Oh, I remember. Uh, can he leave the room with us?
But don’t you see, I came here to find a new job, a new life, a new meaning to my existence. Can’t you help me?
And the Lord spake, saying, "First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin. Then shalt thou count to three, no more, no less. Three shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out. Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch towards thy foe, who, being naughty in my sight, shall snuff it.
Well, isn’t that extraordinary? We were just talking about death only five minutes ago.
I’m afraid we’re fresh out of Red Leicester.
My brain hurts!
Er, nothing, nothing at all, sir. We were wondering if you could see your way clear…to giving us…a quick… a quick… visual.
Er, we’ve got corsets, stockings, suspender belts, tights, bras, slips, petticoats, knickers, socks and garters, sir.
Harry, I want you to sell me a condom. In fact, today I think I’ll have a French tickler, for I am a Protestant!
Yes that’s right. It’s all due to a trauma I suffered when I was a sboolboy. I was attacked by a bat.
A cat?
Silly bunt.
…and Colin ‘Bomber’ Harris has knocked himself out and so he is the winner!
But now the men of the Derbyshire Light Infantry entertain us with a precision display of bad temper.
7.30 Fed cat.
8.00 Breakfast.
8.30 Yes (successfully).
9.00 Set out on historic journey.
M-hmm. Well, it’s nothing very special. Uh, try and be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book every now and then, get some walking in, and try and live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations. And, finally, here are some completely gratuitous pictures of penises to annoy the censors and to hopefully spark some sort of controversy, which, it seems, is the only way, these days, to get the jaded, video-sated public off their fucking arses and back in the sodding cinema. Family entertainment? Bollocks. What they want is filth: people doing things to each other with chainsaws during tupperware parties, babysitters being stabbed with knitting needles by gay presidential candidates, vigilante groups strangling chickens, armed bands of theatre critics exterminating mutant goats. Where’s the fun in pictures? Oh, well, there we are. Here’s the theme music. Goodnight.
Oooh, get her! Whoops! I’ve got your number, ducky. You couldn’t afford me, dear. Two three. I’d scratch your eyes out. Don’t come the brigadier bit with us, dear, we all know where you’ve been, you military fairy. Whoops, don’t look now, girls, the major’s just minced in with that dolly colour sergeant, two, three, ooh-ho!
Well, it’s funny you should ask that, because I’ve just been reading a great big book about how to put your budgie down, and apparently you can either hit them with the book, or you can shoot them just there, just above the beak.
He’s a reaper.
Don’t be so bleedin’ stupid. If you lived in bleedin’ Rhodesia, you’d be out at bleedin’ fascist rallies every bleedin’ day. You’re a bleedin’ racist, you bleedin’ are.