A Bit of Fry and Laurie, Series 1

Stephen Fry:
[when shown picture by Hugh] Oh, wait a second, isn't that a revolting sight? [throws picture aside]

Hugh:
Oh, well, it's because I'm deaf, sir, that my sense of vision is naturally enhanced. Blind people are known to have very keen hearing. So they sort of cancel each other out, sir.

Stephen:
You mean you can see and hear perfectly?

Hugh:
Yes, because I'm blind and deaf.

[Spoonbending with Mr. Nude]

Fry:
Well next week I shall be examining the claims of a man who says that in a previous existence he was Education Secretary Kenneth Baker and I shall be talking to a woman who claims she can make flowers grow just by planting seeds in soil and watering them. Until then, wait very quietly in your seats please. Goodnight.

Various Characters:
Hold the news reader's nose squarely waiter, or friendly milk will countermand my trousers.

Stephen:
Um, language is my mother, my father, my husband, my brother, my sister, my whore, my mistress, my check-out girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Um, language is the breath of God. Language is the dew on a fresh apple. It's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning light as you pluck from an old bookshelf a half-forgotten book of erotic memoirs. Language is the creak on a stair, it's a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, it's a half-remembered childhood birthday party. It's the warm, wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy. Uh, the hulk of a charred panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl. Uh, it's cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.

Hugh:
Can I just interrupt you here?

Stephen:
Certainly, Peter.

Hugh:
Thanks.

Stephen:
Pleasure.

Stephen:
I can't pretend to be much of a judge of poetry; I'm an English teacher, not a homosexual.

[Estate Agents]

Fry:
Estate Agents: you can't live with them, you can't live with them. With their jangling keys, nasty suits, revolting beards, moustaches and tinted spectacles, estate agents roam the land causing perturbation and despair. If you try and kill them, you're put in prison: if you try and talk to them, you vomit. There's only one thing worse than an estate agent but at least that can be safely lanced, drained and surgically dressed. Estate agents. Love them or loathe them, you'd be mad not to loathe them.

[Cocoa]

Fry:
[voiceover] Good old Berent's cocoa. Always there. Original or New Berent's, specially prepared for the mature citizens in your life, with nature's added store of powerful barbiturates and heroin.

Stephen:
Bitchmother, Come Light My Bottom.