No, Derek. We only "fanny about in tights" when we do Shakespeare. This concerns the annual pantomime. "Robust singers required for the chorus". Interested?
GGrimm
It sounds boring to me. I'd rather have a cup of tea in front of the telly.
Every year, I've gone to the Peter Pan auditions and buckled my swash till my timbers shivered, and every year, I've been presented with seven feet of green foam rubber and informed that my lines are "tick" and "tock".
Dead sexy, knickers and a bra. I was that embarrassed buying them, I had to say they were for me.
KKray
There's only one set of underwear a girl wants at Christmas: yours. You hitch up your boxers and say "There's the wrapping, doll. The present's inside!" (laughs and leaves)
Oh it's alright, son. You know fellas that talk about it most do it least. I know. I talk about it all the time. And I haven't had any since the days of Harold Wilson.
That used to be a decent little corner-shop, which sold string. Any day now, I expect to find my chocolate frog replaced by caramel private parts. Or a strawberry-flavoured lesbian.
You're lying, Constable! The evidence you have presented to support your case is so contemptibly slight and circumstantial, one is forced to think it may be no more than a tissue of lies. A corrupt concoction. Well? WELL?!
Bleeding ballet an' opera. Especially when they spend lottery money on it; wasting the working man's bet on fat screeching old bags from Italy singing like they've got piles. Or some bunch of scrawny bints in tutus called Darcy and Tilda flashing their gussets at a lot of horny perverts. Art? Culture? Staring at posh bird's knickers, that's all Swan bleeding Lake boils down to! They should use all the money for kids with incurable diseases. When me and my Tina buy our lottery ticket, out of the goodness of our hearts...
Yes, and we want to know that, by winning twenty million pounds, we will be helping little kiddies, NOT haughty, hoity, stick it up your toity, high and mighty, tight-nosed, toffee-arsed, sun-dried-tomato-eating lah-de-dah-dy lah-de-daas.
I suppose all mothers think their kids are beautiful, but the interesting thing is, Sir, I actually was. A GORGEOUS little fella. Big eyes, big smile, chubby little cheeks and the purest of pure soprano voices. I could curdle milk while it was still in the cow, Sir. Anyway, one day, Radio Trinidad advertised for a boy soprano. It was my big chance, Sir. The whole street turned out to watch me get on the bus. "Young Frank Gladstone going to be a star," they said, and I would have been but for two things.
My testicles sir. They dropped on the way to the auditions sir. I still believe if that road had been tarmacked I would have got away with it. I was going to sing "O For the Wings of a Dove"; I had to give them "Old Man River" instead.
Right. Standing to one side now. Purpose: to avoid scaring silly old sod to death if not pop-clogs already. [gets flustered] Tango... er, Gemma. Angels one-five, bandits at six o'clock - dive, dive, dive!
