Blackadder: Your brain's so minute, Baldrick, that if a hungry cannibal cracked your head open, there wouldn't be enough to cover a small water biscuit.


Blackadder: Baldrick, in the Amazonian rain forests there are tribes of Indians as yet untouched by civilisation who have developed more convincing Charlie Chaplin impressions than yours. 


Blackadder: George, who is using the family brain cell at the moment?


Blackadder: I lost closer friends than "darling Georgie" the last time I was deloused.


Baldrick: Shall I do my war poem, sir?
Blackadder: How hurt will you be if I give the honest answer, which is, "No - I'd rather French-kiss a skunk?"


Blackadder: For us, the Great War is finito, a war which would be a damn sight simpler if we just stayed in England and shot fifty thousand of our men a week.


Blackadder: We've been sitting here since Christmas 1914, during which time millions of men have died, and we've moved no further than an asthmatic ant with heavy shopping.


Blackadder: Give the likes of Baldrick the vote and we'll be back to cavorting druids, death by stoning and dung for dinner.


Blackadder: If you want something done properly, kill Baldrick before you start.

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