G: Well, hurrah for that!
T: I care not a jot that you are the son of a certified sauerkraut-sucking
loon!
G: Ah, thank you, sir.
T: It minds not me that you dress like a mad parrot and talk like a plate of
beans negotiating their way out of a cow's digestive system. It is no
skin off my rosy nose that there are bits of lemon peel floating down the
Thames that would make better Regents than you.
G: Well, bravo!
T: The fact is, you *are* Regent...
G: Yes, I am...
T: ...appointed by God, and I shall stick by you forever, though infirmity
lay me waste and ill health curse my every waking moment. (falls into the
chair)
G: Ah, good on you, sir. And don't talk to me about infirmity. Why, sir, you
are the hardy stock that is the core of Britain's greatness. You have the
physique of a demigod. Purple of cheek, and plump of fatlock, the shapely
ankle and the well-filled trouser that tells of a human body in perfect
working order.
E: (who has found T's stillness rather odd and is checking for a pulse)
He's dead, sir.
G: Dead?
E: Yes, Your Highness.
G: Oh, what bad luck; we were rather getting on.
E: We must move at once.
G: In which direction?
E: Sir Talbot represented the constituency of Dunny-on-the-Wold, and, by
an extraordinary stroke of luck, it is a rotten borough.
G: Really! Is it! Well, lucky-lucky us. Lucky-lucky-luck.
(as a chicken) Luck-luck-LAKK-LAKK-LAKK-LAKK-cluck-cluck-cluck-cluck-
cluck-LAKK-LAKK-LAKK.
E: You don't know what a rotten borough is, do you, sir.
G: No.
E: So what was the chicken impression in aid of?
G: Well, I just didn't want to hurt your feelings. Erm, so, what is a robber
button?