did…
Legs off, fins on, stick a little pipe through the back of its neck so it can breathe, bit of gold paint, make good …
Excusez-moi Madame Clodagh. Ecrivez-vous votre nom dans mon livre des hommes célèbrites, s’il vous plait. Là, au-dessous de Denis Compton. Maman! Ce n’est pas la belle Clodagh.
My brain hurts!
My Theory by A. Elk. Brackets Miss, brackets. This theory goes as follows and begins now. All brontosauruses are thin at one end, much much thicker in the middle, and then thin again at the far end. That is my theory, it is mine, and belongs to me and I own it, and what it is too.
Kiss me Hardy!
Don’t pick your nose.
Interviewer: I’ve been told Dinsdale Piranha nailed your head to the floor.
Stig: No. Never. He was a smashing bloke. He used to buy his mother flowers and that. He was like a brother to me.
Interviewer: But the police have film of Dinsdale actually nailing your head to the floor.
Stig: (pause) Oh yeah, he did that.
From the plastic arts we turn to football. Last night in the Stadium of Light, Jarrow, we witnessed the resuscitation of a great footballing tradition, when Jarrow United came of age, in a European sense, with an almost Proustian display of modern existentialist football. Virtually annihilating by midfield moral argument the now surely obsolescent catennachio defensive philosophy of Signor Alberto Fanffino. Bologna indeed were a side intellectually out argued by a Jarrow team thrusting and bursting with aggressive Kantian positivism and outstanding in this fine Jarrow team was my man of the match, the arch-thinker, free scheming, scarcely ever to be curbed, midfield cognoscento, Jimmy Buzzard.
I see that you have a cabbage.