Hello, Mr. Spare-Buttons-Supplied-With-The-Shirt. Nice to see you again.
I say, those are sheep, aren’t they?
Aye-uh.
Those are all cricketers, Bruce!
That was a nasty business back at the restaurant.
No, it’s Michael.
The Larch.
Shut your festering gob, you tit. Your type really makes me puke, you vacuous, coffee-nosed, malodorous pervert!
An island inhabited entirely by ex-international interviewers in pursuit of the impossible dream.
What, a raw frog?
Eww. 
Say no more!
Sounded a bit like an alarm going off.
It was a day like any other and Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Brainsample were a perfectly ordinary couple, leading perfectly ordinary lives - the sort of people to whom nothing extraordinary ever happened, and not the kind of people to be the centre of one of the most astounding incidents in the history of mankind … So let’s forget about them and follow instead the destiny of this man … Harold Potter, gardener, and tax official, first victim of Creatures from another Planet.
You shot him! You shot him dead!
Please! Please! This is supposed to be a happy occasion! Let’s not bicker and argue about who killed who. We are here today to witness the union of two young people in the joyful bond of the holy wedlock.
Unfortunately, one of them, my son Herbert, has just fallen to his death.
And we’ve just heard that Her Majesty the Queen has just tuned into this programme and so she is now watching this royal sketch here in this royal set. The actor on the left is wearing the great grey suit of the BBC wardrobe department and the other actor is … about to deliver the first great royal joke here this royal evening.
We done passionfruit.
- Shut up, Stebbins! I haven’t finished. Oh, by the way, congratulations on winning the Italian Grand Prix at Monza.
- Thank you sir!
- Shut up.
Dinsdale? Dinsdale? Dinsdale?