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?
And now… a man with a tape recorder up his brother’s nose.
And now, a man with three buttocks.
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He ran away!
Well if you’re going to split hairs, I’m pissing off.
Well, no, no, provided I get a good liftoff and maybe a gust of breeze over the French coast, I shall be jumping into the centre of Calais itself.
Dynsdale!
Don’t you, eh, pass judgment on other people, or you might get judged yourself.
Er, oh, eleven foot six inches at Motspur Park on July 22nd. Er, but I have done nearly twelve feet unofficially.
Nothing to do with me. I’m not in this show. This is show five - I’m not in until show eight.
It’s not a question of where he grips it.
You see, if you’re five miles out over the English Channel, with nothing but sea underneath you, er, there is a very great impetus to stay in the air.
I hardly think that’s good enough! I think it’s be more appropriate if the box bore a great red label:
"WARNING! LARK’S VOMIT!"
I don’t care how excrementally runny it is.
Oh, oh. I see. I thought, I thought you were the, er… I like the police a lot, I’ve got a lot of time for them.
Oh, fishy fishy fish.
Will you shut up!
And now, the sound of John Denver being strangled:
“You came on my pillow… AArrrrrrghghrrrghghghrrrrrrrrgghgh!”
Thank you.
What a stupid concept.
I’m sorry, we don’t have time for that.