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Comedy sketches written and performed by renowned duo Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie.
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.
Stephen: You have a daughter, I believe? Hugh: Yeah. Yeah, Henrietta. Stephen: Did he, did he? I'm sorry to hear that.
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 - 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.
Barber: Which of sir's manifold hairs would he care to place in my professional care for the purposes of securing an encutment?
[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 Brontë 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?
Headmaster: I can't pretend to be much of a judge of poetry. I'm an English teacher, not a homosexual.
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 - 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.
Stephen: I suppose if I am honest I, erm, I use my penis as a sort of car substitute.
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: [General] What does it say on the name plate on my desk Jacobson? Hugh: [Jacobson] "The Buck Stops At My Ass" sir.
[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.
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."
[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: 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: And then my bereavement counsellor died. I didn't know who to turn to.
Stephen: I stooped to pick a buttercup. Why people leave buttocks lying around, I've no idea.
[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.
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.
Doctor: Frank, this is called inter-oral, extra-nasal respiratory relaxant therapy, and - as the name implies - this an American technique.
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: ] Hugh: Oh, god.
Various Characters: The trouble with David Icke is that he doesn't go quite far enough...
[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?
[repeated line] Stephen, Hugh: Soupy Twist!
[vox pop] Hugh: What's the difference between a man and a woman? [no reply] Hugh: Oh. [wanders off and stops someone else] Hugh: Excuse me. What's the difference between a man and a woman?
Stephen: Yoda has taught you well.
[vox pop] Hugh: I don't know much about pornography. But I know what I like.
[vox pop] Hugh: We took the caravan down to Dorset this year, and pushed it over a cliff.
[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] Hugh: Is this going out on television? [turns to beautiful woman] Hugh: Who the hell are you? Go away! Honestly...
[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.
Hugh: Hello and welcome to "Flying a Light Aeroplane Without Having Had Any Formal Instruction With... ".
[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.
[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] Hugh: the new single by Jason Donovan, [loud again] Hugh: and one multi-coloured pack of Fiestas. Assistant: Jason Donovan? Hugh: That's right. Can you make sure they're all sensitol lubricated?
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]
[Vox pop] Hugh: We had our first child on the NHS, and had to wait nine months. Can you believe it?
[vox pop] Hugh: I can't stop now, my wife is being towed away.
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.