You excrement, you whining hypocritical toadies with your colour TV sets and your Tony Jacklin golf clubs and your bleeding masonic secret handshakes. You wouldn't let me join, would you, you blackballing bastards. Well I wouldn't become a Freemason if you went down on your stinking knees and begged me. Oh sod the abattoir, that's not important. But if any of you could put in a word for me I'd love to be a mason.
Masonry opens doors.
I've got a second-hand apron. Mr. Wiggin exits. Mr Tid rises. Now the second architect is Mr. Wymer of Wymer and Dibble. It has three main lifts and two service lifts.