Every morning at his little three-room semi near Reading, Ken gets up at three o’clock [outside view: light goes on] and goes back to bed again because it’s far too early [light goes off].
No. 1. The Larch. The…
…Larch.
Well, she’s got to come to terms with these things.
What I’m getting at, Jimmy, is you seem to have discovered a new concept with a mode in which you dissected the Italian defence, last night.
(great clipboard chuck at the end of this)
It’s pining for the fjords.
The plumage don’t enter into it.
'Ello, Mister Polly Parrot! I’ve got a lovely fresh cuttle fish for you if you show…
“Moping,” yes, good, I’m going to have to remember that.
The… Larch.
We can guarantee you that not a single armoured division will get done over for… fifteen bob a week.
Better get a bucket. I’m gonna throw up.
I want that man fighting wild dogs by the end of the day!
Good morning, gentlemen. This is a twelve-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…
Perhaps he was dictating.
The Adventures of Biggles. Part one - Biggles dictates a letter.
Don’t call me señor! I’m not a Spanish person. You must call me Mr. Biggles, or Group Captain Biggles, or Mary Biggles if I’m dressed as my wife, but never señor.
Wait until Biggus Dickus hears of this!!
Call Alexander Yacht X4
Judge: Oh shut up!
Of course you don’t getting fucking wafers with it, you cunt. It’s a fucking albatross, innit.