Last of the Summer Wine1973

[first lines]

Blamire:
Charming view. Sort of... boring.

Clegg:
Nearly sickly enough for a postcard.

Compo:
If I were a painter, I'd paint that.

Blamire:
Oh, yes? What colour, eh? Great daubs of 'Up Leeds United'?

Clegg:
How about 'Welshman go home'?

Compo:
No, you can't send 'em home. They only get mistreated if they can't speak Welsh.

Blamire:
What this view lacks is a few factory chimneys. Then perhaps there'd some work for our kind.

Clegg:
Nature-lover.

Compo:
You try speaking for yourself. Some of us are idle enough to still appreciate things like this. Anyroad, if them were all built up, where could I exercise my ferrets?

Blamire:
You'd think a sensible nation could ferret out a few jobs for those who want to work. And especially a few for those who don't!

Compo:
[whispers to Clegg] I think Cyril's depressed.

Clegg:
It's easily done. Some of us look at a view like this and all we can see is how bonny it is. But if you're really in tune with nature, if you concentrate and listen, then soon, faintly on the breeze, you begin to sense the million munching teeth of tiny things scoffing even tinier things. Depression could be a kind of art form; there's so much raw material going for it.