In this page you will find the speeches that have went through rigorous training to come here. From New York to Europe, these speeches are the best of the best, in my opinion. Also, I am looking for the script to the movie Catch-22, if anyone finds it, please inform me. Anyways, I have Several Monty Python Speeches, and My true blue humorous speech, that is the best there is.

            I was in a coffee shop looking through the want ads when I read, “Macy’s Herald Square, the largest store in the world, has big opportunities for outgoing, fun-loving people of all shapes and sizes who want more than just a holiday job! Working as an elf in Macy’s SantaLand means being at the center of the excitement….”

            I circled the ad and then I laughed out loud at the thought of it. The man seated next to me turned on his stool, checking to see if I was a lunatic. I continued to laugh, quietly.

            Ah, SantaLand. Ten-thousand sparkling lights, false snow, train sets, bridges, decorated trees, mechanical penguins and bears, really tall candy canes, and 12,000 customers angry at your complete lack of skill with a calculator. One man has dared to rise to the challenge. On the eighth-floor SantaLand office, this man was employed by an enthusiastic “Congratulations. You are an Elf.” SantaLand, Diaries, by David Sedaris.

            Interpreters for the deaf came and taught us to sign “MERRY CHRISTMAS! I AM SANTA’S HELPER.” They told us to speak as we sign and to use bold, clear voices and bright facial expressions. They taught us to say “YOU ARE A VERY PRETTY BOY/GIRL! I LOVE YOU! DO YOU WANT A SURPRISE?”

            My sister Amy lives above a deaf girl and has learned quite a bit of sign language. She taught some to me and so now I am able to say, “SANTA HAS A TUMOR IN HIS HEAD THE SIZE OF AN OLIVE. MAYBE IT WILL GO AWAY TOMORROW BUT I DON’T THINK SO.”

            My costume is green. I wear green velvet knickers, a yellow turtleneck, a forest-green velvet smock, and a perky stocking cap decorated with spangles. This is my work uniform.

            My name is Crumpet.

            Today was the official opening day of SantaLand and I worked as a Magic Window Elf, a Santa Elf, and an Usher elf. The Magic Window is located in the adult “Quick Peep” line. My job was to say, “Step on the Magic Star and look through the window, and you can see Santa!” I was at the Magic Window for fifteen minutes before a man approached me and said, “You look so stupid.”

            I have to admit that he had a point. But still, I wanted to say that at least I get paid to look stupid, that he gives it away for free. But I can’t say things like that because I’m supposed to be merry.

            So instead I said, “Thank you!”

            “Thank you!” as if I had misunderstood and thought he had said, “You look terrific.”

            “Thank you!”

            He was a brawny wise guy wearing a vinyl jacket and carrying a bag from Radio Shack. I should have said, real loud, “Sorry man, I don’t date other guys.”

            I’m supposed to stand around and say, “Step on the Magic Star and you can see Santa!” I said that for a while and then I started saying, “Step on the Magic Star and you can see Cher!”

            And people got excited. So I said, “Step on the Magic Star and you can see Mike Tyson!”

            Some people in the other line, the line to sit on Santa’s lap, got excited and cut through the gates so that they could stand on my Magic Star. Then they got angry when they looked through the Magic Window and saw Santa rather than Cher or Mike Tyson. What did they honestly expect? Is Cher so hard up for money that she’d agree to stand behind a two-way mirror at Macy’s?

            I spent a few hours in the Maze with Puff, a young elf from Brooklyn. We were standing near the Lollipop Forest when we realized that Santa is an anagram of Satan. Father Christmas or the Devil- so close yet so far. We imagined a SatanLand where visitors would wade through steaming pools of human blood and feces before arriving at the Gates of Hell, where a hideous imp in a singed velvet costume would take them by the hand and lead them toward Satan. Once we thought of it we couldn’t get it out of our minds. Overhearing the customers we would substitute the word Satan for the word Santa.

            “What do you think, Michael? Do you think Macy’s has the real Satan?”

            “Don’t forget to thank Satan for the Baby Alive he gave you last year.”

            “I love Satan.”

            “Who doesn’t? Everyone loves Satan.”

            This evening I was working as a Counter Elf at the Magic Tree when I saw a woman unzip her son’s fly, and instruct him to pee into a bank of artificial snow. He was a young child, four or five years old, and he did it, he peed. Urine dripped from the branches of artificial trees and puddled on the floor.

            This afternoon I worked as an Exit Elf, telling people in a loud voice, “THIS WAY OUT OF SANTALAND.” A woman was standing at one of the cash registers paying for her idea of a picture, while her son lay beneath her kicking and having, having a tantrum.

            The woman said, “Riley, if you don’t start behaving yourself, Santa’s not going to bring you any of those toys you asked for.”

            The child said, “He is too going to bring me toys, liar, he already told me.”

            The woman grabbed my arm and said, “You there, Elf, tell Riley here that if he doesn’t start behaving immediately, then Santa’s going to change his mind and bring him coal for Christmas.”

            I said that Santa no longer traffics in coal. Instead, if you’re bad he comes to your house and steals things. I told Riley that if he didn’t behave himself, Santa was going to take away his TV and all his electrical appliances and leave him in the dark. “All your appliances, including the refrigerator. Your food is going to spoil and smell bad. It’s going to be so cold and dark where you are. Man, Riley, are you ever going to suffer. You’re going to wish you never heard the name Santa.”

            There was a big “Sesame Street Live” extravaganza over at Madison Square Garden, so thousands of people decided to make a day of it and go straight from Sesame Street to Santa. We were packed today, absolutely packed, and everyone was cranky. Once the line gets long we break it up into four different lines because anyone in their right mind would leave if they knew it would take over two hours to see Santa. Standing in a two-hour line makes people worry that they’re not living in a democratic nation. I was sent into the hallway to direct the second phase of the line. There was a line for Santa and a line for the women’s bathroom, and one woman, after asking me a dozen questions already, asked, “Which is the line for the women’s bathroom?” I shouted that I thought it was the line with all the women in it.

            She said, “I’m going to have you fired.”

            I had two people say that to me today, “I’m going to have you fired.” Go ahead, be my guest. I’m wearing a green velvet costume; it doesn’t get any worse than this. Who do these people think they are?

            “I’m going to have you fired!” and I wanted to lean over and say, “I’m going to have you killed.”

            I had a group of kids waiting this afternoon, waiting for their mom to pay for pictures, and this kid reached into his pocket and threw a nickel at me. He was maybe twelve years old, jaded in regard to Santa, and he threw his nickel and it hit my chest and fell to the floor. I picked it up, cleared my throat, and handed it back to him. He threw it again. Like I was a penguin. So I handed it back and he threw it higher, hitting me in the neck. I picked up the nickel and turned to another child and said, “Here, you dropped this.” He examined the coin, put it in his pocket, and left.

            This was my last day of work. We had been told that Christmas Eve is a slow day, but this was the day a week of training was meant to prepare us for. It was a day of nonstop action, a day when the managers spent a great deal of time with their walkie-talkies.

            I witnessed a fistfight between two mothers and watched while a woman experienced a severe, crowd-related anxiety attack: falling to the floor and groping for breath, her arms moving as though she were fighting off bats. A Long Island father called Santa a faggot because he couldn’t take the time to recite “The Night Before Christmas” to his child. Parents in long lines left disposable diapers at the door to Santa’s house. It was the rowdiest crowd I have ever seen, and we were short on elves, many of whom simply did not show up or called in sick. It was time to be a trooper, and I surrendered completely. My Santa and I had them on the lap, off the lap in forty-five seconds flat. We were an efficient machine surrounded by chaos. Quitting time came and went for both of us and we paid it no mind. My plane was due to leave at eight o’clock, and I stayed until the last moment, figuring the time it would take to get to the airport. It was with reservation that I reported to the manager, telling her I had to leave. She was at a cash register, screaming at a customer. I touched her arm and said, “I have to go now.” She laid her hand on my shoulder, squeezed it gently, and continued her conversation, saying, “Now get out of my sight before I do something we both regret.”

Overall Rating: 5 Stars

 (The sketch opens in an aeroplane cockpit.
 The Captain and the First Officer are whistling idly.
 They are obviously very bored.)
C:  I spy with my little eye something beginning with S.
FO: Sky.
C:  Mm-hm.
FO  I spy with my little eye something beginning with C.
C:  Cloud.
FO: Yeah.
Oh God, I'm so bored.
C:  I'm fed up with that game.  Let's play another game.I know what..
FO: What?
(The Captain picks up a microphone.)
C:  (over intercom) "Hello, this is your Captain speaking. There is 
absolutely no cause for concern." That'll get them thinking.
(The First Officer reaches for the microphone.) 
C:  No, no, no, no.  Not yet, not yet.  Let it sink in.
They'll be thinking, er, 'What is there no cause for alarm about?
Are the wings on fire?' (over intercom)  "The wings are not on fire."
Now they're thinking, er, 'why should he say that?' So we say...
FO: (looks down the aisle) They've stopped eating; Looking a bit worried...
C:  Good.
FO:  Hang on, one of them is going to the washroom. 
C:  Is he there yet? FO:  He's just closing the door... NOW!
C:  One... Two... Three..
FO: (over intercom) "Please return to your seats and fasten your
seat-belts immediately." 
C:  Yes... here he comes, going up the aisle like the clappers. 
FO: Right. Safety regulations. 
C:  (agreeing) Safety regulations. 
FO: (over intercom) "Please listen carefully.  I want you, I want 
to remind you of some of the safety regulations. In the case of 
emergency it is vitally important to..." (The Captain makes a 
radio-static type noise.)
FO: "as the warning buzzer sounds." 
C:  "Bzzzz" 
(They both laugh.) 
C:  Oh, that's got them rattled. 
FO:  Great, great! 
C:  Hey, I've got an idea! "Hello, you will find your life-jackets 
under your seats." 
FO: No, they're on the racks. 
C:  Sh, shh, let them scrabble a bit. "I'm sorry, you will Find them
on the racks above your heads."
FO: Aaah!
C:  (back again) Great, great, that was marvellous!
FO: Right.  Gobbledegook.
C:  Oh, yes.
FO  "The scransons above your heads are now ready to flange.
Please unfasten your safety belts and press the emergency photoscamps
on the back of the seats in front of you." 
C:  (looks out) Marvellous, milling about, climbing over the seats. 
FO: "Please find the emergency sprill in the washroom at the back 
and release it..." 
C:  "but do not unfasten your safety belts."
FO:  That got them back to their seats.
C: "The emergency sprill MUST be released, but do not leave your seats."
FO: "Do not panic."
C:  "Tea will now be served."
FO: "Inflate your life-jackets"
C:  "and extinguish all cigarettes."
FO: "Please remove the luggage from the racks above your heads and
place it on the racks on the other side of the aircraft."
C:  "Except for hand luggage..."
FO: "which you should sit on."
(They are in fits of laughter.)
C:  Now have a look.
FO:  (looks) Hang on... hang on... they've all jumped out!
(They laugh, pointing downwards and looking out of the windows. After
a while the laughter dies away. There is a lengthy pause.)
C:  You know, I wouldn't be surprised if there was some trouble about 
this.
(They burst out laughing again.  The sketch ends.) 

 Commentator (John Cleese): Good afternoon and welcome to Hurlingham Park. You join us just as the competitors are running out onto the field on this lovely winter's afternoon here, with the going firmunderfoot and very litde sign of rain. Well it certainly looks as though we're in for a splendid afternoon's sport in this the 127th Upperclass Twit of the Year Show. Well the competitors will be off' in a moment so let me just identify for you. (camera zooms in on the competitors) Vivian Smith-Smythe-Smith has an O-level in chemo-hygiene. Simon-Zinc-Trumpet-Harris, married to a very attractive table lamp. Nigel Incubator-Jones, his best friend is a tree, and in his spare time he's a stockbroker. Gervaise Brook-Hampster is in the Guards, and his father uses him as a wastepaper basket· And finally Oliver St John-Mollusc, Harrow and the Guards, thought by many to be this year's outstanding twit. Now they're moving up to the starting line, there's a jolly good crowd here today. Now they're under starter's orders... and they're off (the starter fires the gun, but nobody moves) Ah no, they're not. No they didn't realize they were supposed to start. Never mind, we'll soon sort that out, the judge is explaining it to them now. I think Nigel and Gervaise have got the idea. All set to go. (starter fires gun again and the twits move offer in different directions) Oh, and they're off and it's a fast start this year. Oliver St John-Mollusc running a bit wide there and now they're coming into their first test, the straight line. (All the Twits run erratically along five white lines) They've got to walk along this straight line without failing over and Oliver's over at the back there, er, Simon's coming through quite fast on theoutside, I think Simon and Nigel, both of them coming through very fast. There's Nigel there. No. Three, I'm sorry, and on theoutside there's Gervaise coming through just out of shot and now, the position... (the twits approach a line of matchboxes piled three high) Simon and Vivian at the front coming to the matchbox jump.. three layers of matchboxes to clear... and Simon's over and Vivian's over beautifully, oh and the jump of a lifetime - if only his father could understand. Here's Nigel ... and now Gervaise is over he's, er, Nigel is over, and it's Gervaise, Gervaise is going to jump it, is it, no he's jumped the wrong way, there.he goes, Nigel's over, beautifully. Now it's only Oliver. Oliver ... and Gervaise... oh bad luck. And now it's Kicking the Beggar. (the twits are kicking a beggar with a tray) Simon's there and he's putting the boot in, and not terribly hard, but he's going down and Simon can move on. Now Vivian's there. Vivian is there and waiting for a chance. Here tie comes, oh a piledriver, a real piledriver, and now Simon's on No. l, Vivian a, Nigel 3, Gervaise on 4 and Oliver bringing up the rear. Ah there's Oliver (Oliver is still trying to jump the matchboxes), there's Oliver now, he's at the back. I think he's having a little trouble with his old brain injury, he's going to have a go, no, no, bad luck, he's up, he doesn't know when he's beaten, this boy, lie doesn't know when he's winning either. He doesn't have any sort of sensory apparatus. Oh there's Gervaise (He is still kicking the beggar) and he's putting the boot in there and he's got the beggar down and the steward's giving him a little bit of advice, yes, he can move on now, he can move on to the Hunt Photograph. He's off, Gervaise is there and Oliver's still at the back having trouble with the matchboxes. (the twits approach a table with two attractive girls and a photographer) Now here's the Hunt Ball Photograph and the first here's Simon, he's going to enjoy a joke with Lady Arabella Plunkett. She hopes to go into films, and Vivian's through there and, er, Nigel's there enjoying a joke with Lady Sarah Pencil Farthing Vivian Streamroller Adams Pie Biscuit Aftershave Gore Stringbottom Smith. (shot of twit in a sports car reversing into cut-out of old woman) And there's, there's Simon now in the sports car, he's reversed into the old woman, he's caught her absolutely beautifully. Now he's going to accelerate forward there to wake up the neighbour. There's Vivian I think, no Vivian's lost his keys, no there's Vivian, he's got the old woman, slowly but surely right in the midriff, and here he is. Here he is to wake up the neighbournow. (a man in bed in the middle of the pitch. The twit slams car door repeatedly) Simon right in the lead, comfortably in the lead, but he can't get this neighbour woken up. He's slamming away there as best he can. He's getting absolutely no reaction at all. There, he's woken him up and Simon's through. Here comes Vivian, Vivian to slam the door, and there we are back at the Hunt Ball, I think that's Gervaise there, that's Gervaise going through there, and here, here comes Oliver, brave Oliver. Is he going to make it to the table, no I don't think he is, yes he is, (twit falls over the table) he did it, ohh. And the crowd are rising to him there, and there I can see, who is that there, yes that's Nigel, Nigel has woken the neighbour - my God this is exciting. Nigel's got very excited and he's going through and here comes Gervaise. Gervaise, oh no this is, er, out in the front there is Simon who is supposed to insult the waiter and he's forgotten. (Simon runs past a waiter standing with a tray) And Oliver has run himself over, (Oliver lying in front of car) what a great twit! And now here comes Vivian, Vivian to insult the waiter, and he is heaping abuse on him, and he is humiliating him, there and he's gone into the lead. Simon's not with him, no Vivian's in front of him at the bar. (the twits each have several goes at getting under a bar of wood five feet off the ground) Simon's got to get under this bar and this is extremely difficult as it requires absolutely expert co-ordination between mind and body. No Vivian isn't there. Here we go again and Simon's fallen backwards. Here's Nigel, he's tripped, Nigel has tripped, and he's under and Simon fails again, er, here is Gervaise, and Simon is through by accident. Here's Gervaise to be the last one over, there we are, hero's Nigel right at the head of the field, (the twits approach five rabbits staked out on the Found; they fire at them with shotguns) and now he's going to shoot the rabbit, and these rabbits have been tied to the ground, and they're going to be a bit frisky, and this is only a one-day event. And they're blazing away there. They're not getting quite the results that they might, Gervaise is in there trying to bash it to death with the butt of his rifle, and I think Nigel's in there with his bare hands, but they're not getting the results that they might, but it is a little bit misty today and they must be shooting from a range of at least one foot. But they've had a couple of hits there I think, yes, they've had a couple of hits, and the whole field is up again and here they are. (they approach a line of shopwindow dummies each wearing only a bra) They're coming up to the debs, Gervaise first, Vivian second, Simon third. And now they've got to take the bras off from the front, this is really difficult, this is really the most, the most difficult part of the entire competition, and they're having a bit of trouble in there I think, they're really trying now and the crowd is getting excited, and I think some of the twits are getting rather excited too. (the twits are wreaking havoc on the dummies) Vivian is there, Vivian is coming through, Simon's in second place, and, no there's Oliver, he's not necessarily out of it. There goes Nigel, no he's lost something, and Gervaise running through to this final obstacle. (they approach a table with five revolvers laid out on it) Now all they have to do here to win the title is to shoot themselves. Simon has a shot. Bad luck, he misses. Nigel misses. Now there's Gervaise, and Gervaise has shot himself- Gervaise is Upperclass Twit of the Year. There's Nigel, he's shot Simon by mistake, Simon is back up and there's Nigel, Nigel's shot himself: Nigel is third in this fine and most exciting Upperclass Twit of the Year Show I've ever seen. Nigel's clubbed himself into fourth place. (three coffins on stand with medals) And so the final result:

Time App.  7:10

Anne Elk's Theory on Brontosauruses (completely untailored! Two parts! Adding intro could be 6 minutes long)

Presenter: Good evening. Tonight: "dinosaurs". I have here, sitting in the studio next to me, an elk. Ahhhh!!! Oh, I'm sorry! Anne Elk - Mrs Anne Elk

Anne Elk: Miss!

Presenter: Miss Anne Elk, who is an expert on di...

Anne Elk: N' n' n' n' no! Anne Elk!

Presenter: What?

Anne Elk: Anne Elk, not Anne Expert!

Presenter: No! No, I was saying that you, Miss Anne Elk, were an , A-N not A-N-N-E, expert...

Anne Elk: Oh!

Presenter: ...on elks - I'm sorry, on dinosaurs. I'm ...

Anne Elk: Yes, I certainly am, Chris. How very true. My word yes.

Presenter: Now, Miss Elk - Anne - you have a new theory about the brontosaurus.

Anne Elk: Can I just say here, Chris for one moment, that I have a new theory about the brontosaurus?

Presenter: Uh... Exactly... What is it?

Anne Elk: Where?

Presenter: No! No, what is your theory?

Anne Elk: What is my theory?

Presenter: Yes!

Anne Elk: What is my theory that it is? Yes. Well, you may well ask what is my theory.

Presenter: I am asking.

Anne Elk: And well you may. Yes, my word, you may well ask what it is, this theory of mine. Well, this theory, that I have, that is to say, which is mine,... is mine.

Presenter: I know it's yours! What is it?

Anne Elk: ... Where? ... Oh! Oh! What is my theory?

Presenter: Yes!

Anne Elk: Ahh! My theory, that I have, follows the lines that I am about to relate. (starts prolonged throat clearing)

Presenter: (under breath) Oh, God! (Anne still clearing throat)

Anne Elk: The Theory, by A. Elk (that's "A" for Anne", it's not by a elk.)

Presenter: Right...

Anne Elk: (clears throat) This theory, which belongs to me, is as follows... (more throat clearing) This is how it goes... (clears throat) The next thing that I am about to say is my theory. (clears throat) Ready?

Presenter: (wimpers)

Anne Elk: The Theory, by A. Elk (Miss). My theory is along the following lines...

Presenter: (under breath)God!

Anne Elk: ...All brontosauruses are thin at one end; much, much thicker in the middle and then thin again at the far end. That is the theory that I have and which is mine and what it is, too.

Presenter: That's it, is it?

Anne Elk: Right, Chris!

Presenter: Well, Anne, this theory of yours seems to have hit the nail right on the head.

Anne Elk: ... and it's mine.

Presenter: Thank you for coming along to the studio.

Anne Elk: My pleasure, Chris.

Presenter: Britain's newest wasp farm...

Anne Elk: It's been a lot of fun...

Presenter: ...opened last week...

Anne Elk: ...saying what my theory is...

Presenter: ... Yes, thank you.

Anne Elk: ...and whose it is.

Presenter: Yes.... opened last week...

Anne Elk: I have another theory.

Presenter: Not today, thank you.

Anne Elk: My theory #2, which is the second theory that I have. (clears throat). This theory...

Presenter: Look! Shut up!

Anne Elk: ...is what I am about to say.

Presenter: Please shut up!

Anne Elk: which, with what I have said, are the two theories that are mine and which belong to me.

Presenter: If you don't shut up, I shall have to shoot you!

Anne Elk: (clears throat) My theory, which I posses the ownership of, which belongs to... (Sound of a single gun shot)

Anne Elk: (clearing throat) The Theory the Second, by Anne... (Sound of prolonged machine gun fire)

Appx: 4:17

The Cheese Shop (untailored, very long, possibly boring though, tedious)

Customer walks in the Henry Wenslydale's Cheese shop and walks past the bazouki player.

Customer: Good Morning.

Wenslydale: Good morning, Sir. Welcome to the National Cheese Emporium!

Customer: Ah, thank you, my good man.

Wenslydale: What can I do for you, Sir?

Customer: Well, I was, uh, sitting in the public library on Thurmon Street just now, skimming through "Rogue Herrys" by Hugh Walpole, and I suddenly came over all peckish.

Wenslydale: Peckish, sir?

Customer: Esuriant.

Wenslydale: Eh?

Customer: 'Ee, Ah wor 'ungry-loike!

Wenslydale: Ah, hungry!

Customer: In a nutshell. And I thought to myself, "a little fermented curd will do the trick," so, I curtailed my Walpoling activites, sallied forth, and infiltrated your place of purveyance to negotiate the vending of some cheesy comestibles!

Wenslydale: Come again?

Customer: I want to buy some cheese.

Wenslydale: Oh, I thought you were complaining about the bazouki player!

Customer: Oh, heaven forbid: I am one who delights in all manifestations of the Terpsichorean muse!

Wenslydale: Sorry?

Customer: 'Ooo, Ah lahk a nice tuune, 'yer forced too!

Wenslydale: So he can go on playing, can he?

Customer: Most certainly! Now then, some cheese please, my good man.

Wenslydale: (lustily) Certainly, sir. What would you like?

Customer: Well, eh, how about a little red Leicester.

Wenslydale: I'm, a-fraid we're fresh out of red Leicester, sir.

Customer: Oh, never mind, how are you on Tilsit?

Wenslydale: I'm afraid we never have that at the end of the week, sir, we get it fresh on Monday.

Customer: Tish tish. No matter. Well, stout yeoman, four ounces of Caerphilly, if you please.

Wenslydale: Ah! It's beeeen on order, sir, for two weeks. Was expecting it this morning.

Customer: 'T's Not my lucky day, is it? Aah, Bel Paese?

Wenslydale: Sorry, sir.

Customer: Red Windsor?

Wenslydale: Normally, sir, yes. Today the van broke down.

Customer: Ah. Stilton?

Wenslydale: Sorry.

Customer: Ementhal? Gruyere?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Any Norweigan Jarlsburg, per chance.

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Lipta?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Lancashire?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: White Stilton?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Danish Brew?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Double Goucester?

Wenslydale: (pause) No.

Customer: Cheshire?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Dorset Bluveny?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Brie, Roquefort, Pol le Veq, Port Salut, Savoy Aire, Saint Paulin, Carrier de lest, Bres Bleu, Bruson?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Camenbert, perhaps?

Wenslydale: Ah! We have Camenbert, yessir.

Customer: (suprised) You do! Excellent.

Wenslydale: Yessir. It's..ah,.....it's a bit runny...

Customer: Oh, I like it runny.

Wenslydale: Well,.. It's very runny, actually, sir.

Customer: No matter. Fetch hither the fromage de la Belle France! Mmmwah!

Wenslydale: I...think it's a bit runnier than you'll like it, sir.

Customer: I don't care how fucking runny it is. Hand it over with all speed.

Wenslydale: Oooooooooohhh........!

Customer: What now?

Wenslydale: The cat's eaten it.

Customer: (pause) Has he.

Wenslydale: She, sir.

(pause)

Customer: Gouda?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Edam?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Case Ness?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Smoked Austrian?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Japanese Sage Darby?

Wenslydale: No, sir.

Customer: You...do *have* some cheese, don't you?

Wenslydale: (brightly) Of course, sir. It's a cheese shop, sir. We've got--

Customer: No no... don't tell me. I'm keen to guess.

Wenslydale: Fair enough.

Customer: Uuuuuh, Wensleydale.

Wenslydale: Yes?

Customer: Ah, well, I'll have some of that!

Wenslydale: Oh! I thought you were talking to me, sir. Mister Wensleydale, that's my name.

(pause)

Customer: Greek Feta?

Wenslydale: Uh, not as such.

Customer: Uuh, Gorgonzola?

Wenslydale: no

Customer: Parmesan,

Wenslydale: no

Customer: Mozarella,

Wenslydale: no

Customer: Paper Cramer,

Wenslydale: no

Customer: Danish Bimbo,

Wenslydale: no

Customer: Czech sheep's milk,

Wenslydale: no

Customer: Venezuelan Beaver Cheese?

Wenslydale: Not *today*, sir, no.

(pause)

Customer: Aah, how about Cheddar?

Wenslydale: Well, we don't get much call for it around here, sir.

Customer: Not much ca--It's the single most popular cheese in the world!

Wenslydale: Not 'round here, sir.

Customer: and what IS the most popular cheese 'round hyah?

Wenslydale: 'Illchester, sir.

Customer: IS it.

Wenslydale: Oh, yes, it's staggeringly popular in this manor, squire.

Customer: Is it.

Wenslydale: It's our number one best seller, sir!

Customer: I see. Uuh...'Illchester, eh?

Wenslydale: Right, sir.

Customer: All right. Okay. 'Have you got any?' he asked, expecting the answer 'no'.

Wenslydale: I'll have a look, sir... nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnno.

Customer: It's not much of a cheese shop, is it?

Wenslydale: Finest in the district!

Customer: (annoyed) Explain the logic underlying that conclusion, please.

Wenslydale: Well, it's so clean, sir!

Customer: It's certainly uncontaminated by cheese....

Wenslydale: (brightly) You haven't asked me about Limburger, sir.

Customer: Would it be worth it?

Wenslydale: Could be....

Customer: Have you --SHUT THAT BLOODY BAZOUKI OFF!

Wenslydale: Told you sir....

Customer: (slowly) Have you got any Limburger?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Figures. Predictable, really I suppose. It was an act of purest optimism to have posed the question in the first place. Tell me

Wenslydale: Yessir?

Customer: Have you in fact got any cheese here at all.

Wenslydale: Yes,sir.

Customer: Really?

(pause) Wenslydale: No. Not really, sir.

Customer: You haven't.

Wenslydale: Nosir. Not a scrap. I was deliberately wasting your time,sir.

Customer: Well I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to shoot you.

Wenslydale: Right-o, sir.

Police Helmets (cut out reporter part, add interesting gestures, this could be our piece!)

Reporter (Graham)

Well, here I am on London's busy Westminster Bridge, seeing just how much time sitting down can take. Well, I arrived here by train at about 8.50, it's now 9.05, so I've been here approximately twelve minutes and if it's any encouragement, I must say that my legs do feel rested.

A policeman walks up to him.

Policeman (Michael)

Is this your chair?

Reporter

Er ... well, no, it's a prop.

Policeman

It's been stolen!

Reporter

What?

Policeman

This belongs to a Mrs Edgeworth of Pinner -- she's standing over there.

Cut to worried middle-aged lady, standing on the other side of the road, peering across. She has an identical chair in one hand.

Reporter

Ah well, it's nothing to do with me. It's just a prop which the BBC ... aaargh!

The policeman pushes the reporter off and picks up the chair.

Policeman

It's got her name on the bottom. (he indicates: Mrs E. Edgeworth)

Reporter

Well er ... perhaps you'd better give it back to her.

Policeman

You don't believe I'm a policeman, do you?

Reporter

Yes I do!

Policeman

What am I wearing on my head?

Reporter

A helmet

Policeman

(correcting him) A policeman's helmet!

Reporter

Yes.

Policeman

(taking off his helmet and demonstrating) You see that?

Reporter

Yes.

Policeman

That little number there?

Reporter

Yes.

Policeman

That is a Metropolitan Area Identification Code. No helmet is authentic without that number.

Reporter

I see.

Policeman

Kids' helmets, helmets you get in toy shops, helmets you buy at Christmas. None of them is authentic ... Hang on. (he turns and crosses the busy road)

Reporter

Oh could I ...

Policeman

Hang on!

He goes across to Mrs Edgeworth, and tries to grab the other chair from her. Mrs Edgeworth resists. He clouts her and pulls the chair away. He brings it back across the road and sits down next to the reporter.

Policeman

Mind you I didn't join the police force just to wear the helmets you know. That just happens to be one of the little perks. There are plenty of jobs where I could have worn a helmet, but not such a nice helmet. (Mrs Edgeworth is gesticulating; another policeman comes up and drags her away) This helmet, I think, beats even some of the more elaborate helmets worn by the Tsar's private army, the so-called Axi red warriors. You know about them?

Reporter

Well, no I don't.

Policeman

Ah! Their helmets used to look like ... you got any paper?

Reporter

Well only these scripts.

The policeman gets up, looks up the street, and selects a businessman with a briefcase, who is hurrying away from him. The policeman runs up to him, grabs his arm, twists it up behind his back and wrenches the briefcase from his hand. He opens it, gets out some paper, then drops briefcase before the amazed owner, and ambles back to his chair, neatly grabbing a pen from a passer-by's inside pocket.

Policeman

I'll have that!

Man (?)

I say!

The policeman sits down again and starts to draw, talking the while.

Policeman

Now then. Their helmet was not unlike the bobby's helmet in basic shape. It had an emblem here, and three gold -- and in those days it really was gold, that's part of the reason the Tsar was so unpopular -- three gold bands surmounted by a golden eagle on the apex here. Pretty nice helmet, eh?

Reporter

Yes.

Policeman

I think the domed helmet wins every time over the flattened job, you know, even when they're three cornered ... (suddenly his eyes light on two office secretaries opening their packed lunch on a nearby seat) ... you want something to eat?

Reporter

(sensing what's going to happen, hurriedly) Well no, er really ...

Policeman

(approaching the girls and getting out his notebook) Hang on. You can't park here you know.

Women ()

(bewildered) We're not parked!

Policeman

No parked! What's that then?

Women

That's our lunch.

Policeman

Right. I'm taking that in for forensic examination.

Women

Why?

Policeman

Because it might have been used as a murder weapon, that's why! (the girls look at each other; the policeman grabs their lunch) Yeah, not bad. Could be worse. (to the reporter) Beer?

Reporter

(desperately) No, no, please ... honestly ... please ...

The policeman walks off. There is a crash of breaking glass. An alarm bell starts to ring. The reporter winces. The policeman walks into shot again, holding two bottles of beer. He sits down, opens th beers with his teeth and hands one to reporter who is very embarrassed.

Policeman

Now, the Chaldeans, who used to inhabit the area in between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, their helmets were of the modular restrained kind of type ...

There are few that remain unedited from me.... The theory one and the police one are good... I like those, but I need feedback. So please....