Calendar Girls

Chris:
Lawrence, we're going to need considerably bigger buns.

Chris:
If more people did WI, there'd be half the need for hallucinogenic drugs.

Chris:
It *should* be bloody George Clooney. I mean, come the toss between Burnsall Church and George Clooney, I know which I'd rather wake up looking at.

John:
It is a Norman church, you know.

Chris:
I'm not disputing the loveliness of the church, John. It's the firmness of the buttocks I'm worried about.

Chris:
A while ago I asked John Clarke to give us a talk here at Knapely WI. Annie asked me to read it to you here tonight, and this is what he wrote: "The flowers of Yorkshire are like the women of Yorkshire. Every stage of their growth has its own beauty, but the last phase is always the most glorious. Then very quickly they all go to seed."

Chris:
"Which makes it ironic my favourite flower isn't even indigenous to the British Isles, let alone Yorkshire. I don't think there's anything on this planet that more trumpets life that the sunflower. For me that's because of the reason behind its name. Not because it looks like the sun but because it follows the sun. During the course of the day, the head tracks the journey of the sun across the sky. A satellite dish for sunshine. Wherever light is, no matter how weak, these flowers will find it. And that's such an admirable thing. And such a lesson in life."

Annie:
None of us have been here before, love. I mean, for God's sake, my John didn't see me naked until the spring of 1975.

Chris:
What happened in the spring of '75?

Annie:
There was a lizard in the shower block at Abergele.

Annie:
Quite a few people saw me naked that morning.

Chris:
I'm about to commit heresy. Look, I hate plum jam.

Chris:
I only joined the WI to make my mother happy. I do, I hate plum jam. I'm crap at cakes, I can't make sponge. In fact, seeing as it's unlikely that George Clooney would actually come to Skipton to do a talk on what it was like to be in "ER", there seems very little reason for me to actually stay in the WI. Except suddenly... suddenly I want to raise money in memory of a man I loved, and to do that I'm prepared to take me clothes off for a WI calendar, and if you can't give us ten minutes of your time, Madam Chairman, well then, frankly, guys, I'm going to do it without council approval. Because there are some things that are more important than council approval. And if it means that we get closer to killing off this shitty, cheating, sly, conniving bloody disease that cancer is, oh God, I tell you, I'd run round Skipton market naked, smeared in plum jam, wearing nothing but a knitted tea cosy on me head and singing "Jerusalem".

Lawrence Sertain:
Congratulations! It's a calendar.

Richard:
You're nude in The Telegraph, dear. Can you pass the bacon.

Rod:
They're not charging him.

Annie:
Why? Is it not illegal then?

Rod:
Well cannabis is, but they tend not to worry too much about oregano.

Chris:
The only thing that'd be dangerous in is a quiche.

Ruth:
Right everyone. Has everyone got a ticket?

Ruth:
A passport?

Ruth:
A lying snake for a husband.

Ruth:
No? Only me there, then. Let's go. Come on.

Annie:
I'd rob every penny from this calendar if it would buy me just one more hour with him.

Chris:
How's Jem?

Rod:
He made a quiche on Tuesday. We've been stoned ever since.

Chris:
I may be no hope as a woman but I can bake a victoria sponge... course I didn't bake this one I bought it in Marks and Spencer.

Celia:
Oh get bloody Boticelli in here.

Lawrence Sertain:
Don't. Touch. The buns.