I try to be liked, God knows I try. I regale you with amusing stories of my time in the Hammond Organ Owners' Society. You never laugh. I offer to talk you through my photo collection of 20th-century telegraph poles. You've always got some excuse. None of you like Morris dancing. Would that break your hearts, every once in a while, getting our knees in the air, the jingle of bells, the clonk of wood on wood? Every time I suggest it, you pretend to be ill.
You've got it wrong, man. We just thought you wouldn't want to come. Now we know you do, great, you can come. The way you're going on about it, it's like some major conspiracy, we've been planning it for days. We haven't. (which of course is a lie)
Well, we haven't had time to make a full official estimate. But at a rough guess, and obviously this is subject to alteration pending information updates, roundabout: none of them.
Well, we haven't had time to make a full official estimate. But at a rough guess, and obviously this is subject to alteration pending information updates, roundabout: none of them.
Yeah, Rimmer, right, absolutely. Now all the corpses that litter that battlefield can just lie there, safe under the knowledge that they snuffed it under a flag of peace, and can now happily decompose in a land of freedom. Ya smeghead.
Rimmer, they're a bunch of arrogant, pompous, emotionally weird, stuck-up megalomaniacs. Do you really think you're going to fit in with them? (Pause) What am I saying? Bon voyage!
Look, I'm not much good at big speeches, and I know I haven't always been an easy guy to get on with. And I know that, given the choice, I probably wouldn't have chosen you as friends. But, I just want to say that over the years, I have come to regard you as...people I met. I'd just better go, OK?
Only as a myth; a dark fable; a horror tale, told across the flickering embers of a midnight fire, wherever hardened space dogs gather to drink fermented vegetable products and compete in tales of blood-chilling terror!