A Very Peculiar Practice

Dr. Jock McCannon:
Would you care for a wee drop of something, Stephen?

Dr. Stephen Daker:
Oh, not for me! Bit early in the morning.

Dr. Jock McCannon:
Oh! Very wise! I'm delighted to hear you say it. As a matter of fact, your predecessor gave us some cause for anxiety there. Ohhh, he gave the vodka bottle a most tremendous pummeling! [pours a water glass 2/3 full of scotch] A total abstainer, eh? Very wise!

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Top of the morning to you, Maureen! [turns to Stephen] Maureen, as you may guess, is our nurse. A simple Colleen from the bogs, aren't you Maureen. This is Dr Daker, Dr O'Hara's replacement.

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Maureen likes to think she does all the work 'round here, but of course she doesn't. Bone idle, aren't you Maureen, total waste of space!

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Well! Mustn't keep you, Maureen! All those "oirish" aunties, waiting for you letters home!

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
My personal view is, there's nothing wrong with Rose Marie that a damn good rogering wouldn't sort out. Come to think of it, you might be the very man!

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Just thought it was worth mentioning in case you're that way inclined: Always get the totty on someone else's list.

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Let me tell you about this terrible place, Stephen. They call it a "New University", but it's 20 years old now. Concrete's crumbling, all those bloody silly flat roofs leak. We've got a repair budget four times the total salary bill!

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
I'll tell you what it's like. It's like a very, very inefficient sector of British industry. Top management are totally corrupt and idle, middle management are incompetent and idle, and the workforce are bolshy. And idle. And of course, there's no bloody product!

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Now then. What's your track record, old chap?

Dr. Stephen Daker:
Track record?

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Absolutely right! Fair's fair: Mine first. Classical tale of a promising career gone sour. Shrewsbury. Trinity. Guy's. Royal Durham, ICI, Princeton. Spell in Saudi. Then, fatal mistake: Came here. What about you?

Dr. Stephen Daker:
Birmingham... Birmingham... Birmingham... Walsall.

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Oh, look here! You're not gonna give me a lot of tear-jerking stuff about your early days in a shoebox on the M6, I hope!

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
You see, I'm not such a hard bastard as I seem, old chap! You're an idealist, and you've ended up in what's probably the worst practice in the British Isles. I'm really very sorry for you!

Dr. Rose Marie:
What we call illness is something that men do to women.

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Get yourself settled, then shamble over to the University Pub. You can't miss it; it's in what's laughingly called the Piazza. Looks like the gents on Euston Station. Smells like it too.

Dr. Jock McCannon:
This university's emotionally bankrupt, and you are a vile wee man! I'll never drink with you again!

Lyn Turtle:
Oh, you'll see me around.

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Apple juice? I'm not a hippie!

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Anyway, who needs history? [uncomfortable silence] Sorry. Have I said something crass and philistine again?

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Oh dear, really. Gender on the agenda again?

Dr. Jock McCannon:
The poison dwarf's motive may be vile, but his logic is impeccable.

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Really? Old Dickie Dado going 'round the bend?

[first lines]

Dr. Jock McCannon:
Well, now. Our second group meeting of the term. We survive, we survive.

Dr. Jock McCannon:
Dr Daker there, looking very pink and well. Early morning sexual intercourse, no doubt!

Dr. Stephen Daker:
No, no, really, uh... jogging.

Dr. Jock McCannon:
Too bad!

Dr. Jock McCannon:
Bob has some figures for us, culled from his rinky-dinky little computer. Bob!

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Thanks Jock! [reaches for a manila folder, hesitates] Do you think you could manage "Robert"?

Dr. Jock McCannon:
I'll try, Bob. Old habits die hard.

Dr. Bob Buzzard:
Riiight.

Professor Furie:
I need meat, I'm not a sociologist! I can't work on hippie food!

Professor Furie:
Well! That was the worst steak I've had in years. Where's that girl? Over here, Toots!

Waitress:
[walks over] Did you call, Professor Furie?

Professor Furie:
Indeed I did. That steak was terrible. It was roughly hacked by an incompetent butcher from the wrong end of a third-rate animal, badly hung, and then grilled to a frazzle by an idiot.

Waitress:
Why did you eat it, then?

Professor Furie:
Because I was starving! Don't bandy words with me!

Professor Furie:
My compliments to the chef, and would he care for a fistfight with Professor Furie!

Mrs. Kramer:
Professor Furie, you're too wet to see Dr Daker!

Dr. Stephen Daker:
Do sit down, I was hoping we could have a chat.

Professor Furie:
About my wife, perhaps?

Dr. Stephen Daker:
No. I did speak to her yesterday, I hope you don't mind.

Professor Furie:
In bed, no doubt. While you were shafting her, no doubt! Typical of you cold-blooded Tavvy types! Yes I do mind, very much indeed, does that surprise you? My God, I thought of Buzzard, I even thought of McCannon, but it was you, you all the time, Daker! And don't think I'm unaware of the part the Chilean government played in this!

Dr. Stephen Daker:
[pressing intercom, meekly] Help!