And the most prolific shoplifters are..


Oct 5, 8:56 AM (ET)


LONDON (Reuters) - Britons are the most prolific shoplifters in Europe, a survey published Wednesday showed.

They stole 3.58 billion pounds of goods from their nation's shops last year, the equivalent of 1.59 percent of British retail turnover.

Razor blades were the most stolen item followed by alcohol and toiletries, according to the British-based Center for Retail Research.

Finland had the second worst shoplifting problem followed by Portugal and Greece while the Swiss were the most disciplined shoppers, the survey showed. Theft accounted for 0.89 percent of Swiss retail turnover.

In all, Europeans stole 30.8 billion euros worth of goods from their stores last year -- 71.5 euros per person.

Customers were blamed for 48 percent of the thefts, staff for 29 percent and suppliers for 7 percent.

The survey covered 423 retailers in 24 countries, accounting for 20 percent of European retail turnover.

Razor blades in Britain.

There’s a joke in there somewhere.

How about some crack about the "toiletries" not including dental hygiene products?

You laugh, but in a lot of supermarkets, Razor blades come in those big plastic security tag things that have to be unlocked at the counter... I always wandered what the hell that was about.

/PHil

Quoted: Quoted: You laugh, but in a lot of supermarkets, Razor blades come in those big plastic security tag things that have to be unlocked at the counter... I always wandered what the hell that was about. /PHil At my local WAL*MART here in the UK you have to take a cardboard PICTURE of the razor blades you want to the checkout!!!

WTF? but then again in the US you have to ask for certain cold meds due to meth cookers

3.58 billion pounds

what's that in tons?

Quoted: 3.58 billion pounds what's that in tons?

I dunno...but it's about a Gagillion dollars!!!

How do you Brits keep the value of the pound so high????

Quoted: Quoted: Quoted: 3.58 billion pounds what's that in tons? I dunno...but it's about a Gagillion dollars!!! How do you Brits keep the value of the pound so high???? Booming economy!!! Thats about US$ 6.4 billion buy we only have 60 million population… so adjusted for population it's the equivalent of US$33 Billion been stolen in the US…

I would imagine that the US would out-do the UK in shoplifting. There was a single store in our mall, for instance, that had over 1 million dollars in theft every year. ONE STORE.

I find all these stories about the UK disturbing. I have always looked at the UK with great respect and regard, and one day I dreamed of visiting the Honky Motherland.

Quoted: Quoted: Quoted: Quoted: 3.58 billion pounds what's that in tons? I dunno...but it's about a Gagillion dollars!!! How do you Brits keep the value of the pound so high???? Booming economy!!! Thats about US$ 6.4 billion buy we only have 60 million population… so adjusted for population it's the equivalent of US$33 Billion been stolen in the US… I would imagine that the US would out-do the UK in shoplifting. There was a single store in our mall, for instance, that had over 1 million dollars in theft every year. ONE STORE. I find all these stories about the UK disturbing. I have always looked at the UK with great respect and regard, and one day I dreamed of visiting the Honky Motherland.

When you find out that the UK is like a forcast of what silly crap we'll be dealing with in 20 years you'll be even more disturbed.  What poor Vito and the mates are dealing with today.....we'll be dealing with tomorrow.  Want proof??? Go watch the Monty Python's Flying Circus  video collection.  The stuff they were lampooning ( or much of it ) in the late sixties and early seventies is stuff we were totally oblivious to until about 1985.

Quoted: Go watch the Monty Python's Flying Circus  video collection.  The stuff they were lampooning ( or much of it ) in the late sixties and early seventies is stuff we were totally oblivious to until about 1985.

Excuse me? Are you telling ME to go watch Monty Python?

Are you unaware that you are speaking to the man who can quote almost every sketch?

You're quite right! I mean, what is the point of going abroad if you're only going to be treated like a sheep,  carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oaves from Vetchy and Boventry, with their blothed backs and their bardigans and their transistor radios, complaining about the tea or they don't make it properly, do they? Not like at home, and stopping at endless Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg, and sitting in their cotton sun frocks, squirting Timothy White Suncream all over their puffy, raw, swollen, purulent flesh, 'cos they overdid it on the first day,  being herded into countless Hotel Miramars and Bellevues, Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes and swimming pools full of draft Red Barrel and fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into the cues, and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss your bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup, the first item in the menu of International Cuisine, Every Thursday night there's a bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dego with nine-inch hips and some fat bloated tart with her hair brill creamed down and big arse presenting flamenco for foreigners, and idle typists from Birmingham with diahhrea trying to pick up bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel,  And once a week there's an excursion to local Roman remains, where you can buy Cherry Aid and melted ice cream, and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel, and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Pow ell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres, And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X', Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back street, where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion, crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'." And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing "enterovioform" and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...

Quoted: Quoted: Go watch the Monty Python's Flying Circus  video collection.  The stuff they were lampooning ( or much of it ) in the late sixties and early seventies is stuff we were totally oblivious to until about 1985. Excuse me? Are you telling ME to go watch Monty Python? Are you unaware that you are speaking to the man who can quote almost every sketch? You're quite right! I mean, what is the point of going abroad if you're only going to be treated like a sheep,  carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oaves from Vetchy and Boventry, with their blothed backs and their bardigans and their transistor radios, complaining about the tea or they don't make it properly, do they? Not like at home, and stopping at endless Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg, and sitting in their cotton sun frocks, squirting Timothy White Suncream all over their puffy, raw, swollen, purulent flesh, 'cos they overdid it on the first day,  being herded into countless Hotel Miramars and Bellevues, Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes and swimming pools full of draft Red Barrel and fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into the cues, and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss your bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup, the first item in the menu of International Cuisine, Every Thursday night there's a bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dego with nine-inch hips and some fat bloated tart with her hair brill creamed down and big arse presenting flamenco for foreigners, and idle typists from Birmingham with diahhrea trying to pick up bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel,  And once a week there's an excursion to local Roman remains, where you can buy Cherry Aid and melted ice cream, and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel, and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Pow ell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres, And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X', Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back street, where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion, crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'." And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing "enterovioform" and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...

Paragraphs man, paragraphs.

Quoted: Paragraphs man, paragraphs.

I can't stand the word paragraph.  It's such a tinny word.

Quoted: Paragraphs man, paragraphs.

Spoken like someone who doesn't get the joke.

Quoted: Quoted: Paragraphs man, paragraphs. I can't stand the word paragraph.  It's such a tinny word.

Not like gorn. Gorn....Now that's a woody word! Gooooooooooorrrrnnnnnn! Gooooooooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnnnnn!

Notice the French dont even make the list for stolen toiletries.


Why steal what you dont buy?

Quoted: Quoted: Go watch the Monty Python's Flying Circus  video collection.  The stuff they were lampooning ( or much of it ) in the late sixties and early seventies is stuff we were totally oblivious to until about 1985. Excuse me? Are you telling ME to go watch Monty Python? Are you unaware that you are speaking to the man who can quote almost every sketch? You're quite right! I mean, what is the point of going abroad if you're only going to be treated like a sheep,  carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oaves from Vetchy and Boventry, with their blothed backs and their bardigans and their transistor radios, complaining about the tea or they don't make it properly, do they? Not like at home, and stopping at endless Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg, and sitting in their cotton sun frocks, squirting Timothy White Suncream all over their puffy, raw, swollen, purulent flesh, 'cos they overdid it on the first day,  being herded into countless Hotel Miramars and Bellevues, Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes and swimming pools full of draft Red Barrel and fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into the cues, and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss your bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup, the first item in the menu of International Cuisine, Every Thursday night there's a bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dego with nine-inch hips and some fat bloated tart with her hair brill creamed down and big arse presenting flamenco for foreigners, and idle typists from Birmingham with diahhrea trying to pick up bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel,  And once a week there's an excursion to local Roman remains, where you can buy Cherry Aid and melted ice cream, and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel, and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Pow ell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres, And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X', Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back street, where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion, crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'." And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing "enterovioform" and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...

One of my favorite MP skits...how in the HELL did he memorize it?  And then deliver it in one long rant, without mispronouncing a *single* sylable.  Truly a mind boggling performance.  Eric Idle rules.  

Quoted: One of my favorite MP skits...how in the HELL did he memorize it?  And then deliver it in one long rant, without mispronouncing a *single* sylable.  Truly a mind boggling performance.  Eric Idle rules.

The same way I memorized it and typed it all out. Repetition, baby....Repetition.

You ought to see the look on people's faces when I start rattling that off. They think I have gone insane.

Quoted: One of my favorite MP skits...how in the HELL did he memorize it?  And then deliver it in one long rant, without mispronouncing a *single* sylable.  Truly a mind boggling performance.  Eric Idle rules.

I'm guessing he found it elsewhere online and copied and pasted.

Quoted: Quoted: One of my favorite MP skits...how in the HELL did he memorize it?  And then deliver it in one long rant, without mispronouncing a *single* sylable.  Truly a mind boggling performance.  Eric Idle rules.   I'm guessing he found it elsewhere online and copied and pasted.

I believe the "he" Fenian is refering to is Eric Idle (who preformed this sketch).

Quoted: I'm guessing he found it elsewhere online and copied and pasted.

You insult me sir!

I use no artificial preservatives or additives of any kind! Meaning, of course, that if I took the bones out, it wouldn't be crunchy, would it!

I don't have to do this, you know! I am a fully qualified brain surgeon! I only do this because I like being me own boss!

Quoted: Quoted: Go watch the Monty Python's Flying Circus  video collection.  The stuff they were lampooning ( or much of it ) in the late sixties and early seventies is stuff we were totally oblivious to until about 1985. Excuse me? Are you telling ME to go watch Monty Python? Are you unaware that you are speaking to the man who can quote almost every sketch? You're quite right! I mean, what is the point of going abroad if you're only going to be treated like a sheep,  carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oaves from Vetchy and Boventry, with their blothed backs and their bardigans and their transistor radios, complaining about the tea or they don't make it properly, do they? Not like at home, and stopping at endless Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg, and sitting in their cotton sun frocks, squirting Timothy White Suncream all over their puffy, raw, swollen, purulent flesh, 'cos they overdid it on the first day,  being herded into countless Hotel Miramars and Bellevues, Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes and swimming pools full of draft Red Barrel and fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into the cues, and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss your bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup, the first item in the menu of International Cuisine, Every Thursday night there's a bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dego with nine-inch hips and some fat bloated tart with her hair brill creamed down and big arse presenting flamenco for foreigners, and idle typists from Birmingham with diahhrea trying to pick up bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel,  And once a week there's an excursion to local Roman remains, where you can buy Cherry Aid and melted ice cream, and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel, and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Pow ell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres, And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X', Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back street, where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion, crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'." And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing "enterovioform" and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...

Shut your bloody gob!  I've had enough of this, I'm going to ring the police.

Quoted: Quoted: Quoted: One of my favorite MP skits...how in the HELL did he memorize it?  And then deliver it in one long rant, without mispronouncing a *single* sylable.  Truly a mind boggling performance.  Eric Idle rules.   I'm guessing he found it elsewhere online and copied and pasted. I believe the "he" Fenian is refering to is Eric Idle (who preformed this sketch).

You are indeed correct, sir.  I even mentioned Eric Idle in the post, in a feeble attempt at enlightening those among us who are Monty Python challenged, as any true fan will know it was indeed Eric Idle who performed this momentous sketch.  

Alien, go to the back of the class!  

Mmmm... Crunchy frog!

HAd to do it.

We dont have thieves, remember?  We have undocumented shoppers.

The Police? Call the church Police!


Dram (whoisamontypythonfreakfromalmost25yearsagoormore)


Anybody for a quick fish-slapping dance?

How about the Ken Shabby sketch.. sorry I gobbed on yer' carpet squire.. oooh the goats done a bundle on yer carpet...


The only thing close is the Black Adder series by Rowan Atkinson, truly a jewel in British comedy history.

The above two series are some of the finest humor writing and acting ever put on the small screen.

Okay, I'll ask, why steal razor blades?

At least it was mostly essentials that were stolen. At least essential in my book. And freaking razor blade are way to expensive. It's the frenchies fault.

Quoted: When you find out that the UK is like a forcast of what silly crap we'll be dealing with in 20 years you'll be even more disturbed.  What poor Vito and the mates are dealing with today.....we'll be dealing with tomorrow.  Want proof??? Go watch the Monty Python's Flying Circus  video collection.  The stuff they were lampooning ( or much of it ) in the late sixties and early seventies is stuff we were totally oblivious to until about 1985.

The Ministry of Silly Walks?

Quoted: The Police? Call the church Police! Dram (whoisamontypythonfreakfromalmost25yearsagoormore) Anybody for a quick fish-slapping dance? How about the Ken Shabby sketch.. sorry I gobbed on yer' carpet squire.. oooh the goats done a bundle on yer carpet... The only thing close is the Black Adder series by Rowan Atkinson, truly a jewel in British comedy history. The above two series are some of the finest humor writing and acting ever put on the small screen.

I have never seen Black Adder. Must pick up the DVD set.

Ken Shabby: I clean out public lavatories....*COUGH COUGH HACK HACK*

Father: Is there any promotion involved?

Ken Shabby: Ea, after five years they give me a brush.....