A clockwork orange
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
British (England - South East - Oxford, Sussex) British (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
I am Robert Dean on this is a selection off Four Clockwork Orange Monologues. That was me, That is Alex and my three droogs. That is Pete, Georgie and Dim. And we sat in the Korova Milk Bar trying to make up our as a doc's what to do with the evening it could over milk bar sold milk, close milk plus valasek, or sent the mess HQ or dren crumb, which is what we were drinking. This would sharpen you up and make you ready for a little of the old ultra violence. Our pockets were full of money, so there was no need on that score. But as they say, money isn't everything. One thing I could never stand is to see a filthy, dirty old drunk e howling away at the filthy songs of his fathers and going blerp in between as it might be a filthy old orchestra in his stinking rotten gots. I could never stand to see anyone like that, Whatever his age, maybe, but more especially when he was really old like this. One more's the Durango 95 purred away A real horror show. Oh, a nice, warm vibrating feeling or you got a Watts. Soon it was trees and dark, my brothers with real country dark. We filled around for a while with all the travellers of the night playing hogs of the road. Then we headed west. What we were after now was the old surprise visit that was a real kick and good for laughs and lashings of the old ultra violence. There was some psychosis from the TV studios around the corner laughing in Grover, tearing the devotion coasts, making away and not caring about the wicked world one bit. Then the disc on the stereo twanged off and out. And in the short silence before the next one came on, she suddenly came out with a burst of singing and it was like, for a moment or my brother's a great blurred have flown into the cove, a milk bath. I felt all the malenky little hairs on my plott standing in words and the shivers crawling up like slow, malenky lizards and then down again because I knew what she sang. It was a bit from the glorious ninth by Ludwig van. Thank you. I hope you consider me your needs. A good day