All language subtitles for Absolute Power s02e04 The Nations Favourite.eng

(DANCE MUSIC PLAYS)

I'm terribly sorry, I just have
to... em... not be with you.

I'll be right back.

You rang?
What did you say to her?

I said I'd be right back.

But I had my fingers crossed.

My employer wishes
to speak with you.

Enjoying the club?

Ghastly, isn't it?

The music?

The music, of course,
is unpardonable.

Everywhere I hear this name.
My name?

The company for which
you are not quite a partner.

Widely spoken of.
(MUSIC STOPS)

That's impressive.
We can talk.

You must be well-acquainted
with the management.

I seldom acquaint myself
with management at all.

He bought Annabel's?
Yup.

When?
Last night. He arrived at nine o'clock.

At ten, he summoned his lawyers.

At eleven, they informed the management
that their client wished to buy the club.

By midnight, it was his.
Bloody hellfire.

Fascinating. Martin,
the real world beckons.

In half an hour we have
Princess Michael

who's got a face
like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

She can't help that.

No, she had an altercation
with traffic wardens.

Oh. (Mouths)
Moreover...

I have never heard an anecdote

so deliberately protracted
to conceal information.

What aren't you telling us, Jamie?
Who is he?

His name's Reza, R-E-Z-A.

Reza what?

His surname you'll find
difficult to pronounce.

But he's the real
international deal.

Harrow, Harvard.

Thereafter intelligent guidance
of the family shipping money,

conducted mostly from the deck
of his yacht.

He's a real gent. And what's more -
he's heard that we're the best.

We are the best, what does he want?

He wants to buy British Airways.

If the smell of rat gets any
stronger, I shall vomit Niagarishly.

Jamie.

What's his name?

Bin Laden.

One minute!

He wants to buy British Airways.

He has the experience in
business and he has the clout.

Above all, he has the money.
He has so much money.

He's the cousin of the most
execrated man on the planet.

We can finesse that. Charles?
42 seconds.

It's not like you to refuse a challenge.

But very like me not to embrace
a gross imbecility on a whim.

Unless it's my own. Anything else?
All we need do is change his name.

The precedent's right there. That's
not Elizabeth Saxe Coburg Gothe.

That's Betty Windsor, bless her.

Actually, it's Charles Darwin.
Common mistake. Probably the beard.

Please. Sort Princess Mickey out

and shoot straight down to
the Savoy, just meet this guy.

He's got something about him.

Semtex, probably.

And your minute is up.

Martin...

Oh, God, very well.

We can give Sir Reza Blades
Bin Bloody Liner

a quick once-over, can't we, Charles?

Thank you, Martin.

We should take Alison with us -
he likes sophisticated women.

You have to concede she is a woman.

This way, please.
ALISON: Ow!

She's unwell?

That's one of the euphemisms
we use for her, yes.

I'm fine, it's just... There.

Safe as houses. Right,
let's go and meet Mr Hussein...

Bin Laden.

Whatever.

Jesus Christ!

If Christ were a shooting man,
Mr McCabe,

doubtless he would shoot Purdeys.

I'll take the pair.

But let us discuss British Airways.

Jamie I know.

You are Charles Prentiss.
But who is this ravishing creature?

Oh...

Oh, I'm so sorry.
Never mind, nobody was hurt.

Yes, I'm afraid we're required by law

to employ a certain
number of people like her.

It's my pleasure to meet you, Alison.
Er, now, Mr Bin Laden...

my work experience boy says you're
interested in making a hostile bid

for the company in question.

Hostile in what respect? I'll offer
substantially over the odds for it.

Please sit. Tea?
Thank you, yes.

A great English class indicator.

My mother used to characterise
arrivistes as rather M I F - Milk In First.

I continue to insist that my tea
is served with the milk in first

as a matter of adolescent defiance.

But that does not make me
an unfit person

to possess a great British institution.

MARTIN: I must ask you this,
Mr, er, Mr Bin Laden...

because the shareholders
certainly will,

as indeed will the public
at large - why British Airways?

Lord Hanson bought the London Brick
Company because he likes bricks.

So you like to fly?

Not particularly.
What I like is the Britishness.

The captain's authority.

The beef-faced stewardess
pretending to be a debutante.

The livery, the uniform,
the salute, the glacial smile,

the comfortable discipline.

The salute?

Does the captain not salute you
when you board a British Airways flight?

Not usually, no.

He salutes me.

Monica, memo. Every passenger
to be saluted by the captain.

But why not something else
British which isn't BA?

Marks and Sparks?
They've gone right off the rails.

You could have that for sixpence
and a pair of tracksuit bottoms.

The price is immaterial.

JAMIE: May we speak frankly?

People do not go to Marks and Spencer

in order to fly in safety
and comfort to another continent.

In this respect, the name Bin
Laden could be a... disincentive

for prospective passengers.

We need to change your name.

There, you see,
you don't mind at all.

Jamie said that if I said that,
there'd be some kind of explosion.

Obviously, I don't mean explosion
in the sense of bombs going off.

My dear, the object of the exercise
is to rehabilitate the name of my family.

You must understand that.

Osama is a bad egg.

What's worse, he's a dreadful bore.
But Bin Laden is a noble house.

And I shall see its name established

in the heart and soul
of Anglo-Saxon respectability.

British Airways.
Precisely. But I am no fool.

I know the nation must be persuaded.

Are you equal to the task?
Naturally.

Although it may take some time.

At four o'clock this afternoon

I shall interview your
rivals Pottinger and Bell.

Unless, that is,
I hear your detailed proposal first.

Time enough?
Plenty.

Paul Getty.
Yes.

Go on.

Reza Bin Laden, the discreet,
publicity-spurning philanthropist,

the altruistic
supporter of charity.

Didn't somebody do something
anonymous that was rather remarkable?

Guide Dogs.

They got ten million from a benefactor
who doesn't wish to be named.

That's right, well, that was him.
That was Reza.

Was it?
Ali, do try.

CHARLES: Reza was the donor.

And he doesn't want to be named.

And we can't name him
because it wasn't actually him,

but we can let it be known
that he jolly well was.

Yes, still...

Bloody guide dogs, though.

What about Andrew Lloyd Webber?

I don't think I'd be drawn to a bloke
who stumped up ten million quid

for the propagation
of Andrew Lloyd Weber.

You remember.

He bought that big Cannelloni
for the nation... Canaletto.

(SNIGGERS)
What IS the matter with you?

All you ever do is pick and sneer.

All you had to do this morning
was flap your hooters at a client.

Children, children.

Perfect. Reza buys the Cannelloni.

Hans Holbein's Ambassadors.

The National Gallery's
most admired possession.

I like it.

Naturally I should like
to buy the original.

Well, you can't.

It is our understanding
that within a year

this great national treasure
will only be available to view

by visiting the downstairs lavatory
of a certain Japanese collector.

If that were allowed to happen,
it would be an outrage.

Wouldn't it? Luckily,
there is one man

to whom an anxious art-Ioving
nation can turn in this emergency.

Well... I am honoured
to be of service.

The Japanese is rumoured
to be offering ?30 million.

I offer 31.

Then I think I can confidently state
that the painting will be yours.

A small ceremony, I think,
don't you, Martin,

marking the return of the picture
to its rightful owners?

Small ceremony, in impeccable taste.

Or a great big blowsy one
with Hello! And footballers.

CHARLES: Why not both?

The National trousers the cheque
and opens a new wing.

The Bin Laden Wing.

Why not?

One thing. The Japanese
are not beloved of the Brits,

but they don't seem quite adequate
as objects of resentment and vilification.

Did you say Japanese?

I meant French.

Hmm.

Monica.
Call Mssrs. Pottinger and Bell.

Beg to advise them that Mr Bin Laden
has representation in this country,

and so their attendance
this afternoon is not required.

Insouciance. That's the word.

That, I think, is what one
aspires to. The ability to say,

"I offer 31," like that, shrugging,

and people in the room
not thinking, "What a wanker,"

because they know you've got the money

and they know
you really, really don't care.

It is style, Charles, it is elan.

It is the fee.
It is the fee. Christ!

Pull this off and one could live
in the country like a gentleman

and fret about one's vegetables.

Fretting about one's vegetables
is rather what we do now.

Yes, God, yes, Jamie, stupid boy.

His behaviour is becoming very
resistible. Shall I have a word?

You have matron's touch.

I shall always remember it.

Listen, Charles.

We bagged the client and that's
money in the bank and that's dandy.

But Bin Laden, Charles?!

A sackful of bloody Holbeins
won't swing that.

No. It needs an interview.

Something soft.

Something soft with
the appearance of something hard.

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

That, Martin, would
be my worst nightmare.

We have favours up our sleeves
and favours up our sleeves

but we have ONE favour up our sleeve.

Oh, that particular favour
is so far up our sleeve

that it'll never come down.

Oh, I think
it'll come down all right.

I've seen the agricultural photographs

featuring the individual in question.
So's he.

They are not to be forgotten.

Blackmail?
A mutually beneficial amnesia.

I endeavour to forget what I saw.

He contrives to forget
how to do his job.

Reza runs the gauntlet

of the toughest interrogation on
television and emerges unscathed.

Let's do it.

Not happy about this, McCabe.

Well, I don't suppose
the beater was delighted.

Must've been quite a shock.

But my memory of the
image is rapidly fading.

In just five minutes, it will
be... poof! Completely gone.

Hmm. As with you.

It was disclosed today
that the National Gallery

may have been involved
in secret negotiations

with an unnamed French businessman
to buy one of the gallery's

most valuable assets -
Holbein's The Ambassadors.

The spokesman declined...

Looking good, Reza.

...confirmed that the Gallery had
received a donation of ?31 million

from "a continental philanthropist."
His name is Reza Bin Laden.

He is indeed related to Osama -
he's his cousin - and he joins me now.

Mr Bin Laden,
what the hell's going on?

?31 million is an astonishing amount
of money to be chucking about.

Is it?!

BOTH: Yes, it is.

I suppose it is.
Well, Mr Crossman...

Jonathan.
...Jonathan.

I heard the rumour, like everyone else,
that this awful Frog...

You can't say "awful Frog"!
Yes, you can.

He's loving it.

Try perfidious Frenchman.

...perfidious Frenchman, if you will,

was manoeuvring to buy this fabulous
painting, and I thought it's not on.

I contacted the Gallery, who were
unable to give me a straight answer.

So I said, if there were
a "perfidious F"

trying to buy this painting,
how much might he be offering?

"?30 million." I said,
"If I give you a cheque for 31,

"could Franz Holbein
remain here in peace?"

Hans!
Franz?!

Hans. The Ambassadors is
umbilically linked to Britain, Jonathan.

It belongs to the British people,
it simply can't be bought and sold...

Where's your cousin?!
Heard from him lately?

He's stopped breathing.
Have a care, Jonathan.

Presumably you're in touch with him?
Constantly!

CHARLES: Say it. Trust me.

Constantly.
He speaks very highly of you.

Do you have a view on this conflict
in which we are engaged with Osama?

The people of this country
may be interested to know

what kind of a man has been
defending their heritage for them.

Relax and follow me -
the tradition of...

Britain has heart...
He's unplugged us. Fuck!

It is a great titan. By comparison,
Al Qaeda is a crippled dwarf.

We don't like cripple.
Nor dwarf, but he's said them.

The answer to the question
you seem reluctant to ask is this -

if I went home
and found cousin Osama there,

I would embrace him
as a member of my blood family.

And then I would deliver him
straight to the authorities,

for he has betrayed that family
and brought ignominy to its name.

Oh, that's very pretty.
Spoken like a true Brit.

Quick, Jonathan, before
I get my memory back.

Well, I applaud your palpable
sincerity in this... scenario.

Which brings us tidily
round to you-know-what.

May I ask you one other question?

There's conjecture on the Internet
about the future of British Airways.

Are you prepared to comment?

Yes. There is just a few things
I'd like to say about this.

Bin Laden. B-l-N...

Gone. This is silly.

I don't know why we're getting so stressy

about fixing Reza up
with an English girlfriend.

He could walk into any party in
London and come out streaming women,

them stuck all over him
like sucker fish.

A vivid image.

He has charm.

Of course he does, he's gay.
He is not gay.

Punt-wise, Reza definitely
poles from the Cambridge end.

That is such rubbish!

Reza Bin Laden has enough
sex appeal to choke a horse.

Great strap-line for the campaign.
They're right.

Reza needs a helping of white
sugar to make him palatable.

And as much as you might wish
to be that little spoonful, Ali,

you're just not sweet enough.

Alison. Would you mind awfully
making me a cup of tea?

Did I ever tell you
about Joanna Lumley?

Most unfortunate thing.

Oh, God, it's not true.
What Jamie said.

Er... What did Jamie say?
That she's got a wooden leg.

Well, it's not actually wooden,
it's made of some ghastly bendy stuff.

No.

It was a stunt on The Avengers,
with a wheelbarrow. It got hushed up.

No, Ali, that isn't true.

But it is to do with Jamie.

And it was hushed up.

Yes, it's true.
Reza is now one of ours.

What's more, he's got the horn
for British Airways.

The horn! Well, ask one
of the palace servants.

Sorry, Patrick, got to go, the
embuggerance factor is high today.

Oh, it's too early in the morning
to deal with Clarence House.

So, young Nicholas...
Blackmore.

Oh, God, he's awful!

"Lionel Blackmore,
television presenter" -

the four most depressing words
in the English language.

He's been calling all morning.
God!

Shouldn't he be in prison by now
for inciting racial hatred?

What does he want,
apart from the Fourth Reich?

He wants to open the Motor Show.

"He used to do it every year!

"Why's it always Jeremy Clarkson?
What's he got that I haven't?

"What are you lot doing about it?"
And what are we doing about it?

I've booked him to open a
Shopping Centre in Shepherds Bush.

Well, it's too good for him, of course,
but then again so is everything else...

(TELEPHONE RINGS)
Yes?

Charles, a couple
of gentlemen to see you.

Joanna Lumley.

Apparently, the Pope's
going to beatify her.

I know what you did.
Keep that under what?

I know why she isn't a client.

How are you, Charles?

I'm glorious, how are you?

Let me rephrase that - who are you?

Well, yes, my goodness,
it has been a while.

Gerald Thurnham.
This is my secretary, Davis.

He, I think, would have been
in the shortest of trousers

when you and I had our conversation.

It's quite possible
you don't remember my name.

That's because I was never told it.

No, well, probably
wouldn't have been.

Not the form to go giving out names
to undergraduates, you understand.

You made it perfectly clear that the
Foreign Office could flourish without me.

Yes, and aren't you glad?

Look how well you've done
in your profession. Jolly well.

Do you speak?

I tend not to. I'm rather dull.

So what can I do for you, gentlemen?

This chap - Reza. He really is the most
frightful, pushy wog, don't you think?

Go on.

For ten years now, Charles
has been in a stinking bait.

The words "Joanna" and "Lumley"
can not be uttered in his presence.

Let's revisit why that is.

Well, there was a bit of an upset.

Ab Fab was up and running and
Joanna's star was reborn and rising,

and she wanted to come with us.

The perfect client -
actually wanted to come with us.

And you were sent to get her a cab.
Yeah. I went to see her in a cab.

But she never arrived.
No, she changed her mind.

Because you told her not to come.
Didn't you?

Because you liked her
and you wanted to protect her.

You told her in the cab, "Yours is
a natural talent, Jo, people love you.

"PR can offer you nothing.

"All Prentiss McCabe would do
is rip out your soul."

She got out of the car.
That's ridiculous!

But so impressed was Jo with
your honesty, she rang Martin,

told him all about it.

Martin did not tell Charles, because if
he had, he would have torn you to pieces.

Still would, right now.

IF he knew.

Your terms?
Um...

Can you read my writing?

It may not be too misleading to
draw an analogy with Mohammed Fayed.

What Mohammed wants,
Mohammed cannot have.

He can have a great deal else, but he
cannot have citizenship of this country.

On what grounds?

We don't like him.

Not one little bit.

Now perhaps it should be explained
to Mr Bin Laden that his prospects

in acquiring British Airways
are not dissimilar

to Mohammed's getting a passport.

And what could possibly persuade me

to undermine the ambitions
of my own client?

Another client, Charles - us.

I can't say that our disbursements
would rival Mr Bin Laden's

in their extravagance,

but we would be a reliable source
of further employment for the future.

We're a big firm.

So you see, Charles, you end up
serving your country after all.

I'll tell you what.

Why don't you both fuck off?

Oh, dear Charles.
That's not a sensible decision.

Yeah, well, I don't set much store
by sensible.

That's a decision that's made me,
um... Oh, what's the word? Um...

Rich.

Well...

Good luck with the BA shareholders.

Who are that shower nobody's
quite aware of who actually own 30%?

General Holdings.
Never heard of them.

Who are they really?
Us.

That's right. They're us.

Well, good luck with the rest.

We have a strict rule in this office

that nobody is allowed to make
threats, naked or veiled, except me.

Goodbye.

Nick. I want you
to get a message to Martin.

And it gives me great pleasure,

on this fine, English,
autumn afternoon...

(LAUGHTER)
We don't mind a bit of rain, do we?

We were brought up to put up
with it. Excuse me...

If you are going to cause
a disturbance, I shall have to ask the police to move you on.

For the rest of us -

those who understand the concept
of rain in this country...

CROWD: Come on!

Oh, yes, that's right. Let's turn
the opening of a supermarket

into a rally for the Nation of Islam!

MAN: Get him out!

(SHOUTING AND JEERING)

Incredible. From "Good afternoon"
to full-scale riot in six seconds flat.

Lionel Blackmore could start a
punch-up in a room full of nuns.

Come on.

Bloody big dipper, this one, Charles.
It'll be fine.

What is the meaning of this?

Don't speak. Lionel Blackmore
has been appointed to the BA board.

Yes, we put him there.

I thought you had control of these...
What?!

We put him there.
Why?

The man's an infamous racist.
He's a ranter!

Yes. He's somewhere
on the road to cross-burning

and pointy hats, I grant you.

But don't you see, Reza?

The Holbein was the overture,
Crossman the aria,

and now Blackmore is
the grand, thundering finale.

We've arranged for him
to appear on breakfast television.

You have...

Blackmore will be
clinically unable to resist

making some
appalling racist slur against you.

Against your family.

Which you will ignore, with the
massive dignity at your disposal.

But we will ensure that the media do not.
His outburst will cause a storm.

As a result, it will be impossible
for any executive or shareholder

to oppose your bid on any grounds
which might just smack of racial mistrust.

And British Airways
will sail into your lap.

Why are you sweating?

I'm excited.

I don't care for this, gentlemen.
Nobody cares for it.

But it will work.

...the appointment of outspoken
media critic Lionel Blackmore

to the board of British Airways.
He's with me now.

Mr Blackmore, presumably, you are
violently opposed to Mr Bin Laden

because of who he is and what he is.

If you're suggesting I'm prejudiced
against Mr Bin Laden personally,

then you're wrong.

I do hope not.

But he's Osama's cousin.

Well, that's a cross he must bear,
and the people of this country

must make up their minds
whether or not they can trust him.

But if you're saying,

"Am I prejudiced against him
because he's not British?"

The answer's yes.

Oh, come on, Lionel. Cry havoc
and let slip the dogs of doings!

I'm saying the company's not
called 'Al-Qaeda Airways', is it?

And that's what it'll be.

We have lift-off!

I mean, can you imagine
what it's like 30,000 feet up,

heading towards America,
and it's time to bow down to Mecca?

Does the pilot turn the plane
around to face the east,

so we can say our prayers?

In-flight Koran
and your hands chopped off

if you ask for
a bit of gin with your tonic?

And if you wink at a stewardess,
does your knob get sliced off?

But...
No, no, no!

You may laugh,
but that's what you'll get

if British Airways falls into the hands of
this bloody murdering rag-headed darky.

Whoa! Whoa!

And there we will leave it!
Thank you very much.

We'll take a break.
("THIS MORNING" THEME PLAYS)

Thank you. That's all we needed -
the man, his race, his faith - full house.

Our client is now vaccinated
against all known political criticism.

Not even "General Arse Holdings"
can block him now.

Further future gainful
employment for Blackmore?

Parkinson or Ross? Take your pick.

Both... Alison.

Oh, just keeping tabs on the rolling news.

I'm sure it's all the better
for your scrutiny.

There's Reza now,
shaking hands with Richard Branson.

Turn it up.

MAN: Can you tell me what happened
to your love affair with British Airways?

For God's sake!

I will say only this.

Now that my interests in this country
are being properly represented

by Mr Bell and Mr Pottinger,
I was able to discover in advance

of the government's intention
to renationalise British Airways.

Do what?!

I'm delighted to be able to say

that I have concluded the details
of a deal with Mr Branson...

Did you know about this?!
No.

Pottinger and bloody Tinker?!

None of it surprises me, though.

Come off it, Charles! What about
BA re-bloody-nationalised?! You didn't...

That's the bit I particularly like.
Don't you see?

WE made that happen.

The government came to us a-wooing,
we told them to sling their hook,

and what did they do by way of
a next move, to foil us?

They renationalised a major industry,
just to render it unsaleable.

We made them do something
they really didn't want to do.

That is power.

If you need me, I shall be in
my office, drinking incontinently.

JAMIE: Charles...
A moment of your time, please.

(SNORES)

(KNOCK ON DOOR)

Sorry, Martin.
Could you come through?

You really do want
to come through.

(SIGHS)

What's going on? Are you two about
to announce your engagement?

Jamie is about to read out
a statement prepared by me.

The grammar's appalling.

If he implies, through his inflection and
ironic detachment from the material...

All right, all right!
Please sit down.

Any popcorn?

Please refrain from comment until
the statement is concluded. Thank you.

"Ladies and gentlemen.

"I wish to put on record,

"before my colleagues and superiors,
three facts about myself.

"One - I, Jamie,
think I'm God's gift to women,

"and, quite frankly, I'm just not.

"Two - I have routinely appropriated
other people's ideas as my own,

"especially the one about
old people that Alison did

"and I got all the credit for,
which was totally unfair..."

Crikey!
Shh.

"Three - I have been horrid to people,

"especially to Alison,

"and I apologise
to them and to her unreservedly.

"I shall henceforth strive
to be 'nicer'..."

Stop!

You said that in inverted commas.
Say it again, please.

"I shall henceforth strive
to be nicer to my colleagues

"and never to make sexist
comments about their breasts.

"I will now demonstrate that,

as I make this promise,
my fingers are not crossed."

MARTIN: Bravo, Jamie.

Poor old Reza.

CHARLES: Why? He's got Branson.

Poor bastard. Of course,
the really stylish thing to do...

would be to unpick the nationalisation,

seduce Bin Laden
back from Pottinger and Bell,

and get him British Airways after all.

It's Liaisons Dangereuses every night of
the week with you, isn't it?

You love it.
I tolerate it.

Let's face it, Martin.
If I didn't exist,

you'd pay someone
to have me invented.

Up your bum, Prentiss.

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