Anyone got anything they’d rather be doing than marching up and down the square?
Well so much for that … But of course, the probe itself has excited a great deal of interest… for it contains uranium-based dual transmission cells entirely re-charged by solar radiation, which can take off a bra and panties in less than fifteen seconds. It is, of course, the first piece of space hardware to be specially designed to undress ladies, and so there are bound to be some teething troubles … such as how to cope with the combination of elastic-sided boots and tights.
Badger: I’ll have a whisky for main course and I’ll follow that with a whisky for pudding.
Waiter: Yes sir, and what would you like with it, sir? A whisky?
Badger: No, a bottle of wine.
Waiter: Fine, sir, he said between clenched teeth knowing full well it was a most unrewarding part.
He’s going to tell! He’s going to tell!
He’s going to tell! He’s going to tell!
He’s going to tell! He’s going to tell!
He’s going to tell! He’s going to tell!
Now where’s the bomb?
Your wife…is she a goer?
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It’s like those miserable psalms. They’re so depressing. Now knock it off.
You see that house? That is where I was born. My mother said to me: “Garcon, the world is a beautiful place, and you must spread joy and contentment everywhere you go.” And so, I became a waiter. Well… I know it is not a great philosophy but… well, fuck you! I can live my life in my own way if I want to! Fuck off. Don’t come following me.
Dennis Moore, Dennis Moore,
Dum dum dum the night.
Dennis Moore, Dennis Moore,
Dum de dum dum plight.
He steals dum dum dum
And dum dum dum dee
Dennis dum, Dennis dee, dum dum dum.
Well, no one really got on. Satan didn’t get on with Eve … er… Archangel Gabriel didn’t get on with Satan… nobody got on with the Serpent, so now they have to work a rota: forces of good from ten till three, forces of evil three to six.
Splendid, splendid. Incidentally, do call me Tom, I don’t want you playing around with any of this ‘Thomas’ nonsense! Ha ha ha ha! Now where were we? Ah yes. Eddie-baby, when you first started in the…
Let that be a warning to you all. You move at your peril, for I have two pistols here. I know one of them isn’t loaded any more, but the other one is, so that’s one of you dead for sure, or just about for sure anyway. It certainly wouldn’t be worth your while risking it because I’m a very good shot. I practice every day, well, not absolutely every day, but most days in the week. I expect I must practice four or five times a week, at least four or five, only some weekends… like last weekend, there really wasn’t the time, so that moved the average down a bit. I should say it’s definitely a solid four days’ practice every week… at least. I mean, I reckon I could hit that tree over there… the one just behind that hillock, not the big hillock, the little hillock on the left. You can see the three trees, the third one from the left and back a bit - that one - I reckon I could hit that four times out of five… on a good day. Say, with this wind… say, say seven times out of ten.
Many people in this country are becoming increasingly worried about bull-fighting. They say it’s not only cruel, vicious and immoral, but also blatantly unfair. The bull is heavy, violent, abusive and aggressive with four legs and great sharp teeth, whereas the bull-fighter is only a small, greasy Spaniard. Given this basic inequality what can be done to make bull-fighting safer?
Good idea, Lord!
If she weighed the same as a duck… she’s made of wood.
I see, I see, I … er … I … er … I … er … I … I can’t think of anything to say about it.
'Course it’s a good idea!
Hindu, Taoist, Mormon spill theirs just anywhere,
But God loves those who treat their semen with more care.
We had an eighteen-roomed villa overlooking Nice.
Well now, the result of last week’s competition when we asked you to find a derogatory term for the Belgians. Well, the response was enormous and we took quite a long time sorting out the winners. There were some very clever entries. Mrs Hatred of Leicester said ‘let’s not call them anything, let’s just ignore them’. And a Mr St John of Huntingdon said he couldn’t think of anything more derogatory than ‘Belgians’. But in the end we settled on three choices: number three… ‘The Sprouts’, sent in by Mrs Vicious of Hastings… very nice; number two… ‘The Phlegms’, from Mrs Childmolester of Worthing; but the winner was undoubtedly from Mrs No-Supper-For-You from Norwood in Lancashire… ‘Miserable Fat Belgian Bastards’!