A Bit of Fry and Laurie

Barber:
Which of sir's manifold hairs would he care to place in my professional care for the purposes of securing an encutment?

Stephen:
I stooped to pick a buttercup. Why people leave buttocks lying around, I've no idea.

Doctor:
Frank, this is called inter-oral, extra-nasal respiratory relaxant therapy, and - as the name implies - this an American technique.

Stephen:
You have a daughter, I believe?

Hugh:
Yeah. Yeah, Henrietta.

Stephen:
Did he, did he? I'm sorry to hear that.

Stephen:
If you try and kill them, you're put in prison; if you try and talk to them, you vomit. There's only one thing worse than an estate agent but at least that can be safely lanced, drained and surgically dressed.

Hugh:
Hello and welcome to "Flying a Light Aeroplane Without Having Had Any Formal Instruction With... ".

Headmaster:
I can't pretend to be much of a judge of poetry. I'm an English teacher, not a homosexual.

Hugh:
Good evening and welcome to "Realizing I've Given The Wrong Directions To... ". Tonight I shall be Realizing I've Given The Wrong Directions To Rabbi Michael Leibovitz. Rabbi... [suddenly realises, mutters:] Oh, god.

Stephen:
[General] What does it say on the name plate on my desk Jacobson?

Hugh:
[Jacobson] "The Buck Stops At My Ass" sir.

Stephen:
The reason we're not going to do this sketch is that it contains a great deal of sex and violence.

Hugh:
A great deal.

Stephen:
Lots of sex and violence.

Hugh:
That's right. During the sketch, Stephen hits me several times with a golf club.

Stephen:
Which of course wouldn't matter except that I do it very sexily.

Hugh:
That's the trouble, you see. He does it so sexily. I wish you could see it.

Stephen:
And then the sketch ends with us going to bed together...

Hugh:
...violently.

Stephen:
Very, very violently. Now this raises problems.

Hugh:
Not for me.

Police Sgt.:
I apprehended the accused and advised him of his rights. He replied, "Why don't you ram it up your pim-hole, you fusking cloff prunker."

Judge:
"Why don't you ram it up your pim-hole you fusking... " er, cloth-blanket was it?

Lawyer:
Er, I believe it was... er...

Judge:
Yes, yes?

Lawyer:
Cloff-prunker, m'lud.

Judge:
I see. Forgive my ignorance, but what exactly is a "cloff-prunker"?

Lawyer:
Well, m'lud, it's...

Judge:
Yes?

Lawyer:
It's... um... an illicit practice whereby one person... erm...

Judge:
Well?

Lawyer:
Whereby one person frangilates another's slimp, m'lud.

Judge:
He does what?

Lawyer:
He or she gratifies the other person by... smuctating them avially.

Stephen:
I suppose if I am honest I, erm, I use my penis as a sort of car substitute.

Stephen:
Delivery. In a modern society jokes must be delivered on time. If you experience any delivery where the timing is too...

Hugh:
...slow?

Stephen:
...or if the timing should be t...

Hugh:
[interrupts Fry] quick, - or, if the joke never even... [stops speaking]

Stephen:
...then the commission will be only too happy to look into it. The Comedy Charter. Peace of mind.

Hugh:
Audience power.

Stephen:
Your guarantee of satisfaction and delivery.

Hugh:
Without dripping.

[vox pop]

Hugh:
I just wish they hadn't called it the Common Market. Is that snobbish of me? I mean why not the Nice Market? It would be so much nicer.

[vox pop]

Stephen:
Allergies? Well, I'm not good on strawberries, come out in a bit of a rash. The worst one though is Marmite. Only got to smell the stuff and I start voting Conservative.

[vox pop]

Stephen:
Secret vices? I don't know. Rather too fond of chocolate Hob Nobs. My wife tells me I overdo the heroin. Otherwise, not really.

[vox pop - as policeman]

Hugh:
People often ask what we keep under our helmets. Well, I'll show you.

[takes off his helmet and looks very pleased with himself - puts his hand on top of his head and feels around]

Hugh:
Hold up, some bastard's nicked it.

[vox pop]

Stephen:
Used to be this chap at my school called Richard Braine. You'll never guess our nickname for him. We used to call him Rick Brain. Oh, no, that can't be right.

[vox pop]

Hugh:
Moira Stewart... and Jill Gascoigne... neither of them wrote back. Can you believe these people? I mean how much trouble can it be to just bung a pair of stockings in the post?

[vox pop - as woman]

Stephen:
Well, I was born Mary Patterson, but then I married and naturally took my husband's name, so now I'm Neil Patterson.

[vox pop - showing the places on his body]

Stephen:
The cut me right round that way to see if they could find anything. Then they had a dig about down here. Still nothing. So they poked this thing up my... you know... had a look up there. Nothing. I'm going through the red channel next time.

[vox pop]

Hugh:
We took the caravan down to Dorset this year, and pushed it over a cliff.

[vox pop]

Hugh:
And then my bereavement counsellor died. I didn't know who to turn to.

[vox pop]

Hugh:
What's the difference between a man and a woman?

[no reply]

Hugh:
Oh.

[wanders off and stops someone else] Excuse me. What's the difference between a man and a woman?

[vox pop]

Hugh:
I don't know much about pornography. But I know what I like.

[vox pop - With beautiful woman on arm]

Hugh:
Yes, indeed. Very happily married. Very happily married indeed. My wife's away at the moment visiting her sister in Wales, but very...

[suddenly realises] Is this going out on television?

[turns to beautiful woman] Who the hell are you? Go away! Honestly...

Stephen:
We're going to leave you with tonight's cocktail recipe. This one's called "A Slow Snog With A Distant Relative". For this you'll need two measures of brandy, three of rum. One measure pink gin, one white. A dash of lemonade, a sprint of orange-juice, a spoonful of crushed Sugar Puffs, two hard-boiled eggs and an open-toed sandal, size nine if you can get it. Hit it, Mr Laurie, if you'd be so very kind.

[Hugh strikes up a jazzy sort of riff while Stephen mixes a "Slow Snog With A Distant Relative", spilling drinks everywhere]

Hugh:
Then I was Princess Anne's assistant for a while, but I chucked that in because it was obvious they were never going to make me Princess Anne, no matter how well I did the job. It was a question of who you were, rather than how well you did, you know, and I hate that.

[Vox pop]

Stephen:
So I said "Why don't you shove it where the sun don't shine" and so he did. He put it in the cupboard under the stairs and it hasn't been mentioned since.

[Vox pop]

Hugh:
We had our first child on the NHS, and had to wait nine months. Can you believe it?

[a chemist's counter:
Hugh strides up to confront the shop assistant]

Assistant:
Can I help you?

Hugh:
Yes please. I'd like eight packets of condoms, please.

Assistant:
Eight?

Hugh:
Eight. Four of them featherlite, three of them ribbed, [half sotto voce] the new single by Jason Donovan, [loud again] and one multi-coloured pack of Fiestas.

Assistant:
Jason Donovan?

Hugh:
That's right. Can you make sure they're all sensitol lubricated?

[vox pop]

Hugh:
I can't stop now, my wife is being towed away.

[Stephen enters a bookshop. Hugh is the assistant. Stephen stares at Hugh for a long time]

[holding up a book]

Stephen:
Did you write this?

[examining book]

Hugh:
Jane Eyre. No, that was Charlotte Bront? as a matter of fact.

Stephen:
Right. Well, I'd like to see her then please.

Hugh:
I'm afraid she's no longer with us.

Stephen:
Oh? Indeed? I can hardly say I'm surprised. Where can I get in touch with her?

Various Characters:
The trouble with David Icke is that he doesn't go quite far enough...

[repeated line]

Stephen, Hugh:
Soupy Twist!

Hugh:
[as Peter] What the hell ever happened to the old John?

Stephen:
[as John] We pulled it up when we put in the carpark.

Stephen:
Imagine a piano keyboard. Um, 88 keys, only 88, and yet, and yet, hundreds of new melodies, new tunes, new harmonies are being composed upon hundreds of different keyboards every day in Dorset alone. Now, our language, Tiger, our language. Hundreds of thousands of available words, frillions of legitimate new ideas... Hm? So that I can say the following sentence and be utterly sure that nobody has ever said it before in the history of human communication: "Hold the newsreader's nose squarely, waiter, or friendly milk will countermand my trousers."

Stephen:
Yoda has taught you well.

Stephen:
Bitchmother, Come Light My Bottom.

Various Characters:
Hold the news reader's nose squarely waiter, or friendly milk will countermand my trousers.

Stephen:
Um, language is my mother, my father, my husband, my brother, my sister, my whore, my mistress, my check-out girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Um, language is the breath of God. Language is the dew on a fresh apple. It's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning light as you pluck from an old bookshelf a half-forgotten book of erotic memoirs. Language is the creak on a stair, it's a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, it's a half-remembered childhood birthday party. It's the warm, wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy. Uh, the hulk of a charred panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl. Uh, it's cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.

Various Characters:
[vox pop - as woman] Christ, I've left the iron on!

John:
Damn it four times around the car park and back in for another damn it!

John:
But damn it every which way but one, Peter!

Peter:
John, do something for me. Come over here to the window, take a look.

John:
What is this, some kind of game?

Peter:
No game, John! Tell me what you see!

John:
[peeks through the blinds out the window] I see a car park.

Peter:
Well that's funny, John. Because you know, the last time you looked out of that window, you saw... an idea. Don't you remember?

John:
Yes, I remember thinking that would be a good place to put a car park.

Peter:
No, don't you "dammit I-" me! We got *that* close, and you're just going to *lie* down, and *walk* away?

John:
Damn, double damn, and an extra pint of damn for the weekend!

Various Characters:
Yesterday was my birthday. I won't tell you which because I hate you.

Stephen:
I think animal testing is a terrible idea. They get all nervous and give silly answers.

Hugh:
But did you enjoy their criticism?

Stephen:
Oh, I loved it. I wanted to go to bed with it and kiss it in many soft, private, little places.

Stephen:
I think it was Donald Mainstock, the great amateur squash player, who pointed out how lovely I was. Until that time, I think it was safe to say that I had never really been aware of my own timeless brand of loveliness. But his words smote me because, of course you see, I am lovely in a fluffy moist kind of a way and who would have it otherwise? I walk, let's be splendid about this, in a lightly accented cloud of gorgeousness that isn't far short of being, quite simply, terrific. The secret of smooth almost shiny loveliness of the order of which we're discussing in this simple, frank, creamy soft way doesn't reside in oils, unguents, balms, ointments, creams, astringents, milks, moisturisers, liniments, lubricants, embrocations or balsams, to be rather divine for just one noble moment. It resides, and I mean this in a pink, slightly special way, in one's attitude of mind. To be gorgeous and high and true and fine and fluffy and moist and sticky and lovely, all you have to do is believe that one is gorgeous and high and true and fine and fluffy and moist and sticky and lovely. And I believe it of myself, tremulously at first, and then with mounting heat and passion because, stopping off for a second to be super again, I'm so often told it. That's the secret really.

Stephen:
Landlord, I'll have two foaming pints of your most homosexual beer, thank you.

Hugh:
Oh, and a packet of arse bandits as well.

Hugh:
Oh, well, it's because I'm deaf, sir, that my sense of vision is naturally enhanced. Blind people are known to have very keen hearing. So they sort of cancel each other out, sir.

Stephen:
You mean you can see and hear perfectly?

Hugh:
Yes, because I'm blind and deaf.

Hugh:
You mean we've been sleeping together all this time, behind my back?

Hugh:
"My word, Jane," I used to say to my wife, "the garden's looking very homosexual this morning."

Stephen:
Quite right. Quite right. Lovely word.

Well, ask a stupid person and you get a stupid answer.