Ohh! What wouldn’t I give to be spat at in the face! I sometimes hang awake at night dreaming of being spat at in the face.
The stuff of history is indeed woven in the woof.
But the real question remains. What is the solution, if any, to this problem? What can we do? What am I saying? Why am I sitting in this chair? Why am I on this programme? And what am I going to say next? Here to answer this is a professional cricketer.
The one I was really after was Arthur Hotchkiss’s Devonshire Country Churches.
Shabby... Ken Shabby...
Sorry, squire, I’ve gobbed on your carpet.
Well, how about this, sir?: Bum Biters.
Look! I must warn you that anything you may say will be ignored and furthermore, given half a chance I’ll put my fist through your teeth.
I don’t suppose you have any general surveys of English church architecture?
Well, we’ll be taking you back there as soon as there are any developments.
You fell out of the Tall Tower, you creep!
Kiss me, Hardy!
No! Never! No shrubs!
We are no longer the Knights Who Say Ni. (Ni!) (Shh!)
Philosophy for two?
Well, wouldn’t say no, long as it’s warm and wet.
Kevin Phillips-Bong (Slightly Silly Party)… nought.
Now here is a time check: It’s six and a half minutes to the big green thing.
Run away! Run away!
Having once identified a mason, immediate steps must be taken to isolate him from the general public.