In honor of the release of "The Secret Policeman's Balls" on DVD, here's Peter Cook doing a parody of the summing up for the trial of Jeremy Thorpe, a British politician:

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it is now my duty to advise you on how you should vote when you retire from this court.

In the last few weeks we have all heard some pretty extraordinary allegations being made about one of the prettiest, about one of the most distinguished politicians ever to rise to high office in this country - or not, as you may think.

We have heard, for example, from Mr Bex Bissell - a man who by his own admission is a liar, a humbug, a hypocrite, a vagabond, a loathsome spotted reptile and a self-confessed chicken strangler. You may choose, if you wish, to believe the transparent tissue of odious lies which streamed on and on from his disgusting, greedy, slavering lips. That is entirely a matter for you.

Then we have been forced to listen to the pitiful whining of Mr Norma St.John Scott - a scrounger, parasite, pervert, a worm, a self-confessed player of the pink oboe; a man (or woman) who by his (or her) own admission chews pillows! It would be hard to imagine, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, a more discredited and embittered man, a more unreliable witness upon whose testimony to convict a man who you may rightly think should have become Prime Minister of his country or President of the world. You may on the other hand choose to believe the evidence of Mrs Scott - in which case I can only say that you need psychiatric help of the type provided by the excellent Dr Gleadle.

On the evidence of the so-called 'hit man', Mr Olivia Newton-John, I would prefer to draw a discrete veil. He is, as we know, a man with a criminal past, but I like to think - ho ho ho - no criminal future. He is a piece of slimy refuse, unable to carry out the simplest murder plot without cocking it up, to the distress of many. On the other hand, you may think Mr Newton-John is one of the most intelligent, profound, sensitive and saintly personalities of our time. That is entirely a matter for you.

I now turn to the evidence about the money and Mr Jack Haywire and Mr Nadir Rickshaw, neither of whom, as far as I can make out, are complete and utter crooks, though the latter in incontestably foreign and, you may well think, the very type to boil up foul-smelling biriyanis at all hours of the night and keep you awake with his pagan limbo dancing.

It is not contested by the defence that enormous sums of money flowed towards them in unusual ways. What happened to that money, we shall never know. But I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that there are a number of totally innocent ways in which that £20,000 could have been spent: on two tickets for Evita, a centre court seat at Wimbledon, or Mr Thrope may have decided simply to blow it all on a flutter on the Derby. That is his affair and it is not for us to pry. It will be a sad day for this country when a leading politician cannot spend his election expenses in any way he sees fit.

One further point: You will probably have noticed that three of the defendants have very wisely chosen to exercise their inalienable right not to go into the witness box to answer a lot of impertinent questions. I will merely say that you are not to infer from this anything other than that they consider the evidence against them so flimsy that it was scarcely worth their while to rise from their seats and waste their breath denying these ludicrous charges.

In closing, I would like to pay tribute to Mr Thrope's husband, Miriam, who has stood by him throughout this long and unnecessary ordeal. I know you will join me in wishing them well for a long and happy future.

And now, being mindful of the fact that the Prudential Cup begins on Saturday, putting all such thoughts from your mind, you are now to retire - as indeed should I - you are now to retire, carefully to consider your verdict of 'Not Guilty'.

Not only did I sleep horribly last night, but I wake up to find George Carlin died. That sucks.

Carlin was not only a hilarious comic, but he actually made you think as you laughed. My favorite routines of his were ones that poked at the English language, trying to figure out why we say things a certain way, be they dirty words or euphemisms.

No one can ever replace him. He'll be greatly missed.

Calm down. Have some dip.

Mike Sterling's blog just reminded me that Jack Benny turns 39 today. Jack's radio show is one of the few things of that era that simply never, ever gets old, even with topical references. You can listen to it now and still be in hysterics, because Jack is funny and surrounded himself with funny people. And the word timing meant little until Jack Benny made it what it is today.

Happy birthday, Jack. You are still a comedy god.