"Lobsterisimus bumakissimus"
"Worst job I ever 'ad?, was errr, picking lobsters out of Jayne Mansfields bum!!!! Lobsterisimus bumakissimus"
It takes a lot of mental strength to not actually piss myself from laughing when I think of Derek & Clive: (or Peter Cooke & Dudley Moore) And of course, much has been said of these two, once "Friends" and loyal companions; much has been debated on their complex relationship, the bitter power struggles, the bullying.... yes. Lot's of people have taken it upon themselves to espouse their ideas as to what the hell happened.
And now they're both dead as Dodo's......
And now they're both dead as Dodo's......
But let's not dwell on the tragedy, no!, let's guffaw!: this dialogue is taken from the wincingly uncomfortable TV/Doc/Comedy/Sketch/nightmare that was "Derek & Clive Get The Horn" :
Clive: I tell you one thing I can't stand.
Derek: Tell me.
Clive: About Russia, is the dead bodies in your hotel room.
Derek: Oh, Blimey, yeah.
Clive: Because I booked into, you know, a second class hotel, second class hotel, two stars. And, er, I asked, er, room service, erm, you know, for a light meal because I was going sight seeing the next morning. And I said I'd like some chips and, er, steak, medium rare and,er, banana fritter, you know, and this bloke come up to the room and frankly it wasn't what I ordered. He brought up, er, three thousand dissidents.
Derek: Oh, God.
Clive: With their testicles attached to electrodes. And I said call this fucking room service? Not room service, I said. I asked for chips, steak and banana fritters. I get three thousand fucking dissidents on a tray.
Derek: What are they trying to pull, eh? They think we're cunts.
Clive: I said, if you're expecting a tip, mate, if you're expecting a tip, you can get the fuck out of my hotel room.
Derek: Yeah.
Clive: Anyway, they just dumped them down on the floor. All these dissidents. I got talking to them, some nice blokes, actually. There's Sergia, er, Wolankov. Sergia Wolankov.
Derek: Oh, Wolankov, yeah.
Clive: He wrote some poetry, he wrote the poem saying, er, the Soviet Union is a khazi, Mr Breznev is a cunt, and, er, er, I want my freedom, you see. And he published that in a dissident newspaper.
Derek: I'd rather be room serviced than in prison. Clive: I'll say one thing for Russia, the health service is tremendous.
Derek: Oh, yeah.
Clive: As soon as you're ill, they kill you
R.I.P you beautiful Men!
