It’s
Mind if we call you Bruce?
a-goooooood, a-niiii-eeeeeeet, a-ring ding ding ding ding!
Man is born free.
Yes, because it’s the woman who pays.
Fascist!
Nincompoop!
What’s a nincompoop?
An idiot in drag.
You made that up, didn’t you?
Would I lie to you?
Not like that! Not like that! No, stop it!
I just left my husband out here while I went in to do some shopping and I came back and he was gone. He was only forty-seven.
I’m Brian, and so is my wife.
Well, here at Wimbledon, it’s been a most extraordinary week’s tennis. The blancmanges have swept the board, winning match after match. Here are just a few of the results: Billie-Jean King eaten in straight sets, Laver smothered whole after winning the first set, and Poncho Gonzales, serving as well as I’ve never seen him, with some superb volleys and decisive return volleys off the back hand, was sucked through the net at match point and swallowed whole in just under two minutes. And so, here on the final day, there seems to be no players left to challenge the blancmanges. And this could be their undoing, Dan: as the rules of Wimbledon state quite clearly that there must be at least one human being concerned in the final. (we see a three-foot-high blancmange being shepherded onto a tennis court by a Scotsman) Well the blancmange is coming out onto the pitch now, and (suddenly exalted) there is a human with it. It’s Angus Podgorny! The plucky little Scottish tailor … upon whom everything depends. And so it’s Podgorny versus blancmange in this first ever Intergalactic Wimbledon!
Well, it’s not a question of wanting to be a mouse… it just sort of happens to you. All of a sudden you realize… that’s what you want to be.
No, I’m only joking. I’m not really Brian. No, I’m not Brian. I was only…It was a joke. I’m only pulling your leg! It’s a joke! I’m not him! I’m just having you on! Put me back! Bloody Romans! Can’t take a joke!
It’s way-fair thin.
Well, that’s cast a gloom over the evening.
Supposing he’s got a pointed stick.
I don’t want to talk to you no more, you empty-headed animal food trough wiper! I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!
I feel so sad, these days. Can’t even read a recipe without getting a lump in my throat.
Shut up!
Yes, we live up the road, number 49 - you can’t miss it. We’ve just had the outside painted with warm pus…It’s very nice actually. It goes nicely with the vomit and catarrh we’ve got smeared all over the front door
Better get a bucket. I’m going to throw up.
I’m afraid we’re fresh out of Red Leicester.
Yes, it’s Attila the Nun! A simple country girl who took a vow of eternal brutality.