All language subtitles for Red Dwarf s07e05 Blue.eng

("RED DWARF" THEME)

Good morning, sir.
How about a little breakfast?

How about a dozen grilled winkles
on a bed of curried Rice Crispies?

I'm not eating spicy stuff any more.

Forgive me, sir, but you not eating
spicy food is like a zebra not being stripy

or an old lady not sitting
on a park bench with her legs open.

- May I ask why?
- It makes your breath smell

like a liftful of senile donkeys
returning from a garlic-eating contest.

- That's never bothered you before, sir.
- Well, it bothers me now, OK?

It's because of her, isn't it?
She who must be drooled over.

- You mean Kris?
- Whatever my feelings, sir,

I will not be tempted into making
petty criticisms of fellow crew members.

There is the issue of the salad cream...

- The salad cream?
- I spent months training everyone

to put salad cream in the fridge.

Then she arrives
and it's back in the cupboard!

The first moon we come to, let's dump her!

And what about the extra laundry?

There are all kinds
of extraordinary items turning up -

tights, bras, skimpy vests, little socks.

It's a massive workload. Frank is very upset.

- Frank?
- The washing machine. I named him Frank.

And what about the ironing?
How do you iron a bra?

You take it off first. I spent years practising.

I'd put my nan's bra
around the armchair and unhook it.

Even now,
whenever I see a Parker Knoll, I get horny.

But have you ever ironed a bra, sir?

The only way I've found is to stretch each
container over my head and iron it there.

On a hot cotton setting, it sends
my optical systems into leak overload.

- Cup.
- Sorry, sir?

- Not containers. They're called cups.
- See? I even have to learn new terminology,

special female terminology -
"cups", "potpourri", "depilatory cream".

- Oh! It's never-ending.
- How come you don't know what bras are?

- What about the women on the Nova 5?
- When I cleaned my cache files,

I erased my lingerie database.

I'd only need it if you wanted to go
to a fancy dress party as Hermann Göring.

Relax, Kryten.

The scan probe returned
the coordinates of the dimensional tear.

This time tomorrow,
she'll be back in her own dimension.

Well, you're surely not upset, sir?

- If you've got a problem with her, tell her.
- I will!

There's no point whingeing
to me about it, say it to her.

- Hi, guys. How's it going?
- Morning, ma'am! Sleep well?

- Coward.
- Hypocrite.

Not great, actually.

I had this weird dream about a monkey
being stretched across a tennis court.

The noise was just unbearable.

Were you practising
the guitar again last night?

So, what's for breakfast?
Oh, what's this doing in here?

Hold me back! Hold me back!

Don't you see, sir? These deviations from
Space Corps drill put our lives in jeopardy.

She was only drying her tights
on the radiator!

One day it's drying tights,
the next we're spiralling out of control

into the core of a newly-formed sun!

Sorry to interrupt, but we've got problems.

- All the hazard lights are flashing.
- All of them?

On this ship, that means anything from
"we're under attack", to "lunch is burning".

Either way, it's serious.

Getting a reading.
There's something up ahead.

A shiny thing with a long silvery,
glimmery thing behind it.

It's a phasing comet, velocity 25,000mps.

- That's what I said!
- Kryten?

How can I concentrate on a phasing comet
when the salad cream's getting warm?

Heading for tail. Plotting avoidance course.

What's the problem with going through it?

Last time anyone did that,
the forces ripped the ship apart,

turning the crew into potato salad.

Is that the firm delicatessen potato salad
or the squishy, gooey stuff in tins?

- Tins.
- Maybe we should go around.

We'll make it. We're a good crew.
We've been through a few things.

Remember the Vidal Beast of Sharmutt 2?

- The one that nearly killed us?
- No, the other one! We can make it, OK?

- Do you know what a comet is made of?
- Are you suggesting I don't know?

- What?
- You want to know what it's made of?

- Yes.
- He knows what it's made of.

- What?
- Sir, tell her, for goodness sake.

- (MOUTHS)
- So what's it made of?

- I see, I see. Gas. Some kind of gas.
- Some kind of gas?

Yeah, some gas! Dunno what it's called.
Some gassy type of gas.

- It's made of ice.
- Exactly. An icy type of gas. An ice gas.

I hate to interrupt, but this thing
is gonna hit us in about 45 seconds.

I was only trying to save time so you could
get home to your much better Lister.

And I'm trying to prevent us
being scattered like cosmic seasoning!

- Here it comes!
- That wasn't 45 seconds!

Oh, sorry! I was reading the baked potato
timer by mistake!

Will people not leave that here! It makes us
look like we don't know what we're doing!

Lateral trimmers not responding!
Like wrestling in treacle...

Cat says the trimmers
are like wrestling in treacle!

No, I said they were down, then asked
if you like wrestling in... Anyway...

- Damage report, Kryten.
- Auxiliary modulator's short-circuited.

And the chocolate dispenser's ejected
all the snack bars onto the galley floor!

- What's happened to the stabilisers?
- Never mind that! Where's the hair mousse?

- Stabilisers unstable.
- Nuttyfruit bars sliding about!

I'm taking over control!

Hey! What did I tell you?

Come to Daddy, baby! I have control.

It's called a free-fall vacuum.
We're in between vapour streams.

We can ride it across its tail.

(CRASH)

Or maybe not!

If we don't go back,
we'll disintegrate in two minutes!

- Kryten?
- That's a little pessimistic, sir.

I'd say more like three!

You know, I think we should turn around.

Phew!

- Go on. Say it.
- Say what?

- You know what. Say it.
- You really want me to say it?

- Say it.
- All right.

- My Dave would never endanger our crew.
- You had to say it, didn't you?

And stop calling
your boyfriend "Dave"? I'm Dave.

He's just an alternative version of me from
a parallel dimension. He's the anti-Lister.

Well, whoever he is, I won't see him.

By the time we fix this mess,
I'll have missed the linkway!

I could've got through
if the thrusters had worked.

According to the syscomp,
we're carrying too much weight.

It's Miss Kochanski's laundry.
Why will no one listen to me?

Those frilly things
are heavier than they look.

Let's look in the hold
and see what can be jettisoned.

I'll go. I could do
with a breath of musty, fetid air.

Sir, you didn't deliberately damage the ship
so that Miss Kochanski had to stay, did you?

No! 'Course not!
Look, I'm gonna check out the hold.

Rimmer, man, you coming?

Did I say...?

Why did I call you Rimmer?
I called you Rimmer, my God!

Cat! Are you gonna make yourself useful
or preen yourself all day?

- You mean I have a choice?
- Come on.

I can't believe I called you Rimmer.

Yes?

As you may be with us for some time, ma'am,
may I go through some rules of the ship?

- Like what?
- Salad cream.

Salad cream belongs
in the fridge and not in the cupboard.

Two - pants belong in the pants drawer
and socks belong in the socks drawer.

Having discovered a sock in your pants
drawer, this obviously needs restating.

Talking of my clothes,

why do my bras come back
from the laundry shaped like... like...

...your head?

- Three - the toilet seat fiasco...
- I don't want to hear this!

Mr Lister hasn't said anything,
but I can tell he's not happy.

He's not the only one! Do you think I like
flying around in a skip with thrusters?

I don't even enjoy breathing on this ship!

And I'm faced with some neurotic droid
who's obsessed with my pants drawer!

You mean I'm not alone?

Oh, I see. You mean me.

As long as we understand one another!

God! Welcome to hell.

Look. Rimmer's old shoe trees.
He had one for every pair of shoes.

Gave them all names -
Monshoetree, Tueshoetree, Wedshoetree.

- What for?
- So they all had a day in his shoes.

- What a smeg-head.
- He had lots of funny little habits.

- But now I see them for what they were.
- Cretinous.

No. Little human foibles
that made Rimmer special. He was unique.

Yeah, irritating, awkward and unsightly -

the human equivalent of a visible panty line!

Well, we may as well start somewhere.

- These can go!
- You can't throw them out.

They're from when me and Rimmer
played golf on Traga 16. We had fun.

You had fun with Rimmer?

I only had room for a nine-hole course, sir.
It is a very small planetoid.

Taking into consideration
the thinness of atmosphere, sir,

I've made this a 15-mile hole, par three.

Oh, good shot, sir!

(LISTER) Hey, watch this. Watch and weep.

- Oh, smeg!
- Ooh, I... I think it's gone into orbit, sir.

Tough luck, Listy. I'll just pot mine
and you owe me 50 big ones!

Look at him. In the right boots,
he could be marching into Poland.

Hey.

- It's Rimmer's ball.
- It must have gone round the planetoid.

Well, no point bothering him
about it, Krytie. Let's go.

It must be here somewhere.
I've been round the planetoid twice.

No ball, no bet, man. Keep looking.

Memories like that
are just too precious to throw away.

Hello there, sir. How's it going?

We're getting nowhere.
He won't throw anything away

because it reminds him
of good times with Rimmer!

- I must have blinked and missed them.
- You don't know what we used to do,

like the locker room game.

We'd open up lockers of dead crew members
and keep whatever we found.

I don't trust you, Lister.
This game's rigged. You always win.

Last time, you got a gold wristwatch,

and all I got was a box of 100
assorted tampons that glow in the dark.

- Right, well, I'll go first this time.
- OK.

- No, you can go first.
- OK, I'll have 68.

Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!

- I'll have 68.
- Fine.

Uh... No, you can have it.

Why?

You chose that one because
you think that I think that you're cheating.

So I'll have it, and it'll be useless.

I'm not falling for that one. You have it.

Too smart for me, man.

Hey, a gold necklace...

a bundle of cash...

and - hey! - A nude wrestling video!

"Baked Bean Bombshells Volume 12".

Right, well, I'll have that one.

- Number 58.
- OK.

What the hell was that?

There's a note.

"People who break into lockers
deserve everything they get,

"you cheap double-crossing slimeball."

Sounds like they know you.

See what I mean?
We had fun. It was great. It was fun.

I'll put the rubber room on standby, sir.

About time, Cat.
You're late, man. Where've you been?

Hello, Listy.

Rimmer! Smeggin' hell!
What are you doing here?

I got fed up with adventuring.
You know what it's like,

you save a couple of civilisations,
and it gets a bit... samey.

- I thought I'd find the old team.
- It's good to see you. Are you real?

As real as you can get, being a hologram.

- So... where've you been?
- Argon 5.

I fought in the Belagosian War.
I was decorated...

and used as a Christmas tree in the town
square and fed chocolates all winter.

Really?

No, I'm only kidding.

What do you know about kidding?

I just thought it was time I lightened up.

Hey-hey!

Ahem...
So, er, what about you? How's it going?

Ah, y'know. Same old Starbug.
Same old travelling through space.

I, um... I hear you've got a new crew member?

Yeah, Kochanski.

What's she like?

Oh, she's OK, y'know...

Is she... as good as me?

Well, she's been here a few weeks
and hasn't quoted one Space Corps directive.

She's pretty attractive though, isn't she?

Is she? I hadn't noticed.
She's the type you don't really notice.

You know when you spill soup on your shirt
and you don't notice it? She's like that.

So she's... not as attractive as me, then?

Don't be daft.
She couldn't hold a candle to you, man.

- Nah, you're just saying that.
- I'm not.

I've, um... I missed you, man.

And I've missed you, too, Listy.

- Oh, Arnold, man.
- Dave!

- Don't ever leave us again!
- I won't!

- You promise?
- Oh, Listy!

Oh, Rimsy!

Yaaaaarrrggh!

No! Get off! Get off!

Oh, it was just a dream.
Thank God for that! Just a dream.

(INAUDIBLE)

...and another thing,
she keeps her pants in her sock drawer.

Have you any idea
how long that takes to sort out?

You mean, you've seen her pants?

You're right, Kryten, I must be losing it
or I'd never dream stuff like that.

Kissing Rimmer? I'd rather go bobbing for
apples in a latrine at the Reading Festival!

I'm sure this will help, sir.
I'll just insert my hypnotherapy disc.

Now, just relax.

(SHOUTS IN GERMAN)

- What the hell...?!
- Sorry, sir. Wrong disk.

That was my German language course.
An extract from Hitler's Nuremberg speech.

Hypnotic, but not in the right way.
I'll just find the proper one.

- What are you doing here?
- Looking for something

to erase the memory
of everything I've ever experienced.

A couple of gallons
of medicinal alcohol should do it.

Listen, for what it's worth,
I'm sorry you missed getting back to Dave...

the hologrammatic hunk.

That's OK. I'm sure
you'll have another chance to cock it up.

- I suppose you must be missing him?
- Yeah, I am a bit.

I know what it's like to miss someone -
the way they talk, the way they laugh...

- I know.
- The way their nostrils flare

like two railway tunnels
leading into Snot Street Station.

No... you've lost me there.

So you're missing Rimmer?

I dreamed about him, but he was different,

all smiles and jokes and... and stuff.

I thought you guys didn't get on?

We didn't, that's what's so weird.
He drove me crazy.

The way he ate his food in alphabetical order,

the way he only used three pieces of toilet
paper - one up, one down and one to polish.

- Didn't he have any redeeming features?
- No.

Well, yeah -
sometimes he went out of the room.

How did Rimmer come to be around, anyway?

Well, Holly brought him back to keep me sane,
but he drove me mad!

Now he's gone, maybe you feel guilty
because you realise he was helping you.

If he was helping me,
why didn't he lighten up a bit?

Maybe he sacrificed his happiness
to keep you sane.

But in your dream, he was different,
a carefree, fun-loving Rimmer.

A Rimmer who didn't nag you into helping him
catalogue his cheese collection.

- You're saying I had him all wrong?
- It wasn't your fault.

You had to hate him. It kept you going.

I didn't know.

(PARPS)

You know what I should do? I should throw
everything away and make a new start.

Ah, sorry, Miss Kochanski, ma'am.

This is the medical bay, for sick people only.

Surely you haven't broken out
in a confusingly-filed-pants rash?

Do you know how to extract a warm bottle of
salad cream from a mechanoid's rectal cavity?

- No, but I could research it.
- I'd start right now if I were you.

- OK, sir, now. Just relax.
- It's all right, Kryten.

I talked it through with Kochanski.

- I feel a lot better.
- That takes the biscuit.

I turn my back for five minutes
and she cures you!

- She was only helping.
- It's not the help I mind,

it's the fact that she succeeded.

(PARPS)

OK, guys!
I now declare games night officially open.

Kris can have the honour
of choosing the first game.

And as you're a bit sensitive, no games that
involve dropping trousers and lighting stuff.

That takes care of most of the repertoire!
Where's Kryten?

I dunno, he should be here.
OK, Kris... name your game.

All right! I choose "The Magic Flute"!

- What's that? Sort of musical chairs?
- No, it's an opera.

"The Magic Flute"?
OK, we each hum a section of an aria,

and the others guess
which character is singing.

- That's a game?
- It's more like medieval torture.

No, it's good.
You can throw each other off the scent.

Once, my Dave sang "The Birdcatcher's Song"
in the German translation. It was hilarious!

- We all totally fell about!
- You fell about?

- Yeah!
- Were you going through a meteor storm?

So what games do you play?
Match the body part to the crew member?

I love that one!

Armpit name that tune? Guess whose botty
is sticking through a hole in the curtain?

Shall I add that one to the slate, bud?

Games night is cancelled.
If you'll all follow me to the AR suite,

I have something I think might amuse.

(BLEEPING)

I believe this is the answer
to your dream, sir.

Something slightly more effective
than Miss Kochanski's psychobabble.

It's my museum to Mr Rimmer's memory.

If anyone misses him,
they can relive those great moments.

It's all in there -
the man, the memories, the personality.

- The ego.
- I had to scale that down.

- How did you compile all the exhibits?
- I recreated key events from his diaries.

He kept meticulous records
of life on board ship. Enjoy!

Welcome to The Rimmer Experience,

a place of wonder, excitement and... wonder.

You are about to witness some heroic events

which you may find impossible
to attribute to any living person,

but Arnold J Rimmer
was a deeply remarkable man.

Being the driving force
behind the Red Dwarf mission,

the fearless Rimmer
diced with death on a daily basis.

What?

It needed a strong mind
and cool nerves to hold the crew together.

Asteroid belt up ahead, sir.

No, it isn't, Kryten,
you thick titanium plank.

Those are broken fragments of a dying star
compressed together under enormous pressure,

causing them to compress
into large fragments.

You're right, sir... as usual.
Such an elementary mistake... as usualI

- At times like these, I get really scaredI
- Me tooI

Somebody save us before I wet me keksI

That never happened!
I swear that never happened!

- I feel sick!
- It is a bit bumpy.

It's what I'm seeing that's making me sick!

See, Cat? If you wear the green paisley shirt
with twill trousers,

you can be dignified and fashionable.

Let me at him! I'm gonna kill him!

Twill? What does he think I am?
A woodwork teacher?

Say, Rimmer's a great guy.
What would we do without him?

I owe my life to himI

- Get me out of here!
- Wait. Here comes the best bit.

(MUSIC STARTS)

If you're in trouble he will save the day

He's brave and he's fearless come what may

Without him the mission would go astray

He's Arnold, Arnold, Arnold Rimmer

Without him life would be much grimmer

He's handsome, trim and no one's slimmer

He will never need a Zimmer

He's Arnold, Arnold, Arnold Rimmer

More reliable than a garden strimmer

He's never been mistaken for Yul Brynner

He's not bald and his head doesn't glimmer

Master of the wit and the repartee

His command of Space Directives is uncanny

How come he's such a genius? Don't ask me

Ask Arnold, Arnold, Arnold Rimmer

He's also a fantastic swimmer

And if you play your cards right

Then he just might come round
for dinner...

I never wanna see or hear
from that scum-sucking, lying,

weasel-minded smegger in my entire life!

Sigmund Freud, eat your heart out!

It's cold outside,
there's no kind of atmosphere

I'm all alone, more or less

Let me fly far away from here

Fun, fun, fun

In the sun, sun, sun

I want to lie, shipwrecked and comatose

Drinking fresh mango juice

Goldfish shoals, nibbling at my toes

Fun, fun, fun

In the sun, sun, sun

Fun, fun, fun

In the sun, sun, sun

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