Squaaaad! Camp it … up!
Good morning, gentlemen. This is a twelve-storey 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…
It’s not even a proper nose - it’s polystyrene!
What? Ridden on a horse?
Will Mr. Michael Ellis please go straight to the manager’s office…
Alan Fay? Alan Fay? Please go to the information booth - your friend is hurt and it’s a real bummer.
Nooo…WAIT -
He ran away! He scarpered!
Did you say knives?
Rotating knives, yes?
Tchaikovsky. Was he the tortured soul who poured out his immortal longings into dignified passages of stately music, or was he just an old poof who wrote tunes?
Rotating knives, yes.
…
Oh, I see. I hadn’t correctly divined your attitude towards your tenants. You see I mainly design slaughter houses. Yes, pity. Mind you, this is a real beaut. I mean, none of your blood caked on the walls and flesh flying out of the windows, inconveniencing the passers-by with this one. I mean, my life has been building up to this.
Tonight’s the night I shall be talking about of flu the subject of word association football. This is a technique out a living much used in the practice makes perfect of psychoanalysister and brother and one that has occupied piper the majority rule of my attention squad by the right number one two three four the last five years to the memory. It is quite remarkable baker charlie how much the miller’s son this so-called while you were out word association immigrants’ problems influences the manner from heaven in which we sleekit cowering timrous beasties…
How much do you hate the Romans?
A lot!
There’s not a lot of call for it around here, sir.
Not much ca-- :eek: it’s the single most popular cheese in the world!
:: looks at him searchingly ::
Right, you’re in.
You’re a looney.
I am not a loony. Why should I be tarred with the epithet ‘loony’ merely because I have a pet halibut? I’ve heard tell that Sir Gerald Nabarro has a pet prawn called Simon - you wouldn’t call him a loony! Furthermore Dawn Pathorpe, the lady show jumper, had a clam called Stafford, after the late chancellor. Alan Bullock has two pikes, both called Chris, and Marcel Proust had an 'addock! So if you’re calling the author of ‘A la recherche de temps perdu’ a loony, I shall have to ask you to step outside!
What’s this, then? “Romanes eunt domus”?
Nibbling the earlobe, uhh, kneading the buttocks, and so on and so forth. So, we have all these possibilities before we stampede towards the clitoris.
Just sayin