Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

- You don't have to do this. - My angels.
It's all right. You just sleep.
That's why you need the corpses.
- I can't believe she's gone. - Not gone, Mr Redpath. Merely sleeping.
OK. No kidding.
We're dying. Help us. Pity the Gelth.
- Charles Dickens. - OK.
Gas... Gas!
First you drug me, then you kidnap me...
- How much do you get paid? - Eight pound a year, miss.
Marley's face!
- Blimey! - Don't laugh.
- Morbid fancy. - Charles, you were there.
saw in the knocker,
They can only test-drive the bodies for so long, then they revert to gas.
I'm sorry. You've got one of the best minds in the world.
Stop dabbling, child, and leave these things alone, I beg of you.
Are you there, spirits? Come.
- Gwyneth, you know full well. - No, sir. I can't.
No, I can't. Even my imagination grows stale.
This house is on a weak spot. Mr Sneed, what's the weakest part of this house?
- Bridgehead establishing. - Come to this world, poor lost souls.
Where is she?
- Failing. - Open the rift. We're dying.
It's Cardiff.
Let me out! Open the door!
War? What war?
Fantastic.
- Doctor, what do I have to do? - You don't have to do anything.
Like that? You'll start a riot, Barbarella. There's a wardrobe.
This isn't a permanent solution.
I'm an old man. Perhaps I've thought everything I'll ever think.
That's how I got the house so cheap. Stories going back generations.
Perhaps he was not of this earth.