You probably noticed that I didn’t say ‘and now for something completely different’ just now. This is simply because I am unable to appear in the show this week.
JUDGE: Michael Norman Randall, you have been found guilty of the murder of Arthur Reginald Webster, Charles Patrick Trumpington, Marcel Agnes Bernstein, Lewis Anona Rudd, John Malcolm Kerr, Nigel Sinclair Robinson, Norman Arthur Potter, Felicity Jayne Stone, Jean-Paul Reynard, Rachel Shirley Donaldson, Stephen Jay Greenblatt, Karl-Heinz Mullet, Belinda Anne Ventham, Juan-Carlos Fernandez, Thor Olaf Stensgaard, Lord Kimberrley of Pretoria, Lady Kimberley of Pretoria, The Right Honourable Nigel WarmsIcy Kimberley, Robert Henry Noonan and Felix James Bennett, on or about the morning of the 19th December 1972. Have you anything to say before I pass sentence?
DEFENDANT: Yes, sir. I’m very sorry.
Brie, Roquefort, Pol le Veq. Port Salut, Savoy Aire, Saint Paulin, Carrier de lest, Bres, Bleu, Bruson?
Well… it’s very runny, actually, sir.
What do you mean ‘Urgghh’? I don’t like spam!
Dad… it’s the man from ‘The Hay Wain’ by Constable to see you.
I’m, I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. The man who has been speaking to you is an impostor. He is not in fact the Bishop of East Anglia, but a man wanted by the police. I am the Bishop of East Anglia and anyone who doesn’t believe me can look me up in the book.
Bunch of monkeys on your ceiling, sir! Grab your egg and fours and let’s get the bacon delivered.
Arthur “Two Sheds” Jackson.
Those who hear them seldom live to tell the tale!
Bloody sharks.
I’ve just spent four hours burying the cat.
I just left my husband out here while I went in to do some shopping and I came back and he was gone. He was only forty-seven.
This isn’t a lifeboat, dear. This is 24 Parker Street.
Ah, hungry!
Well, all good things must come to an end, and that’s all for this week. But to close our programme, Dame Irene Stoat, who celebrates her eighty-fifth birthday this month, reads one of her most famous poems.
Much to his Mum and Dad’s dismay,
Horace ate himself one day.
He didn’t stop to say his grace,
He just sat down and ate his face.
We can’t have this! His Dad declared,
If that lad’s ate, he should be shared.
But even as they spoke they saw,
Horace eating more and more.
First his legs then his thighs,
His arms, his nose, his hair, his eyes…
Stop him someone! Mother cried,
Those eyeballs would be better fried!
Bravely bold Sir Robin rode forth from Camelot
He was not afraid to die, O brave Sir Robin
He was not at all afraid to be killed in nasty way
Brave, brave, brave, brave Sir Robin!
He was not in the least bit scared to be mashed into a pulp
Or to have his eyes gouged out and his elbows broken
To have his kneecaps split and his body burned away
And his limbs all hacked and mangled, brave Sir Robin
His head smashed in and his heart cut out
And his liver removed and his bowels unplugged
And his nostrils raped and his bottom burned off
And his pen–
That’s-- that’s, uh-- that’s enough music for now, lads. Heh. Looks like there’s dirty work afoot.
Terrific race, the Romans!
Bloody Romans.