Gimlet and Finchley 1 - Ted, Gimlet and Finchley

On TV the comedian is talking to a wolf and an alligator glove puppets.

“When I die,” he said, “I want you both to continue the act without me.”

Gimlet, the wolf glove puppet on his right hand, gave him one of his famous stares, nose pressing forwards so that all the camera could see the was his eyes.

“And how are we supposed to manage that?” he said.

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll manage,” said Finchley, the alligator glove puppet on his left hand. “We’ve done the act hundreds of times, I’m sure we can both remember every word.”

Gimlet turned his stare onto Finchley. “And how exactly are you planning to say the words.”

“Well, I’ll open my mouth and … oh.” The truth dawned. “I…” he looked up to Ted. “How exactly are we supposed to do that?”

A modest laugh from the audience. These days every laugh is modest, as if shrinkflation has spread from yoghurt tubs, Mars bars and buttery spreads, to human laughter.

“I think you should get someone else,” said Ted.

“What if we don’t like him?” said Finchley.

“What if he answers back?” said Gimlet.

“I answer back,” says Ted.

“Only when we let you,” says Gimlet. A bigger laugh. Gimlet always got the bigger laugh.