In an attempt to break the white mans supremacy, Paul Robeson had once remarked All handsome men are slightly sunburned. Milligan was no exception, he had also said it. He sat in the half upright. I tink, he reflected, I tink Ill bronze me limbs. He rolled his trousers kneewards revealing the like of two thin white hairy affairs of the leg variety. He eyed them with obvious dissatisfaction. After examining them he spoke out aloud. Holy God! Wot are dese den? Eh? He looked around for an answer. Wot are dey? he repeated angrily. Legs. Legs? LEGS? Whose legs? Yours. Mine? And who are you? The Author. Author? Author? Did you write these legs? Yes. Well, I dont like dem. I dont like em at all at all. I could ha writted better legs meself. Did you write your legs? No. Ahhh. Sooo! You got some one else to write your legs, some one whos a good leg writer and den you write dis pair of crappy old legs fer me, well mister, its not good enough. Ill try and develop them with the plot. Its a dia-bo-likal liberty lettin an untrained leg writer loose on an unsuspectin human bean like me. It was a Dublin accent charged with theatrical innuendo; like all Irish he could make Good Morning sound like a declaration of war - which it usually was. Now, listen Milligan, Ill grant you a word wish. If you ever find yourself in trouble just shout Squrrox. Squrrox? youtube/watch?v=e61uC-5s9VU
Posted on: Fri, 25 Oct 2013 22:48:58 +0000
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