Sing Little Birdie?
I waggled me wig!
And now for something completely different - a man with a tape recorder up his nose.
It’s the Bishop!
And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with diarrhoea and flabby white legs and hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel, and then, once a week there’s an excursion to the local Roman ruins where you can buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleedin’ Watney’s Red Barrel, and one night they take you to a local restaurant with local colour and colouring and they show you there and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keeps singing ‘Torremolinos, Torremolinos’ and complaining about the food - ‘Oh! It’s so greasy isn’t it?’ and then you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic and Dr Scholl sandals and last Tuesday’s ‘Daily Express’ and he drones on and on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuba Libres.
We’ll have none of your imperialist tidbits.
Oh there you go, bringing class into it again.
I’m not.
Oh, don’t be such a baby.
Then they washed their naughty bits.
I’m a Red Sea pedestrian, and I’m proud of it!
Hello, good evening and welcome to Historical Impersonations. And we kick off tonight with Cardinal Richelieu and his impersonation of Petula Clark.
I hear the gooseberries are doing well this year, and so are the mangoes.
That’s just what Jesus said!
My hovercraft is full of eels.
You know too much, my dental friend.
Aren’t we, Flopsy? Aren’t we, Flopsy?
Lemming, Lemming… Lemming of the BDA… Lemming, Lemming… Lemming of the BD… Lemming of the BD… BD, BDA.
There. Flopsy’s dead, and never called me Mother.
There is something going on.