And for some light entertainment

Life of Brian on CH4 9pm</p>

Classic</p>

 

"What have the Romans ever done for us ?"

"He's not the Messiah , he's a naughty boy" .
#Always look on the bright side of life #
I'm far too young to ever have seen that particular film !!!

 

Never been able to get into it nt

 

He's not the messiah - He's a very naughty boy

I'm going to watch it even though I've got the ******* DVD!!</p>

Why do I do that??</p>

In fact I might whack the DVD in my PC and commentate on here!</p>

 

I was blind

and now I can see...AAARGGHH

And the greeks shall inherit the earth

biggus dickus

Crucifixion? no freedom. Oh off you go then. only kidding.

Crucifixion? its a doddle

 

Classic film!!

 

The greatest comedy film ever made

IMHO

Though Holy Grail is funnier in parts it lacks coherence.

 

It's only a model

What the curtains!

 

"Coherence" ????

Now that's VERY impressive after supping Wentworth WPA , mate !!! (Y) (pint)

 

I fart in your general direction

you empty headed animal food trough wiper. Your mother was a hamster and you father smelled of elderberries.

 

Holy Grail is better IMHO

Laughs all the way through.</p>

Both ******* brilliant comedy all the same.</p>

 

Fetch the holy hand grenade

It's only a flesh wound

 

Fetch the holy hand grenade of antioc nt

 

THats not a horse, you're banging coconut shells together nt

 

Are you suggesting the cocunut is migratory

African or European? errr I dont know...AAARRRGGHH

But its got sharp pointy teeth...

 

This thread show the BBS at it's best and most bizarre !!!!

Cheers Spartacus , old mate . You lifted my spirits when I wouldn't have thought it possible . (nodding2fingers) (nodding2fingers) (nodding2fingers)

 

nee....nee.....nee...

 

Counteth thee to three

Not to 5, 5 is way out. Having reached 3 lobbeth the holy hand grenade at thine enemies and them having been naughty in the lords eyes shall be bloweth to bits

 

Try this

Good evening. The last scene was interesting from the point of view of a professional logician because it contained a number of logical fallacies; that is, invalid propositional constructions and syllogistic forms, of the type so often committed by my wife.

'All wood burns,' states Sir Bedevere. 'Therefore,' he concludes, 'all that burns is wood.' This is, of course, pure ********. Universal affirmatives can only be partially converted: all of Alma Cogan is dead, but only some of the class of dead people are Alma Cogan. 'Oh yes,' one would think. However, my wife does not understand this necessary limitation of the conversion of a proposition; consequently, she does not understand me, for how can a woman expect to appreciate a professor of logic, if the simplest cloth-eared syllogism causes her to flounder?

For example, given the premise, 'all fish live underwater' and 'all mackerel are fish', my wife will conclude, not that 'all mackerel live underwater', but that 'if she buys kippers it will not rain', or that 'trout live in trees', or even that 'I do not love her any more.' This she calls 'using her intuition'. I call it 'crap', and it gets me very irritated because it is not logical. 'There will be no supper tonight,' she will sometimes cry upon my return home. 'Why not?' I will ask. 'Because I have been screwing the milkman all day,' she will say, quite oblivious of the howling error she has made. 'But,' I will wearily point out, 'even given that the activities of screwing the milkman and getting supper are mutually exclusive, now that the screwing is over, surely then, supper may now, logically, be got.' 'You don't love me any more,' she will now often postulate. 'If you did, you would give me one now and again, so that I would not have to rely on that rancid Pakistani for my orgasms.' 'I will give you one after you have got me my supper,' I now usually scream, 'but not before'-- as you understand, making her bang contingent on the arrival of my supper. 'God, you turn me on when you're angry, you ancient brute!' she now mysteriously deduces, forcing her sweetly throbbing tongue down my throat. '**** supper!' I now invariably conclude, throwing logic somewhat joyously to the four winds, and so we thrash about on our milk-stained floor, transported by animal passion, until we sink back, exhausted, onto the cartons of yogurt.

I'm afraid I seem to have strayed somewhat from my original brief. But in a nutshell: sex is more fun than logic-- one cannot prove this, but it 'is' in the same sense that Mount Everest 'is', or that Alma Cogan 'isn't'.

Goodnight.

 

We are no longer the nights who say ni

we are the nights who say "ekki ekki phtarr wiiing"

you must chop down the largest tree in the forrest.......with a herring!