Blackadder

[Flashheart jumps into the trench]

Flashheart:
Ha! Eat knuckle, Fritz!

[Flashheart punches Blackadder and he falls to the ground. Flashheart places a foot on his chest.]

Flashheart:
How disgusting. A boche on the sole of my boot. I shall have to find a patch of grass to wipe it on.

[Flashheart gets off Blackadder]

Flashheart:
Probably get shunned in the officers' mess! "Sorry about the pong, you fellows. Trod in a boche and can't get rid of the wiff!"

[Blackadder gets up]

Blackaddder:
Do you think we could dispense with the hilarious doggy-do metaphor for a moment? I'm not a boche, this is a British trench.

Flashheart:
Is it? Oh that's a piece of luck. Thought I'd landed sausage-side! Ha!

[Flashheart pushes Blackadder]

Flashheart:
Mind if I use your phone? If word gets out that I'm missing, 500 girls will kill themselves. I wouldn't want them on my conscience, not when they ought to be on my face!

[Flashheart kicks the phone]

Flashheart:
Hi. Flashheart here. Yeah, cancel the state funeral, tell the king to stop blubbing. Flash is not dead! I simply ran out of juice! Yeah, and before the girls start saying "Oh, what's the point of living anymore". I'm talking about petrol! Woof, woof! Yeah, I dumped the kite on the proles, so send a car. General Melchett's driver should do. She hangs around with a big nob, so she'll be used to a fellow like me! Woof, woof!

Blackadder:
Look, do you think you can make your obscene phone call somewhere else?

Flashheart:
[taking not a blind bit of notice] No, not in half an hour, you rubber-desk Johnny! Send the bitch with the wheels right now, or I'll fly back to England and give your wife something to hang her towels on!

[Flashheart slams the phone down]

Flashheart:
Okay, dig out your best booze and lets talk about me 'till the car comes! You must be pretty impressed having squadron commander The Lord Flashheart drop in on your squalid bit of line!

Blackadder:
Actually, no, I was more impressed by the contents of my handkerchief, the last time I blew my nose.

Flashheart:
Yeah, like hell. You've probably got little piccies of me on the wall of your dugout, haven't you? I bet you go all girly and giggly every time you look at me!

Blackadder:
I'm afraid not. Unfortunately, most of the infantry think you're a prat. Ask them who they'd prefer to meet, Squadron Commander Flashheart and the man who cleans out the public toilets in Aberdeen, and they'd go for Wee Jock 'Poo-Pong' Mcplop every time!

[Flashheart laughes and then punches Blackadder in the face]