I move, (creak from shifted helmet) for no man.
He still has to wash himself in a rather special way, he can only eat buns, and he’s not allowed on public transport. But I feel these are very minor problems.
What a senseless waste of human life.
About one; call it none.
Spam, sausage, spam, spam, spam, bacon, spam tomato and spam
Good morning, gentlemen. This is a twelwe-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…
“Bolton” spelt backwards would be “Notlob.”
This is a 12-story block combining classical neo-Georgian features with the efficiency of modern techniques. The tenants arrive here and are carried along the corridor on a conveyor belt in extreme comfort, 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…
See two posts above.
'Course it doesn’t come with wafers!
I’m charging you with illegal possession of whatever we happen to have down there.
He was not in the least bit scared to be mashed into a pulp
Or to have his eyes gouged out and his elbows broken
To have his kneecaps split and his body burned away
And all his limbs hacked and mangled, brave Sir Robin…
I think it was “Blessed are the cheesemakers”.
Sailing Away, Sailing Away.
It’s fun to charter an accountant
And sail the wild accountancy
To find, explore, the funds offshore
and scourge the sholls of bankruptcy.
Does that not fit in with your plans?
Are there any women here?
And now the penguin on top of your television set will explode.
Look, if we were to build a large wooden badger…
Oh, so you’re Italian, are you?
Mother: The Jodrells win every bloody year… makes you VOMIT!!! … Dad???
Dad: Yeah?
Mother: GET YOUR STINKIN FEET OFF THE BREAD!!!
Dad: I’m only wiping the cat’s do’s off!
I’m afraid Sir Horace won’t be catching the 10:15, Lady Partridge.