Wednesday, November 25, 2009


WATSON: I've been thinking, Holmes...

HOLMES: Steady on, old chap, you might blow a blood vessel, and we wouldn't want that.

WATSON: No, really, I've been thinking about Toby.

HOLMES: Oh, dear. I do wish Hudders would fix the inflatable doll so I could distract myself from your daily dollop of mind-numbing claptrap.

WATSON: Seriously, Holmes, do you think Toby's, well, you know, sniffing up the other leg?

HOLMES: What on earth are you raving on about now, Watters? Have you been at the aniseed cake again?

WATSON: I mean, well, to put it bluntly, do you think his canine excitement lies elsewhere?

HOLMES: Oh, for Hudders sake, of course Toby's gay. I can't believe you've only just cottoned on to that fact.

WATSON: You knew? But when? How? With...

HOLMES: It was elementary, my dear quack, from the moment he started rising to the occasion on Primrose Hill whenever he saw Butch the Bulldog stomp by. Why, he even tried to mount Inspector Lestrade outside Scotland Yard last Christmas, if you recall.

WATSON: Oh, come now, he was only being playful. I mean, are you sure he barks for the other side? He seemed so fond of Clarissa, the poodle at number eight.

HOLMES: As sure as I am that that Moriarty partakes of an unsuspecting goat every now and then.

WATSON: No, Holmes! Tell me it isn't so! Why, the fiend. How utterly revolting. Does he, you know, dress her up and whatnot? In stockings and suspenders?

HOLMES: Watson, I have long suspected you of extreme perversity and unhealthy proclivities but this takes the Digestive. I can only say that it is better if you do not pursue this particular avenue of inquiry for your own sake.

WATSON: Yes, of course. All this talk of depravity is making me feel rather faint, old thing. I think I'll just go and have a lie down.

HOLMES: I fear, old chum, that that would not be a sensible course of action at this juncture. You might be tempted to have a flick at the old Freddy, what what what. Here, sniff this. It might quieten him down for a while.

WATSON: Holmes, you know I can't partake of intoxicating substances. It plays havoc with my bladder. And I'd be struck off in a whisker if the Medical Council ever found out.

HOLMES: For Pete's sake, it's only a pinch of coke. Never hurt anyone. Good stuff too, by all accounts. Fresh from the docks.

WATSON: Confound it, Holmes, what on earth would the great British public think if they knew that the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson were discussing gay dogs and goats in stockings and suspenders and cocaine?

HOLMES: Watson, I strongly suspect that if they knew, book sales would go through the roof and we'd become a global brand. Then we'd be able to retire to sunnier climes, with totty and booze and barbiturates beyond our wildest dreams.

WATSON: Oh, abomination, sugar and spice! Are the public so puerile, so base, so corrupted that moral upstanding has no place in society any more?

HOLMES: Never did, Watty Poos. It is but a meaningless, stifling veneer through which we breathe. Now feast your hooter on this. Go on.


WATSON: Oh, Toby! We're going to hell in a basket for this, Holmes, mark my words.


WATSON: Oh, woe are we. (SNIFFS COKE) Oh... Great shit, Holmes.

HOLMES: Indeed, Watson. Gay dogs on cocaine at eleven.