You’re in luck, here’s the Lord Mayor.
I’m not a pacifist, sir: I’m a coward.
Brave Sir Robin Ran Away!
Bravely ran away, away!
The rush of the mountain stream, the bleat of the sheep, and the broad, clear Highland skies reflected in tarn and loch form the breathtaking backdrop against which Ewan McTeagle writes such poems as “Lend us a quid 'til the end of the week.”
Beethoven: Pikelets, pikelets. Shakespeare never had this trouble.
Evening, Michelangelo. I want to talk to you about this painting of yours, The Last Supper. I’m not happy about it.
Jehovah, jehovah…Jehovah !!!
I say you are Lord, and I should know. I’ve followed a few.
Is your name not Bruce, then?
Shut your noise, you! And get that suit on! And no singing!
That’s going to cause a bit of confusion.
I think what’s happened to your wife is terribly, terribly, funny…tragic!
Look, I took the liberty of examining that parrot when I got it home, and I discovered the only reason that it had been sitting on its perch in the first place was that it had been NAILED there.
Senseless waste of human life.
Right! Stop that! It’s SILLY. Very SILLY indeed!
Now, one small thing I noticed back here, where are we? Ah yes, your middle name Olbalinskavichski, not Russian are you?
Bingo!
I object to all this sex on the television. I mean, I keep falling off.
On second thought, let’s not go to Camelot. It is a silly place.
Look, I came in here for an argument!