Cunk on Britain

Discussion in 'The Muppet Show' started by Doghouse Riley, Mar 12, 2019.

  1. Doghouse Riley

    Doghouse Riley Head Gardener

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    Repeats being shown of this series. I guess it's an acquired taste, but there's some really funny moments. Just watched my recording of the last episode.

    She was going on about the Blitz in WWll.

    She said the hero was that man with the never to be forgotten name "Winton Churchill."
    "Responsible for some of those stirring phrases."

    "Their finest hour."

    "We'll never surrender."

    "We'll fight them bitches."

    That really killed me.
     
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    • Palustris

      Palustris Total Gardener

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      Found the whole thing about as funny as a bucket of wet nappies. Sort of modern take on 1066 And All That, which was funny.
       
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      • Doghouse Riley

        Doghouse Riley Head Gardener

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        "Thanks for sharing."

        Try "Literary Lapses,"by Stephen Leacock. It's free on-line.

        But you probably won't like that either.
         
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        • Marley Farley

          Marley Farley Affable Admin! Staff Member

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          I liked her series first time around but now it does nothing for me and I find it irritating to watch again so I shan’t bother anymore... :thud::heehee:
           
        • HarryS

          HarryS Eternally Optimistic Gardener

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          I do like Philomena Cunk on Britain , deadpan humour does amuse me.
          Now that book takes me back , I really did enjoy that book when I was in my early teens. Must try and find it again :blue thumb:
           
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          • Snorky85

            Snorky85 Total Gardener

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            I really liked Cunk on Britain! Made me laugh and that is always a good thing :)
             
          • Doghouse Riley

            Doghouse Riley Head Gardener

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            It was just a joke, no one has to like the programme, to appreciate it.

            I did have the book in my teens, it was typical schoolboy humour.

            Much as is Stephen Leacock.

            Lot's of short stories. Written between the two World wars.

            This one is timeless.

            Self Made Men

            They were both what we commonly call successful business
            men--men with well-fed faces, heavy signet rings on
            fingers like sausages, and broad, comfortable waistcoats,
            a yard and a half round the equator. They were seated
            opposite each other at a table of a first-class restaurant,
            and had fallen into conversation while waiting to give
            their order to the waiter. Their talk had drifted back
            to their early days and how each had made his start in
            life when he first struck New York.

            "I tell you what, Jones," one of them was saying, "I
            shall never forget my first few years in this town. By
            George, it was pretty uphill work! Do you know, sir, when
            I first struck this place, I hadn't more than fifteen
            cents to my name, hadn't a rag except what I stood up
            in, and all the place I had to sleep in--you won't
            believe it, but it's a gospel fact just the same--was an
            empty tar barrel. No, sir," he went on, leaning back and
            closing up his eyes into an expression of infinite
            experience, "no, sir, a fellow accustomed to luxury like
            you has simply no idea what sleeping out in a tar barrel
            and all that kind of thing is like."


            "My dear Robinson," the other man rejoined briskly, "if
            you imagine I've had no experience of hardship of that
            sort, you never made a bigger mistake in your life. Why,
            when I first walked into this town I hadn't a cent, sir,
            not a cent, and as for lodging, all the place I had for
            months and months was an old piano box up a lane, behind
            a factory. Talk about hardship, I guess I had it pretty
            rough! You take a fellow that's used to a good warm tar
            barrel and put him into a piano box for a night or two,
            and you'll see mighty soon--"
            "My dear fellow," Robinson broke in with some irritation,
            "you merely show that you don't know what a tar barrel's
            like. Why, on winter nights, when you'd be shut in there
            in your piano box just as snug as you please, I used to
            lie awake shivering, with the draught fairly running in
            at the bunghole at the back."
            "Not stand it!" cried Robinson fiercely; "me not stand
            it! By gad! I'm made for it. I just wish I had a taste
            of the old life again for a while. And as for innocence!
            Well, I'll bet you you weren't one-tenth as innocent as
            I was; no, nor one-fifth, nor one-third! What a grand
            old life it was! You'll swear this is a darned lie and
            refuse to believe it--but I can remember evenings when
            I'd have two or three fellows in, and we'd sit round and
            play pedro by a candle half the night."

            "Two or three!" laughed Jones; "why, my dear fellow, I've
            known half a dozen of us to sit down to supper in my
            piano box, and have a game of pedro afterwards; yes, and
            charades and forfeits, and every other darned thing.
            Mighty good suppers they were too! By Jove, Robinson,
            you fellows round this town who have ruined your digestions
            with high living, have no notion of the zest with which
            a man can sit down to a few potato peelings, or a bit of
            broken pie crust, or--"

            "Talk about hard food," interrupted the other, "I guess
            I know all about that. Many's the time I've breakfasted
            off a little cold porridge that somebody was going to
            throw away from a back-door, or that I've gone round to
            a livery stable and begged a little bran mash that they
            intended for the pigs. I'll venture to say I've eaten
            more hog's food--"

            "Hog's food!" shouted Robinson, striking his fist savagely
            on the table, "I tell you hog's food suits me better than--"

            He stopped speaking with a sudden grunt of surprise as
            the waiter appeared with the question:

            "What may I bring you for dinner, gentlemen?"

            "Dinner!" said Jones, after a moment of silence, "dinner!
            Oh, anything, nothing--I never care what I eat--give me
            a little cold porridge, if you've got it, or a chunk of
            salt pork--anything you like, it's all the same to me."

            The waiter turned with an impassive face to Robinson.

            "You can bring me some of that cold porridge too," he
            said, with a defiant look at Jones; "yesterday's, if you
            have it, and a few potato peelings and a glass of skim
            milk."

            There was a pause. Jones sat back in his chair and looked
            hard across at Robinson. For some moments the two men
            gazed into each other's eyes with a stern, defiant
            intensity. Then Robinson turned slowly round in his seat
            and beckoned to the waiter, who was moving off with the
            muttered order on his lips.

            "Here, waiter," he said with a savage scowl, "I guess
            I'll change that order a little. Instead of that cold
            porridge I'll take--um, yes--a little hot partridge. And
            you might as well bring me an oyster or two on the half
            shell, and a mouthful of soup (mock-turtle, consomme,
            anything), and perhaps you might fetch along a dab of
            fish, and a little peck of Stilton, and a grape, or a
            walnut."

            The waiter turned to Jones.

            "I guess I'll take the same," he said simply, and added;
            "and you might bring a quart of champagne at the same
            time."

            And nowadays, when Jones and Robinson meet, the memory
            of the tar barrel and the piano box is buried as far out
            of sight as a home for the blind under a landslide.
             
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