The New Statesman

Piers:
Gosh, you're Victor Crosby? You were in my newspaper!

Alan:
Was he really, Piers? The last time I had something that white and flabby in my newspaper, it had just been fired in batter!

Sarah:
Where did you spend last night?

Alan:
I had an all night sitting.

Sarah:
Oh, I hope you didn't suffocate the poor girl!

Alan:
You're having an affair with him, aren't you?

Sarah:
Of course I'm not, Alan. I mean he's fat and flabby, and, uh, he's got horrible greasy hair!

Alan:
Didn't stop you with Nigel Lawson, did it?

Alan's Mother:
Dinner went rather well, I thought.

Alan B'Stard:
Rather well? You poured an entire bottle of champagne down Fergie's cleavage!

Alan's Mother:
There was room for it.

Alan B'Stard:
And then you started to cut your toenails with the *grape* scissors!

Alan's Mother:
Do you think anybody noticed?

Alan B'Stard:
Bottom please, Piers!

Alan B'Stard:
If your IQ was any lower, you'd need watering.

Piers:
[to Sarah] Alan's going to blow my brains out!

Alan:
I'm not that good a shot, Piers.

[Alan's Mother has turned up, dressed as a tramp, and asking to live with him and Sarah]

Alan:
Alright, Mother, you can stay. You can live with us till the day you die, or next Sunday, whichever's soonest.

Alan's Mother:
Did you hear that? Veiled threats, Sir Piers! I'm frightened to go home with him now, in case he murders me.

Piers:
Oh, surely not!

Alan's Mother:
He tried before, when he was seven.

Alan:
I told the police at the time, I left that roller skate at the top of the stairs by accident.

Alan's Mother:
What about the bath of acid at the bottom of the stairs?

[Piers is helping Alan's mother with the washing up]

Piers:
Don't worry, Mrs B'stard, he *is* in the Royal Navy. He must be used to getting cream down his trousers.

Liberal Democrat MP:
I should like to point out on behalf of the Liberal Democrats, That although we are very nice people we have absolutely no idea how to run a country.

Sheriff:
[about Piers] Say, Is your buddy all right in the head?

Alan:
It's too early to tell. There's a search party in there as we speak looking for his brain.

Alan B'Stard:
Who in this country was not moved when that great Englishman, Gazza, wept bitter tears at the World Cup last year? People thought that he was crying because he had been booked by the umpire and so would miss the final. But that was not the reason. He was crying at the thought that the Conservative government, the only government this young hero had ever known, was behind in the opinion polls. He was weeping at the threat of the return to power of a Labour rabble led by a bald Welsh windbag, dedicated to destroying Britain's prosperity, running down our currency, encouraging satanist abuse of our children, spreading AIDS through their sponsorship of homosexual behaviour, abolishing the House of Lords, and executing the royal family. Gazza didn't want that for his children, do you want it for yours? Or do you want a government that lets you share in Britain's prosperity by offering you the chance of five, yes five, free Sun jackpot bingo cards with every registered Tory membership application? Yes, apply now to join the Tory party at this week's once in a lifetime special offer price of only ?9.99 and you will receive a free Tarzan Teenage Hero Turtle T-shirt, a Gazza car tidy, and the News of the World every Sunday for a year.

Alan:
Why should we, the country that produced Shakespeare, Christopher Wren, and those are just the people on our banknotes for Christ's sake, cower down to the countries that produced Hitler, Napoleon, the Mafia, and the the the, the the the, the the the Smurfs!

Alan:
Remember my friends, God is dead. Marx is also dead. But the market lives. The market must become your new God.

Alan:
Where do you pick up those five guinea words? Anything over two syllables and you usually have to have a lie down.

[last lines]

[after tying Donna to her bed at her request, Alan accidentally leaves her bound for an extended period due to unavoidable circumstances]

Donna Nightingale:
Where have you been? Come on, talk to me will you? Have you got them - my pills? I really need them. I'm so wired!

Alan B'Stard:
[Alan checks his pockets] Wallet, passport, airline ticket.

Donna Nightingale:
Alan, you kinky son-of-a-b*tch, you've got me chained up here at your mercy. Do what you want!

Alan B'Stard:
[chuckling evilly as he leaves Donna's apartment] Goodbye, Donna.

Donna Nightingale:
Now there's a man who really understands *bondage*.

[while wrestling with Donna on top of her bed]

Alan B'Stard:
Is this a waterbed or are we having an earthquake?

[Donna has convinced Alan to tie her to her bed as a prelude to sex]

Donna Nightingale:
Tighter! Tighter! Oww! That's great! I hope you won't go and rip off my flimsy underwear and ravage my defenseless body.

Alan B'Stard:
Well, I wouldn't lay any odds. This is better than being a gynocologist.

Donna Nightingale:
Chain me to the bed, will you?

Alan B'Stard:
What?

Donna Nightingale:
I need to be restrained; it helps me feel unrestrained. I need bonds of steel to hold me down once I get started or I'll tear you to shreds!

Alan B'Stard:
Oh, I love it! This is just like the movies.

Donna Nightingale:
Oh no, wait! I need my 'ludes.

Alan B'Stard:
'Ludes? Oh, I can be lewd. I can be really disgusting!

Donna Nightingale:
No no no, my Quaaludes. They relax me. They make sex last *forever*.

Alan B'Stard:
Do they? Where are they? Give me some!

[while Donna is tied to her bed, Alan searches her apartment for her Quaaludes]

Donna Nightingale:
I must have left them in the car!

Alan B'Stard:
The car. The car. The car?

Donna Nightingale:
The car!

Alan B'Stard:
The car. The car. The car!

Donna Nightingale:
I'm sorry, Alan!

Alan B'Stard:
No, no, that's all right. All right. I'll go get it. It's in the car. Right. Don't go away.

Donna Nightingale:
Why don't you slip into something more uninhibited?

Piers Fletcher-Dervish:
Can I come, too, Alan?

Alan B'Stard:
I don't know, Piers!

House of Commons Speaker:
Now, Mr. B'stard, you've heard the evidence of the manager of the Royal Excelcier Hotel, who saw you book in in the company of several underage girls.

Alan B'Stard:
[Slight chuckle] Yes. I am the Parlimentary Advisor to the Young Lady's Recreational Association, and so, naturally, I wanted to find out what young ladies like to do for fun.

House of Commons Speaker:
And what did they do for fun on the night of May the 14th?

Alan B'Stard:
[Chuckling to himself] They sang "Ging Gang Goolie".

House of Commons Speaker:
[Not amused] "Ging Gang Goolie"?

Judge:
Didn't you ever go camping? If you don't know, it goes [singing] Ging gang goolie goolie goolie goolie watcha.

Judge, Young Lady's Recreation Association Members:
[singing] Ging gang goo Ging gang goo Ging gang goolie goolie goolie goolie watcha...

Judge:
[Slamming down his gabel] I don't think so!

House of Commons Speaker:
Thank you, my Lord, the court is alive to the sound of music.

House of Commons Speaker:
Thank you, my lord, the court is now alive to the sound of music. But to continue on to the more somber melodies we are forced to sing down here, and particularly to Tracy Hobson, age 15. Pamela Green, age 15 and a half. And Ralph. A cross-bread bearded collie. Age unknown.

Judge:
[Banging his gavel] Silence in court! [Looks up from his papers and sees Piers trying unsuccessfully to sneak in] Mr. Fletcher-Dervish, I presume?

Piers Fletcher-Dervish:
[Nervously] I pray the court's indulgence, my lord. My train was hijacked by irate commuters and I was taken to Cop Foster's against my will. Have I missed much?

Judge:
Not as much as you're going to miss. I fine you one thousand guineas for contempt of court. Well, I think this is a suitable place to adjourn proceedings for this afternoon, as I have tickets for the lady's semi-finals at Wimbledon. Usher, the pictures please. [Takes a look at the pictures, gets a big smile on his face, and quickly puts the papers away]