The only trouble is, you gave me the idea before I’d given you the pound. And that’s not good business.
What’s all this then?
I wave my private parts at your aunties, you you cheesy lot of second-hand electric donkey bottom biters!
Just ignore them.
My hovercraft is full of eels.
Come and see the violence inherent in the system.
Here! Don’t you start doing a documentary on us, young man.
It’s a fair cop.
What am I wearing on my head?
Having once identified a mason immediate steps must be taken to isolate him from the general public.
My brain hurts!
What’s that penguin doing on the telly?
It’s an interesting question. Personally I rather adhere to the Bergsonian idea of laughter as a social sanction against inflexible behaviour but… excuse me a moment… And now…
You’re a loony.
Ah ha! He fell for my little trap.
- To be blunt, your cat is in a rut. It’s the old stockbroker syndrome, the suburban fin de siècle ennui, angst, weltschmertz, call it what you will.
- Moping.
- In a way, in a way … hum … moping, I must remember that.
The… Larch.
Mr. and Mrs. Watson of Ivy Cottage, Worplesdon Road, Hull, chose a very cunning way of not being seen. When we called at their house, we found that they had gone away on two weeks holiday. They had not left any forwarding address, and they had bolted and barred the house to prevent us from getting in. However a neighbor told us where there were.
[BOOM!]
And here is the neighbor… [BOOM!] Here is where he lived [BOOM!] And this is where Lord Langdin lived who refused to speak to us [BOOM!] …so did the gentleman who lived here…[BOOM!] and here… [BOOM!] and of course here… [BOOM!] [BOOM!] [BOOM!]
That’s a very silly line. Sit down.
There are just too many Whickers.