The Management regrets that it will not be showing a feature film this evening as it eats into the profits.
Can I call you ‘Frank’? Richard Nixon’s got a hedgehog called Frank. Now, Frank – Fran – Frannie – little Frannie-pooh…
Oh, most magnificent and merciful majesty, master of the universe, protector of the meek, whose nose we are not worthy to pick and whose very feces are an untrammelled delight, and whose peacocks keep us awake all hours of the night with their noisy lovemaking, we beseech thee, tell thy humble servants the name of the section between the triglyphs in the frieze section of a classical Doric entablature.
I’m turning you all out! I’m not having my house filled with filthy perverts. Now look, I’m giving you just half a minute then I’m going to call the police, so get out!
No right, well gentlemen, I’ll just remind you of the faculty rules: Rule one - no pooftahs. Rule two, no member of the faculty is to maltreat the Abbos in any way whatsoever - if there’s anybody watching. Rule three - no pooftahs. Rule four - I don’t want to catch anyone not drinking in their room after lights out. Rule five - no pooftahs. Rule six - there is no rule six! Rule seven - no pooftahs. That concludes the reading of the rules, Bruce.
Dear Sir, I am writing to complain about that sketch about people failing out of a high building. I have worked all my life in such a building and have never once… arrgghhh
Kiss me, Hardy!
From the plastic arts we turn to football. Last night in the Stadium of Light, Jarrow, we witnessed the resuscitation of a great footballing tradition, when Jarrow United came of age, in a European sense, with an almost Proustian display of modern existentialist football. Virtually annihilating by midfield moral argument the now surely obsolescent catennachio defensive philosophy of Signor Alberto Fanffino. Bologna indeed were a side intellectually out argued by a Jarrow team thrusting and bursting with aggressive Kantian positivism and outstanding in this fine Jarrow team was my man of the match, the arch-thinker, free scheming, scarcely ever to be curbed, midfield cognoscento, Jimmy Buzzard.
Perhaps he was dictating.
What do you mean! I’ve smuggled watches before, you know! I’ve smuggled bombs, cameras, microfilms, aircraft components, you name it - I’ve smuggled it.
No you haven’t!
Not necessarily. I could be arguing in my own spare time.
…The Larch.
Then.
A duck!
There is little or no offensive material, apart from four c***s, one clitoris, and a foreskin, and as they only occur in this opening introduction, you are past them now. You can relax and enjoy this quality product, secure in the knowledge that it has been specially created for the lover of fine things and the man of good taste." * FART *
Enough of this gay banter.
No, so Jack Bodel has defeated Sir Kenneth Clark in the very first round here tonight and so this big Lincolnshire heavyweight becomes the new Oxford Professor of Fine Art.
Greeat!
What’s so… funny about ‘Biggus Dickus’?