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Parodies |
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Cheese Shop
6 Dec 2001
 This parody comes from Kel Barrass, a newcomer to the Fantasy Archers
topic on The .
With apologies to Monty Python's Cheese Shop sketch.
The scene is an organic escort agency in Borsetshire. Brian Aldridge walks in.
Brian: Good Morning.
Joe: Waddyew want?
Brian: Less of that tone, my good man.
Joe: Wassup? Waddyew want?
Brian: Well, I was sitting in the cab of my phenomenally expensive state-of-the-art combine harvester just now, skimming through this year's genetically modified and pesticide encrusted crop, and I suddenly came over all priapic.
Joe: Yew what, yer poncey upper class twit?
Brian: Trouser-happy.
Joe: Eh?
Brian: 'Ee, oi were 'orny-loik !
Joe: Oh roit. Woi didn't ya say so in the first ruddy place.
Brian: Precisely. And I thought to myself, "a little organic saucepot
will do the trick," so, I curtailed my wallet enhancing activities, sallied
forth, and infiltrated your ridiculously right-on place of business to negotiate
the vending of some cheesy wenches and laugh at your moral stance on agriculture
at the same time.
Joe: Talk proper!
Brian: I want to hire a lady, you peasant. And why on earth has Helen employed you anyway?
Joe: She 'ad a scrap of decency in her, for an old man with farmer's lung and no dosh (cough), not that it's any business of yours Brian Aldridge. Anyroad, I thought you'd come in to complain about the grunge-thrash band.
Brian: Oh, heaven forbid: I am one who delights in all manifestations of the Terpsichorean muse.
Joe: You wot?
Brian: 'Ooo, oi loiks a nice tuune, yer forced to.
Joe: So they can go on playing, can they ? ED - TURN THAT RACKET DOWN !!!
Brian: Most certainly! Now then, some ladies please, my good man and make them snappy.
Joe: Oright, keep yer trousers on. Wot sort d'yer want then?
Brian: Well, eh, how about a little organic cheese maker?
Joe: I'm afraid we're fresh out of organic cheesemakers.
Brian: Oh, never mind, how are you on busty, country music-fixated barmaids?
Joe: I'm afraid we never have them at the end of the week, sir, we find them fresher on Mondays before they've emptied the drip trays.
Brian: Tish tish. No matter. Well, stout yeoman, one stable girl then, if you please.
Joe: Ah! They've been on order, sir, for two weeks. Was expecting them this morning.
Brian: It's not my lucky day, is it? Aah, Nosey cat-owning grandmothers?
Joe: Sorry, sir.
Brian: Sensibly-shoed cub radio journalists ?
Joe: Normally, sir, yes. Today the van broke down.
Brian: Ah. Estranged daughters from former marriages?
Joe: Sorry.
Brian: Newlywed Brummies with no recent storylines? Matronly dog owners?
Joe: No.
Brian: Any plummy-voiced neighbourhood busybodies with intermittent asthma, perchance? Joe: No.
Brian: Culinarily inept solicitors?
Joe: No.
Brian: Overworked pregnant cowherds?
Joe: No.
Brian: Single mothers with an irrational hatred of country music ?
Joe: No.
Brian: Women in holy orders?
Joe: No.
Brian: Crutch-embellished teenagers?
Joe: No.
Brian: Bleating stately home proprietors?
Joe: No.
Brian: Irish Eurocrats, perhaps?
Joe: Ah! We have an Irish Eurocrat, yessir.
Brian: (suprised) You do? Excellent.
Joe: Yessir. She's..ah,.....she's really up for it.
Brian: Oh, I like 'em keen.
Joe: Well,.. She's very eager, actually, sir.
Brian: No matter. Fetch hither the Maiden of Brussels ! Mmmwah!
Joe: I...think she's a bit more overenthusiastic, than you'll like, sir.
Brian: I don't care how flaming avid she is. Hand her over with all speed.
Joe: Ooohhh........!
Brian: What now?
Joe: The GP's had her Sir.
Brian: Has he?
Joe: In his dreams.
(pause)
Brian: Northern in-laws?
Joe: No.
Brian: Absentee yachting Australians?
Joe: No.
Brian: Swotty publicans' offspring?
Joe: No.
Brian: Harassed other halves of failed agriculturalists?
Joe: No.
Brian: Sausage-averse yoghurt producers?
Joe: No sir.
Brian: You do HAVE some ladies, don't you?
Joe: (brightly) Of course, sir. It's an escort agency, sir. We've got--
Brian: No no... don't tell me. I'm keen to guess.
Joe: Suit yerself.
Brian: Uuuuuh, Asian aunties.
Joe: Yes ?
Brian: Ah, well, I'll have one of those.
Joe: Oh! I thought you were talking to me, sir. Mister Asian Aunties, that's my name.
Brian: Veterinarian widows?
Joe: Er, not as such.
Brian: Uuh, gossipping village shop attendants?
Joe: No
Brian: International assassins?
Joe: No
Brian: Unicycling astronauts?
Joe: Not TODAY, sir, no.
(pause)
Brian: Aah, how about Page Three topless models?
Joe: Well, we don't get much call for them around here, sir.
Brian: Not much ca-- it's the single most popular lady escort in the world!
Joe: Not 'round here, sir.
Brian: And what IS the most popular lady round here pray?
Joe: Cake-baking wives of recently retired farmers Sir.
Brian: ARE they.
Joe: Oh, yes, they're staggeringly popular in this manor, squire.
Brian: Are they.
Joe: They're our number one best seller, sir.
Brian: I see. Er... Cake-baking wife of recently retired farmer, eh?
Joe: Right, sir.
Brian: All right. OK. 'Have you got any?' he asked, expecting the answer 'no'.
Joe: I'll have a look, sir ........nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnno.
Brian: It's not much of an escort agency, is it?
Joe: Finest in the district!
Brian: (annoyed) Explain the logic underlying that conclusion, please.
Joe: Well, it's so clean, sir.
Brian: It's certainly uncontaminated by ladies....
Joe: (brightly) You haven't asked me about mutton-dressed-as-lizard tax-exiles, sir.
Brian: Would it be worth it?
Joe: Could be....
Brian: Have you --SHUT THAT RUDDY PUNK MUSIC!
Joe: Told you sir.
Brian: (slowly) Have you got any tepee-dwelling baby machines?
Joe: No.
Brian: Figures. Predictable, really I suppose. It was an act of purest optimism to have posed the question in the first place. Tell me -
Joe: Yessir?
Brian: (deliberately) Have you in fact got any ladies here at all.
Joe: Yes, sir.
Brian: Really?
(pause)
Joe: No. Not really, sir.
Brian: You haven't.
Joe: No sir. Not one. I was deliberately wasting your time, sir.
Brian: Well I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to shoot you.
Joe: Ruddy typical of you landowning classes. Stuff yer.
(Brian takes out a gun and shoots Joe)
Brian: What a senseless waste of nearly-human life.
End
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