Figgis: Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Liszt, Brahms, Panties...I'm sorry...Schumann, Schubert, Mendelssohn and Bach. Names that will live for ever. But there is one composer whose name is never included with the greats. Why is it the world never remembered the name of Johann Gambolputty de von Ausfern-schplenden-schlitter-crasscrenbon-fried-digger-dangle-dungle-burstein-von-knacker-thrasher-apple-banger-horowitz-ticolensic-grander-knotty-spelltinkle-grandlich-grumblemeyer-spelterwasser-kürstlich-himbleeisen-bahnwagen-gutenabend-bitte-eine-nürnburger-bratwustle-gerspurten-mit-zweimache-luber-hundsfut -gumberaber-shönendanker-kalbsfleisch-mittler-raucher von Hautkopft of Ulm?
Father: Now I understand that you want to marry my daughter?
Shabby: [sniffing and coughing.] That's right ... Yeah... Yeah...
Father: Yes, you realize of course that Rosaround is still rather young?
Rosamund: Daddy you make me feel like a child. [she gazes at Shabby fondly.]
Shabby: [lasciviously.] Oh yeah ... You know... Get 'em when they're young eh... Eh! OOOOH! Know what I mean eh, oooh! [makes obscene gesture involving elbow.]
Father: Well I'm sure you know what I mean, Mr ... Er... Mr... Er . Er?
Shabby: Shabby... Ken Shabby...
Father: Mr Shabby... I just want to make sure that you'll be able to look after my daughter...
Shabby: Oh yeah, yeah. I'll be able to look after 'er all right sport, eh, know what I mean, eh emggh!
Father: And, er, what job do you do?
Shabby: I clean out public lavatories.
Father: Is there promotion involved?
Shabby: Oh yeah, yeah. [produces handkerchief and clean throat horribly into it.] After five years they give me a brush.
Mrs. Conclusion: Hullo, Mrs. Premise.
Mrs. Premise: Hullo, Mrs. Conclusion.
Mrs. Conclusion: Busy day?
Mrs. Premise: Busy? I just spent four hours burying the cat.
Mrs. Conclusion: *Four hours* to bury a cat?
Mrs. Premise: Yes - it wouldn't keep still.
Mrs. Conclusion: Oh - it wasn't dead, then?
Mrs. Premise: No, no - but it's not at all well, so we were going to be on the safe side.
Kenny Lust: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the refreshment room here at Bletchley. My name is Kenny Lust and I'm your compère for tonight. You know, once in a while it is my pleasure, and my privilege, to welcome here at the refreshment room, some of the truly great international artists of our time. And tonight we have one such artist. Ladies and gentlemen, someone whom I've always personally admired, perhaps more deeply, more strongly, more abjectly than ever before. A man... Well, more than a man, a god, a great god, whose personality is so totally and utterly wonderful my feeble words of welcome sound wretchedly and pathetically inadequate. Someone whose boots I would gladly lick clean until holes wore through my tongue, a man who is so totally and utterly wonderful, that I would rather be sealed in a pit of my own filth than dare tread on the same stage with him! Ladies and gentlemen... The incomparably superior human being, Harry Fink!
Man: [from offstage.] He can't come!
Kenny Lust: Never mind, he's not all he's cracked up to be.