It *should* be bloody George Clooney. I mean, come the toss between Burnsall Church and...

[discussing the calendar] Chris: It *should* be bloody George Clooney. I mean, come the toss between Burnsall Church and George Clooney, I know which I'd rather wake up looking at. John: It is a Norman church, you know. Chris: I'm not disputing the loveliness of the church, John. It's the firmness of the buttocks I'm worried about.

It should be George Clooney. Come the toss between Burnsall Church and George Clooney, I know which I'd rather wake up looking at. It is a Norman church. I'm not disputing the loveliness of the church. It's the firmness of the buttocks I'm worried about. You'll pull your drip out. Anyway, let's face it. Oh, hate to be a revolutionary. It might actually sell a few copies. The W.I. posing pouch calendar. Flesh sells, I tell you. Right. Decided. So, where do we get a photographer? Art college. It's full of charlatans who prostitute their talent. - Is it? - Yeah. Lawrence was telling me. Hey, you want to see this kid's photographs? Yeah, look, don't go on about them. He's taking some of me sunflowers to see how they're getting on. See, it's not your photographer. It's your models. Professional models cost a bomb.