The trouble with you, Spode, is that just because you have succeeded in inducing a handful of half-wits to disfigure the London scene by going about in black shorts, you think you're someone. You hear them shouting 'Heil, Spode!' and you imagine it is the Voice of the People. That is where you make your bloomer. What the Voice of the People is saying is: 'Look at that frightful ass Spode swanking about in footer bags! Did you ever in your puff see such a perfect perisher?

Prismatic is the only word for those frightful tweeds and, oddly enough, the spectacle of them had the effect of steadying my nerves. They gave me the feeling …

'There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself, 'Do trousers matter?'' 'The mood will pass, sir.'

'Have you ever seen Spode eat asparagus?' 'No.' 'Revolting. It alters one's whole conception of Man as Nature's last word.'

I'm the only Jew that's made a nickel off of Hitler!

I have as much authority as the Pope. I just don't have as many people who believe it.

...so unpopular, if he became a funeral director people would stop dying