The old order changeth, yielding place to new.

And God fulfills Himself in many ways. And soon, I suppose, I shall be swept away by some vulgar little tumor.

Oh, my boys, my boys; we’re at the end of an age. We live in a land of weather forecasts and breakfasts that “set in.” Shat on by Tories, shoveled up by Labour.

And here we are, we three—perhaps the last island of beauty in the world.

Now, which of you is going to be a splendid fellow and go down to the Rolls for the rest of the wine?

—Uncle Monty, Withnail and I