Don’t come here with that posh talk, you nasty, stuck-up twit!
What a strange turn this cycling tour has taken. Mr Gulliver
appears to have lost his memory and far from being interested in safer food is
now convinced that he is Clodagh Rogers the young girl singer. I am taking him
for medical attention.
Thank you, thank you, Conrad Poohs and his exploding teeth! A smile, two fangs, and an “excuse me!”
A chicken, sir. Certainly.
An hoop.
Friends of the revolution I have returned!
September 4th. Well, I never. We are now in the Alpes Maritimes region of Southern France. Clodagh seems more intent on reaching Moscow than on rehearsing her new BBC2 series with Buddy Rich and the Younger Generation…
Good evening. Tonight - dinosaurs. I have here sitting in the studio next to me an elk. Aaagghhhh!
Better get a bucket. I’m gonna throw up.
All right, we’ll give it a whirl.
“VOOM”? Mate, this bird wouldn’t “voom” if you put four million volts through it! ‘E’s bleedin’ demised!
Senseless waste of human life.
Go and boil your bottoms, you sons of silly persons!
Pretty strong meat there, from * sniff* Sam Peckinpah.
I’m not a roman mum, I’m a kike, a yid, a heebie, a hook-nose, I’m kosher mum, I’m a Red Sea pedestrian, and proud of it!
What I object to is you automatically treat me like an inferior!
We find your American beer like making love in a canoe. It’s fucking close to water.
Is your name not Bruce, then?
If we took the bones out, it wouldn’t be crunchy, would it?
Stalin has always hated me.