A wonderful day ahead. You will be surrounded by family and friends. Roger Moore will drop by for lunch, bringing Tony Curtis with him. In the afternoon a substantial cash sum will come your way. In the evening, Petula Clark will visit your home accompanied by Mike Sammer’s Singers. She will sing for you in your own living room. Before you go to bed, Sir Peter Wyngarde will declare his undying love for you.
Oh yes, absolutely. Normally I would have asked a policeman or a minister of the Church, but finding no one available, I thought it better to consult a man with some professional qualifications, rather than rely on the possibly confused testimony of a passer-by.
Do you want to come back to my place?
Ten weeks! Blimey, can’t you just leave this one?
So, on June 7th, 1783, the Montgolfier brothers had a really good wash … starting on his face and arms, Joseph Michael Montgolfier went on to scrub his torso, his legs and his naughty bits, before rinsing his whole body. That June night, he and his brother between them washed seventeen square feet of body area. They used a kilo and a half of catholic soap and nearly fourteen gallons of nice hot water. It was indeed an impressive sight.
No, it’s not. An emergency is 290… “where there is actual or apparent loss of combustible gaseous substances.”
Oh, yeah, but I like that sort of little burst of frenzy they have then, you know. I like it when they get a little bit angry. Shows they’re human.
Ladies and gentlemen, seldom can it have been a greater pleasure and privilege than it is for me now to announce that the next award gave me the great pleasure and privilege of asking a man without whose ceaseless energy and tireless skill the British Film Industry would be today. I refer of course to my friend and colleague, Mr David Niven. (applause. Dickie applies tears to his face from a dropper) Sadly, David Niven cannot be with us tonight, but he has sent his fridge. (applause; ‘Around the World in Eighty Days’ music; the fridge is pushed down by the men in brown coats, and a microphone is positioned in front of it. The fridge also has a black tie on.) This is the fridge in which David keeps most of his milk, butter and eggs. What a typically selfless gesture, that he should send this fridge, of all of his fridges, to be with us tonight.
He scarpered!
Well, that’s the mission - now here’s the method. RSM Murdoch will lull the enemy into a false sense of security by giving them large quantities of money, a good home, and a steady job. Then, when they’re upstairs with the wife, Sapper MacDonald will hurl himself at the secret documents, destroying them and himself. Well, that’s the plan, the time is now 19.42 hours. I want you to get to bed, have a good night’s rest and be up on parade early in the morning. Thank you for listening and thank you for a lovely supper.
Actually I’m a gynecologist, but this is my lunch hour.
Not two, not five, not seven but nine bladed sword, which he will wield against all wretched sinners. Sinners just like you sir.
Well, there’s egg and bacon; egg sausage and bacon; egg and spam; egg, bacon and spam; egg, bacon, sausage and spam; spam, bacon, sausage and spam; spam, egg, spam, spam, bacon and spam; spam, spam, spam, egg and spam; spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, baked beans, spam, spam, spam and spam; or Lobster thermidor aux crevettes with a mornay sauce garnished with truffle pâté, brandy and with a fried egg on top and spam.
Warning: lark’s vomit!
Horace Walpole’s Rogue Cheddar [was] one of the first of the Cheese Westerns, to be later followed by Gunfight at Gruyere Corral, 'Ilchester 73, and *The Cheese Who Shot Liberty Valance. *
Yeah, this used to be a nice neighbourhood before the old ladies started moving in. Nowadays some of us daren’t even go down to the shops.
Yes, well, of course, this is just the sort blinkered philistine pig ignorance I’ve come to expect from you non-creative garbage. You sit there on your loathsome, spotty behinds squeezing blackheads, not caring a tinker’s cuss about the struggling artist. You excrement! You lousy hypocritical whining toadies with your lousy color TV sets and your Tony Jacklin golf clubs and your bleeding masonic handshakes! You wouldn’t let me join, would you, you blackballing bastards. Well I wouldn’t become a freemason now if you went down on your lousy, stinking, purulent knees and begged me.
Well, round at my gran’s, she trains polecats, but most of them have suffocated so there should be a bit of spare room in the attic, eh. Know what I mean. Oooh!
You bastards! You vicious, heartless bastards! Look what you’ve done to him! He’s worked his fingers to the bone to make this place what it is, and you come in with your petty feeble quibbling and you grind him into the dirt, this fine, honorable man, whose boots you are not worthy to kiss. Oh… it makes me mad… mad!
How shall we fuck off, o Lord?
Wegawds,
Shodan