Come in, my little loves. I’ve got no option but to sell you all for scientific experiments.
So far today we’ve had five hours batting from England and already they’re nought for nought.
Here comes that wacky queen again.
Not guilcup.
Pardon me, ah, could someone give me a push?
Horses! Armchairs!
Oh, shit! It’s Mr. Creosote.
Orange water gibbon bucket of plaster.
I thought we were here to discuss archaeology.
Look, who is this Michael Ellis?
Well, would you remember a man six foot nine inches high, fortyish, and he’s got a long scar from here to here and absolutely no nose?
Venezuelan beaver cheese?
And now an appeal for sanity from the Reverend Arthur Belling.
Five is right out!
- Ur’gh! I’ve got Vermeer all down my shirt…
- Watteau, dear?
- What a terrible joke.
- But it’s my only line.
Oh, just call me darling.
I’ll do what I like, because I’m six foot five and I eat punks like you for breakfast.
It’s just a flesh wound.
I preferred the dirty version.
Good evening. I’d like to talk to you tonight about the place of the nude in my bed … um … in the history of my bed … of art, of art, I’m sorry. The place of the nude in the history of tart… call-girl… I’m sorry. I’ll start again… Bum … oh what a giveaway. The place of the nude in art.