All language subtitles for A Bit of Fry and Laurie - 4x07 - Episode 7.en

(SINGING)

FRY: (WHISPERING) Between desire and reality.

LAURIE: A bit.

FRY: Between fact and breakfast,

madness lies, lies, lies...

LAURIE: A bit.

FRY: I hate you, I hate you and yet...

I hate you...

(SOBBING)

As love, rage and aches of the ear.

Pretension by Fry and Laurie.

It's all over!

It's all over, finished!

Rotting away, finished,
the sands of time dribbling onto the floor!

Decaying flesh, mortality, nothing!

No sound, just a brief pinprick of light

extinguished into a darkness for eternity!

Maggots crawling through the eye sockets
of maggots, crawling through eye sockets.

Nothing but... Nothing but dried blood,
and just a faint smell.

(SOBBING) It's the end. It's over!

Yes. What my colleague is trying to say,
is that this is the last in the current series

of A Bit of Fry and Laurie,

and that he's sorry it's over, and he's very grateful
to you for allowing him into his home.

That's right. It's a very nice home.
Thank you very much.

I love what you've done with it. I think
you're right to leave the coffee table where it is.

If it is a coffee table,
some of you prefer a tea table, I know. Whatever.

Whatever. This is, as I say,
the last in the current series of Fry and Laurie.

And last shows, traditionally at the BBC,
are allowed two bottles of champagne-style fluid,

to be distributed unequally
amongst the audience.

-My colleague, would you care to do the honours?
-Certainly will.

There's a... There's a mean streak inside you,
isn't there?

-There is, actually, quite a mean streak, yes.
-Yes, a very wide one.

Yes, hardly room for my body either side of it.

However, that's enough verbal rimming
for the moment.

Time now to introduce our most very honoured,

guest-style units onto the show.

And, you know, first out of the guest box
is a woman of great distinction.

She served 1 2 years in the rank
of Lieutenant Colonel

in Iraq's elite Republican Guard,

before pitching her tent in the Vale of Tharkston,

where she makes some of the most
revolting marmalade I've ever seen.

Ladies and gentlemen, will you please make
a clapping-style noise for Janine Duvitski.

(MUSIC AND APPLAUSE)

Janine, Janine, Janine.

Janine, you look old, tired, badly dressed
and in a hell of a state, generally.

-How do you feel?
-Fine, thank you, Stephen.

-Oh, well, that's good to hear.
-Janine, Janine, I...

There's something I've been
absolutely dying to ask you

ever since I heard you were coming on the show.
What's Tommy Steele really like?

Tommy Steele?

I believe that's what I said.

I don't know. I've never met him.

I'm sorry?

I've never met Tommy Steele.

-Yes, well, never mind that...
-No, no, no. Hold on. Hold on.

I want to get this straight.
You're saying you've never met Tommy Steele?

No.

Unbelievable.

Well, no time for recriminations, Hugh.
Got to look to the future.

Oh! Is there one?

Get on with it.

Right. Okay. Well, it now falls to me

to pull open the drawer marked ''Socks,
Underpants and International Superstars,''

and pull out our next guest.
He's a man of distinction,

three-times winner
of the Benson & Hedges smoking competition.

He's got three convictions for shoplifting,
and 1 7 for aggravated assault,

as well as a huge collection of skin.

It is of course, Robert Daws.

FRY: Oh, fantastic!

(MUSIC AND APPLAUSE)

Welcome.

(AUDIENCE EXCLAIMING)

Robert, Robert. It's lovely to have you with us.

Now, tell me, tell me.
Have you met Tommy Steele?

-No.
-Why not?

Well, I don't know, I just never have.

(MIMICKING ROBERT)
''I don't know, I just never have.''

Yes, well, never mind...

Jesus!

Right. Well, with the time fast approaching
Crewe Junction, the driver dead,

the brake hoses rotted through
by years of government neglect,

it's time to pack our comedy tote bags,
bung a couple of condoms into the hip pocket,

and head for sketch land.

FRY: Tony Radcliffe is headmaster
of Lanark Primary School in Thurloe.

The school has 84 pupils of mixed race,
religion, gender and shoe size.

Mickey, don't do that. Cheers, mate.

So, how does he deal with religious instruction
at the school's morning assembly?

ALL: # We worship you, O god of gods

# Whoever you may be

# We realise that you operate

# Supernaturally

# We thank you for the birds and bees

# For creatures live or dead

# But if you actually don't exist

# Then ignore what we've just said

# Ah #

Well, what I've tried to do,
or, well, what we've tried to do, I should say,

is to develop a religious agenda

that serves the needs of the kids
in a very real sense.

You must understand that we've got here, um...
We've got Jewish kids,

we've got Buddhist kids, Hindu kids,
Muslim kids, Christian kids,

atheistic kids, agnostic kids.
What they've all got in common,

-is that they're all...
-Kids?

Exactly. Exactly. Now that's very important.

So, obviously, any religious package that we offer

must take account of all those differences
under a basic overarching umbrella.

(VOMITING)

Sorry. I don't know what happened there.

So, how do you manage this, in fact?

How do you accommodate all these differences?

Okay.

What we've done is to sweep away
all the old divisions,

and basically invent an entirely new religion.

A new religion?

That's right.
It's a kind of religious Esperanto, if you like.

Nope. I don't think I do.

Right. Well, we've called this religion
Lip Whip Whip Whip.

''Lip Whip Whip Whip''?

And that's the name of your god, is it?

Uh, no, no. There is no one single god
in Lip Whip Whip Whip.

So, it's a pantheon, is it?

I prefer to call it a committee.

It's a committee of gods.
There are eight voting members,

and a non-executive chair
who rotates every four years.

Mmm-hmm. And what do you worship
in Lip Whip Whip Whip?

Okay. We worship air.

We worship flexible work-share schemes,

and we worship rounded corners on things.

Why rounded corners?

Well, they're a very important symbol

in Lip Whip... Lip Whip Whip...

Luke, probably not a good idea. Cheers, mate.

They're a very important symbol.

The kids here worship the one
on the activity table in the art room.

ALL: Om. Om. Om.

Would you say, then, that Lip Whip Whip Whip
has been a success?

I'll be as frank as I can.
We've had some problems, I'm afraid.

(LOUDLY) Oh?

Yeah. Um...

Just yesterday, there was a kid
in Mrs Tremlow's 2APCVXBW class.

Tristram. Funny kid.

He decided to form a sect
that worshipped oblong surfaces.

Oh, dear.

(TRISTRAM GROANING IN PAIN)

Now, come on then, Tris.
I'm very disappointed. What are you?

Hmm?

(GROANING)

-I'm a heretic.
-You're a heretic.

Okay. Now, everybody, what do we think
about this? What shall we do with Tris?

Burn him! Burn him!

LAURIE: Burn him?

Yes! Yes!

Okay, okay. All right, then. That's settled.
Tris, we're going to burn you

in the playground during morning break.

Now then, Anna,
what's all this about you being a witch?

See these? Plant one of these,
in about, oh, mid-July,

a bit of water, bit of compost, bit of love.

(LAUGHING)

And about six months later,

you've got a nine-lane motorway
running through your back garden.

Yes, I always remember this spot
because it was right here...

This was the very first time that I saw my wife.

I was standing absolutely here.

And I remember thinking what an incredibly
tiny woman she was.

Absolutely tiny. She was...

about that size. Tiny little thing.

It was only weeks later, as I got to know her,
that I realised that that was, of course,

because she was a long way away.

The things they say, eh? The things they say.

My youngest, she said to me the other day,
she said, ''Daddy, why are there wars?

''Why do people kill each other and fight?''

I said, ''Rebecca, darling,

''shut your face and watch the video,
or I'll belt you one.''

Basically, I go around schools.
You know, I sit in with the kids,

'cause I'm trying to learn French.

-Are you gonna start then, Richard?
-Probably better if I start, Nick, yes.

That way we can thrash out the position
in broad terms,

-and then we'll know where we stand.
-That'll be the best way.

-I think so, Nick. I really do.
-Go you on, then.

Well, the position is that my client
wishes, in broad terms...

-''Broad terms''?
-Broad terms at this stage, Nick, yes.

I think we can thrash out specifics later.

My client wishes to engage in a bout
of protracted sexual intercourse with your client.

-Yeah. Can I just chip in here, Richard?
-Chip away, chip away.

Probably gonna save a bit of time
if I tell you that my client is keen

to proceed along the lines
of the standard pre-coital agreement,

with just one or two riders and emendations.

Ah, well, then, in that case,
my client is very anxious to expedite matters

-as swiftly as possible.
-Yeah. How swiftly would that be, Richard?

Well, my client was thinking in terms
of along the next half hour.

Yes. My client would like it clearly understood
that she's not easy.

Yes, my client is fully aware
that your client is not easy, Nick.

In fact, he wishes me to stress
that he has enormous respect for your client

as a woman, in a variety of personal,
non-sexual ways.

My client is reassured by your client's position.

And I'd like to know
how your client intends to proceed.

Well, my client was thinking in general terms

of dinner at the Bombay Brasserie,
after which, at some mutually agreeable time,

he would like to put his tongue inside
your client's mouth, and move it around slightly.

That is more than acceptable to my client.

My client then suggests putting a hand
up your client's skirt and having...

a bit of an old feel.

Mmm.

Which hand would that be, Richard?

My client has not yet decided on the hand.

Okay. Well, that's fine.
If you could just fax us with that, when you get...

No problem, no problem.
''Fax Nick which hand up skirt.''

I should say that after your client
has put his hand up my client's skirt,

my client reserves the right to moan slightly.

I don't see a problem there. No, that's fine.

Well, at this point, my client will suggest
that your client drives my client

back to your client's flat,
where your client will play some James Taylor.

Ah. My client doesn't have
any James Taylor at this stage,

but he wonders if Art Garfunkel
might be an acceptable compromise.

My client has indicated that Art Garfunkel
is definitely not acceptable,

but would be prepared to consider Tom Waits.

Excellent. Excellent.

Moving on, my client would now like to insert...

He would now like to insert a clause

allowing him to spill wine on your client's blouse,

which he's then able to mop off gently
with a handkerchief,

allowing him to brush your client's breasts
lightly as he does so.

Yes. We feel that in the interests of both parties,
a white wine spritzer should be specified.

So, white wine spritzer, it is.

My client wonders whether your client
is able to accommodate...

Yes?

...able to accommodate a gentle, circular
licking motion around the upper body.

Perfectly acceptable, if my client would be

permitted to gaze at the ceiling,
and say the words,

-''Oh, God'' and ''Yes''.
-''Oh, God'' and ''Yes''.

-Or ''Yeah''.
-Or ''Yeah'', yeah.

Fine. Well, I think a move to the bedroom
seems to be indicated.

Indeed. I should point out, however, that my client
is keen that this engagement should run along

orthodox lines from hereon in.

Ah. Would that preclude the use of salad items?

I'm afraid so.

Well, in that case, my client feels

that matters can be brought
to a satisfactory conclusion in three minutes.

Ah. Well, now my client feels that
that would be premature.

We feel 1 0 minutes is more acceptable.

What say we compromise with six?

Six? Six. All right, six minutes, then.

I think, hereafter,
we're back on standard contract territory.

I assume your client will then roll over
and turn his back on my client.

Oh, my client will most certainly do so, yes.
Your client will then attempt to hold him,

and he will behave coldly towards her.

Quite so. My client will feel spurned and shamed,
as your client refuses to share the afterglow.

Yes. My client will sneak into his clothes
at 5:00 in the morning, go to work early,

leaving no note for your client.

My client will feel immensely rejected
and angry at this.

Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm.

My client will pick up the phone once
during the afternoon,

but fail to go through with the call,
after which he'll never be in touch again.

Mmm-hmm. My client will, from hereafter,
refer to your client as ''that bastard''.

Absolutely. If my client meets your client
at a party, he will blush, look away.

Mmm-hmm. Precisely.
So I think that's all satisfactory.

Yes, indeed.
If your client would like to sign the bottom, here.

Yes, and your client will sign here. You got a pen?

NICK: Here you go.

Could you initial the Tom Waits clause?

Excellent.

Thank you.

NICK: Thank you so much.

Good.

-Nice people.
-Very nice people.

-Nice people.
-Yes.

-Fancy a steamy sex romp?
-Yes, please.

(IMITATING TRUMPET PLAYING)

(JAZZ MUSIC PLAYING)

# I wear sophisticated clothes

# I say sophisticated things

# Everything about me says
I'm a sophistication king

# But when I'm with you

# Can't seem to find my cool

# Yeah, when I'm with you

# I just sit there and drool

# I got sophisticated hands

# I got sophisticated feet

# A sophisticated car
Parked on Sophistication Street

# But when I'm with you

# Can't seem to find my cool

# Yeah, when I'm with you

# I'm just a dribbling fool

# When you look at me and you start to flirt

# I have to wipe the dribble
Off the front of my shirt

# When you ask me what's on my mind

# All I can think to answer is:

# I eat sophisticated food

# I breathe sophisticated air

# Run a sophisticated comb
Through my sophisticated hair

# But when I'm with you

# Can't seem to find my cool

# Yeah, when I'm with you

# I'm just a dribbling fool #

(AUDIENCE APPLAUDING)

(SPEAKING RAPIDLY)
When I was 1 7, I'd already tried 1 4 different jobs,

married twice, fathered many, many,
many, many children,

eaten a perfectly enormous quantity of food,
over a long-time period,

been weaned off six types
of class A dangerous drug,

given up smoking, taken it up again,
given it up again, taken it up again,

given taking it up, and taken giving it up
again and again and again and again.

By the time I was 20,
alcohol had never passed my lips,

yet I was a reckless and predatory alcoholic.

My life was in pieces, my marriages
were shattered, my children lay in ruins.

I was paying alimony along the sinuses,
behind the dark interior passages of the skull,

and through the nose.

But at 30, at 30 came the chance
to redeem a bin liner of broken promises.

If I didn't take that chance, what would I be?
What would I become?

Just another friendless acid spot
on the back buttock of a weeping society.

So I took it. Took the chance.
Picked up the ball and ran. Went for it!

Threw caution to the teeth of the gale.

Never looked back. Just keep running. I did it!
Forget the past, there's nothing there,

not even memories, just a road
you never travelled, unwinding backwards

to a place you never came from,
where fruit grows on trees you never climbed,

in an orchard where you lost your virginity
to a boy called Timothy,

who died of Horlicks poisoning
before you were born.

-No answers there...
-Stephen, Stephen, Stephen, Stephen.

Yes?

Go and have a lie down.

Oh. Okay.

I belong to the wine society.
I enjoy fine wines very much.

Also their malt whiskies. I like a nice malt whisky.

Great pleasure to me.

It's one of the great benefits
of being an alcoholic, really, I suppose.

Well, I'm aroused every morning
by a very insistent cock.

In the morning? Yes, I used to use

one of those automatic things
that makes you a cup of tea,

and does this horrible screeching noise
in your ear.

But then I divorced her and bought a Teasmade.

What, alarm? In the morning?

Well, I have an old tape of Carlo Maria Giulini
conducting the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra,

in a perfectly transcendent version
of Schubert's 7th Symphony.

And I've rigged it up so that,
at exactly 7:30 every morning,

it falls from the ceiling onto my face.

No, I haven't got an alarm clock.
I've got three children instead.

It was a difficult choice, but I thought
the children would go better with the wallpaper.

Well, you know,
he tried to palm me off with margarine.

I said, you know, if you're gonna palm me off,
at least use butter or olive oil.

People can be horribly inconsiderate, can't they?

Especially when they're out of breath.

DAWS: Mmm.

You know, I can remember my mother
used to drive me, absolutely, to school

-every morning in an old Wolseley.
-Ah.

-You know, the kind with wheels?
-Yeah.

Good old thing.

All soft leather and walnut and chrome.

And she usually wore a hat, as well.

Yeah. Interesting.

(PHONE RINGING) Oh, excuse me. Sorry, sorry.

Hello.

Hello?

It's so annoying, isn't it? It's always happening.

Was that our phone, or was it yours?

That's right,

because with the advances
in NICAM digital stereo sound,

and the disbanding
of the old mechanical ringing of the telephone,

20th-century Britain has plunged itself
into a bit of a wet nightmare.

When the phone rings on the TV,
many Britons are horribly confused.

Is it fiction, or is it real?

That's right. Well, you know,
we've got plenty of phones here.

Let's, for goodness sake, use them.
Robert, why don't you dial my number,

and it will come out on our viewers'
left-hand speaker on their television at home

if they're watching in stereo.

That's right, and, Janine, you ring me,
and we'll output through the right channel.

(PHONE RINGING)

(SECOND PHONE RINGING)

-FRY: Mmm.
-You see?

-Absolutely terrifying, isn't it?
-It's a nightmare.

Yeah, yeah.

Well, now, as part of our ongoing,
continuing attempt

to provide a better public service,
and earn lots of charter marks,

we at Fry and Laurie,

have decided to institute
a small flashing symbol here.

To indicate whether
the phone you hear ringing is yours...

Or ours.

(PHONE RINGING)

(LAURIE EXCLAIMS)

No. Now, that one is definitely yours.

Or is it?
Because, as part of our ongoing commitment

to earn no charter marks at all this term,

and to be put into detention
by the Prime Minister,

we have decided that, from now on, your life
is gonna be made a living hell of telephones.

(PHONES RINGING)

-No, that's yours.
-No, that... Yeah, definitely.

Answer it.
It's probably your mother from Australia!

(RINGING CONTINUES)

-Come on.
-The third one is theirs, definitely.

Vince, over to you.

(HOUSE OF LOVE BY EAST 1 7
PLAYING ON STEREO)

Terry, can I have a...

(SIGHING)

(TURNS MUSIC OFF)

Terry, got a moment?

What?

Have you got a window in your packed schedule?

In which case, can you open a curtain
and let me peak through, just for a moment?

-Yeah.
-Good. Now, Terry. School.

Now, I've just had Mr Stroke on the phone.

He tells me that you didn't turn up today.

-So?
-So, why not?

It's boring.

Well, how would you know that, Terry?

According to Mr Stroke,
you haven't been to school for four years.

-So?
-So, where have you been all this time?

What have you been doing for the last four years?

Got to level nine.

Level nine? What do you mean, level nine?

Level nine, top level.

Yes, but school, Terry,
learning, growth, development.

-What's the point?
-What?

Well, I don't want to go to school
'cause it's boring. There's no point.

You ''don't want''? You ''don't want''?

And who, pray, be good enough to tell me,

is supposed to give an electrically-operated shag
about what you want?

Hmm? Hmm?

(PHONE RINGING)

(PHONE CONTINUES TO RING)

No, just... Just leave me alone, can't you?

Leave you alone?
Why the hell should I leave you alone?

What are you doing?
Are you making a cheese sauce?

Working on a cure for cancer?

Is an oboe concerto
forming in your mind? What?

I'm on level nine.

Bugger level nine! Bugger up the arse of
level nine with an Anglepoise lamp!

-I'm talking about your life, Terry.
-What about it?

''What about it?'' Never mind ''what about it'',
what is it? What is your life, Terry?

Tell me what your life is.

-Well, what's yours?
-What do you mean?

-Well, what's your life?
-What, my life? My life? My life?

My life is energy, work, dedication!

Thirty-three bloody years at Russell & Bromley,
that's what my life is!

My life is having you. I had you, didn't I?
That was supposed to be a good thing.

I didn't ask to be born.

You didn't ask...
Judas Priest on a two-stroke moped!

What is that supposed to mean, huh?

You didn't ask to be born. I...
You'd be better off dead, would you?

-Maybe.
-''Maybe''? ''Maybe''? ''Maybe''? ''Maybe''?

What do you mean, ''maybe''?

Well, I've thought about it.

-Thought? What, about killing yourself?
-Yeah, when I finish this game.

Oh, great. Well, I'll order the headstone, shall I?

''Here lies Terry Gardiner.
He got to level bloody nine.''

What? Do you want singing cherubim around it,
or do you want it plain?

Bingo! Done it!

Right. Well, you gonna choose a knife
in the gut or bullet in the head? What?

Knife, I think.

About bloody time.

(EXCLAIMS)

(CHUCKLING) I only know one, I'm afraid.

How many cabinet ministers
does it take to change a light bulb?

Three.

Seems rather a lot to me, but there you are.

Where is this country headed?

That's the 64p question.

...'cause in our village,
there's a marvellous old game

we play every Lammas Eve.

Tradition has it that everyone living in the village,
of pensionable age,

has to dress up as a bale of straw.
And then the rest of us,

we split up into packs of six,
in four-wheel-drive vehicles,

and we have to hunt them down
and beat them to death with fence posts.

I'm not absolutely sure of its origins.

It's something to do with the Conservative Party,
I believe.

(LOUNGE MUSIC PLAYING)

(SNIFFLING)

Well, my colleague, my colleague,
what a melancholy occasion is this.

-It is at that. It is at that. And yet...
-And yet...

And yet, for millions of people
it's a time for simple rejoicing

and quiet explosions of merriment.

I hate you.

I know what he's trying to say, I do.

How, my colleague? How to find fit words

with which to bid farewell to our viewing several?

Let go, Luke. Feel the force.
Be in touch with your feelings.

Yes. Yes. Oh, viewing several. Time...

Time, like a thief in the night,
has smashed our near-side window,

and stolen thence
the stereo from our dashboard therein.

For the last time,

I turn, wiping a sad, soft, salt tear
from my crimsoning cheek,

as I request and require
our disastrously lovely guest units

to tell me what is, and will be,
their choice of farewell cocktail this evening.

Well, I like the sound of a London Felch.

What about a Golden Shower?

DAWS: Hmm!

Good idea. We should be concentrating
on choosing a cocktail first, though.

Oh, yes. Well, there's the Martini Navratilova.

What's a Sodding Mary?

Um, a Sodding Mary...
A Sodding Mary, it's like a Bloody Mary,

but it's a little bit ruder.

-All right, have to hurry you.
-Yep.

-Yes, yes, I think you're right.
-That's the one.

BOTH: We'd like a Modern Britain.

A Modern Britain. Ha!

My colleague, my colleague,
what did you say to me only this morning?

What indeed.

Well, they've chosen a Modern Britain.

A Modern Britain is really like an old-fashioned,

but with a new twist.

For a Modern Britain, you'll need
finely made, English hand-blown crystal glasses,

the very best Islay malt whisky,
lovingly blended by craftsmen who care.

You'll need freshly-squeezed apple juice
from pleasant Somerset orchards.

You'll need a quarter gill of best dry London gin,

a pint of rich Jersey cream and, of course,

a half-quart of soft, still Welsh mountain water.

And to garnish, you'll need a shamrock,

a daffodil, a thistle and a rose.

There's a difference with a Modern Britain,
however, because a Modern Britain

goes like this...

We add to this kindly,
noble, honourable and civilised mixture...

(DAWS PLAYING TAPS BUGLE CALL)

...a centilitre of flat, cola-style syrup,

a hectare of low-calorie brand sweetener,

a pot of non-dairy whitener,
a sachet of instant heritage,

a two-parent-family-size pack
of diluted good values,

free market vegetables,
a greedy helping of self-governing trusts

and a plastic ice cube for cosmetic purposes only.

The product should be half-baked
at an immoderate temperature

of the lowest common denominator,

in an atmosphere of greasy cant
and corrupt sleaze,

until richly dishonoured and seared with shame.

Your Modern Britain will ideally, by now,
have lost all colour, flavour and fizz,

and should be then divided against itself,
and left in shoddy disrepair for a number of years,

until it rots, before being sold off
to the highest bidder.

The whole botched cocktail should be served
with a raft of unappetizing sound bites,

and a package of feeble initiatives,
stuffed with tasteless media slime.

But perhaps, somewhere, you might be inspired

to add one small, tender, caring, cherry of hope.

I wonder.

While you decide, I will entreat for the very finalist
of last, last times,

this entreaty of my colleague,
Britain's very own melody man,

as I say to him,
please, please, oh, please, Mr Music,

please, Mr Music, will you play?

(SOBBING)

(JAZZ MUSIC PLAYING)

(SOBBING UNCONTROLLABLY)

It's ruined.

Britain is ruined.

There's nothing there!

It's rotten!

(SOBBING LOUDLY)

Oh, God, it's all gone.

ALL: Soupy, soupy, soupy, soupy twist.

(AUDIENCE APPLAUDING)