Evening, Michelangelo. I want to talk to you about this painting of yours, The Last Supper. I’m not happy about it.
Splunge!
Well that was really horrible.
Larks’ tongues. Wrens’ livers. Chaffinch brains. Jaguars’ earlobes. Wolf nipple chips. Get ‘em while they’re hot! They’re lovely. Dromedary pretzels, only half a denar. Tuscany-fried bats. Larks’ tongues. Otters’ noses. Ocelot spleens.
Rule 1 — no pooftahs. Rule 2 — no member of the faculty is to maltreat the abos in any way whatsoever if there’s anyone watching. Rule 3 — no pooftahs. Rule 4 — I don’t want to catch any of you not drinking after lights out. Rule 5 — no pooftahs. Rule 6 — there is NO Rule 6. Rule 7 — no pooftahs!
I got better.
Just a moment! That man is not Louis XIV!
I’m Brian, and so’s my wife!
I say!
Anyone for tennis?
Then did we bust the Harry Tony mob, who did seek to import Scandinavian filth via Germany. For six years they cleaned up a packet - came the day I got whiff of them through a squealer and within one week did a mop-up right good. They’re now languishing doing five years’ bird in Parkhurst.
Brian: There’s no pleasing some people.
Ex-leper: That’s just what Jesus said, sir.
I’d like to answer this question, if I may, in two ways: firstly in my normal voice and then in a kind of silly high-pitched whine.
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 lupins you’ve got.
Depressed by rats? Do mice get you down? Then why not visit Colin Mozart’s Rodent Extermination Boutique. Rats extirpated, mice punished, voles torn apart by Colin Mozart, Munich’s leading furry animal liquidator.
Well, never mind. I’ll just take the Lord Lieutenant in Nylons, then, and these two copies of Piggie Parade. Thank you.
They had spiders in matchboxes, sir!
Yes, you’re quite right. I’m fed up with being treated like sheep. What’s the point of going abroad if you’re just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Boventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, bomplaining about the tea - ‘Oh they don’t make it properly here, do they, not like at home’ - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney’s Red Barrel and calamaris and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White’s suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they ‘overdid it on the first day.’
Albatross!
Is your name not Bruce, then?
Yeah! It looks great! The fat one balances the two skinny ones.