Oh no, no, who let him in?

What the hell is this? I mean, I don’t know what this is. A webed-thing? What the f*** is that? What do I need to do? Just talk in here? In here? Hi-de-hi. I didn’t write this, why should I speak it, can’t you just write it on that webble-thing? Why do I need to dictate something you’ve written for me to dictate? I never had to do this with Shakespeare. What? No, I can hear you fine. You can’t hear me? Well, you need to stop. Deafness, that’s what you get from shagging too much. Right, I’ll just start talking, and you can try to keep up.


You know what? I promised my wife I would control myself, so I’m going to do this sensibly.

I was at home the other day, and some bloke came up to me and said, “Gordon’s Alive!” I stared at him and said, very calmly, “Is he? Oh, that’s good.” He looked at me, rather baffled for a moment, then repeated it, rather more loudly: “Gordon’s alive!” I stared at him and said, ‘Oh no, my dear fellow, you’re doing it all wrong. Here, try it like this: “GORDON’S ALIVE”. Then I punched him in the face. He wasn’t getting up after that. So I collected my mail and went back inside.


When I was journeying through the Congo, I grew rather bored of the silence, so I beat my fists against my chest and screamed “AH, AH-UH-HUH-HA-AHHHH!” just like Tarzan. For some reason, no one else talked to me on the whole way back, so I, uh, oh, what did I do?

I’m completely losing my bloody way here.


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