Chris Morris: When dancing... lost in techno trance. Arms flailing, gawky Bez. Then find you snagged on frowns, and slowly dawns... you're jazzing to the bleep tone of a life support machine, that marks the steady fading of your day old baby daughter. And when midnight sirens lead to blue-flash road-mash. Stretchers, covered heads, and slippy red macadam, and find you creeping 'neath the blankets, to snuggle close a mangle bird, hoping soon you too will be freezer drawered. Then welcome... mmm... ooh, chemotherapy wig, welcome. In Jam. Jam. Jam. Jam. Jam. Jaaaaam.
Chris Morris: When roped to concrete, and noose your bauble for car-powered head divorce, then find your scheme all twunted by a Honda. And when all your taxi journeys come to this:
Taxi Driver: Taxi!
Woman: Er, could I travel in the boot please?
Taxi Driver: In the boot?
Woman: I prefer to travel in the boot.
Taxi Driver: Really?
Woman: Feels safer. (gets into boot) Shut the lid.
Chris Morris: Then welcome. Oooh, astonishing sod ache, welcome. In Jam.