Original subtitles

Friday the 14th of December, 1997.

Eleven shopping days to Christmas.

I am now living in my own house, recently inherited from a dead man, and

I'm entirely responsible for four lives.

Me, William, Andrew the cat, and Glenn, who has temporary status only.

I am now one of the East Midlands' premier celebrities.

So why haven't Hello Magazine offered to photograph me in my kitchen?

I just cleaned that!

Oh, the non-stop toil. The endless drudgery.

I should have a woman to do all this for me. A woman who doesn't need paying.

A wife.

How many times have I told you to put your shoes away, William?

Cast them into the flames.

Oh, I didn't hear you arrive, Miss Flood.

Glenn has written the note to Santa.

Well done, Glenn. Me too.

I want all four Teletubbies.

Dream on, William. There's not a Teletubby to be had throughout the land.

I'm not sure Santa has room in his sack for all four, William.

He will, Dad.

Santa's magic.

Glenn, fetch your books.

Is that a stirring in my loins?

Or have my boxers shrunk in the wash?

Oh, those delicate wrists.

Those fragile ankles.

Other men admire women's legs and breasts.

Am I alone in admiring their joints?

So, what did he ask Santa for?

Here's his first attempt.

Dear Santa, I want to live with me dad forever.

Doesn't even believe in Santa.

Why not?

You're listening to Dave Wonky's Zooshbag.

December the 18th, six shopping days to Christmas and no Teletubbies.

Only 71 copies of my book have been sold. My publisher has ordered me to

raise my celebrity profile.

Mystery guest on Radio Zoosh, 0-1-2-0-0-7-4-8-3-6-5.

So, good citizens, digits on the dials for our mystery guest.

Now then, I've got in the studio today the latest celebrity to have shot to

fame from Ashby de la Zoosh with his own TV show.

So that's 0-1-2-0-0-7-4-8-3-6-5.

Don't forget, first person to get it right gets a fabulous star prize.

So... Dial now.

Well, another clue coming up right after this from Linda Lewis.

Should be me in that studio talking today, wonky.

I wrote the book.

Pauline, before you carry on, can we settle on a design concept and a colour?

No, I... and that's not how I do it. I just bung everything on. The effect is

nauseating. Who do you think you are, Sir Terence Blading Conran?

Look at this abomination.

You've done nothing but criticise me lately.

Are you sure you still want to marry me?

OK, second clue. My mystery guest has written a book on offal.

So, come on, listeners.

OK, an update on that wheelie bin fire at Neil Armstrong Comprehensive. The

fire is under control now and traffic is moving freely.

Oh, it's no good, Tanya.

I thought I had it then, but it's gone.

Has it?

Can't you tell?

Oh, we have a caller.

Is he Delia Smith, Dave?

No, he isn't. Bad luck.

I'm not doing you justice, Tanya.

There are other ways to please a woman, George.

I've never been keen on that tongue-wagging stuff.

I failed the oral on my driving test.

Hello, Eleanor.

Hello. I think your celebrity guest is Adrian Mole.

Yes, he is. You're right. Well done, Eleanor.

How did you guess?

I'm teaching his 12-year-old son to read.

Oh, bless.

Well, it's one of your fabulous Radio Zeus T-shirt, which is winging its way

to you as we speak. Well done, Eleanor. Bye-bye.

I can make a personal appeal for Teletubbies.

So, Adrian, sorry, mate, we've run out of time. But thanks a lot for coming in.

How true it is that a prophet is not appreciated in his own land.

I thought celebrity would bring me a celebrity lifestyle.

The morning novel writing, lunch with Will Self, cocktails in the bath with

Pandora before we leave for the Ritz at eight.

That's the life I want.

Why can't I have it?

Enough is enough. That was the message from farmers' leaders as they marched on

Parliament. The aims of their protest were twofold.

I'm up to my neck with beef on the bone. I don't think I can fit in another

crisis.

Do you want to turn Adrian to self?

Oh, my God.

Look, this is too much. Please keep me posted.

What's that?

Welks. The bloody things are mutating. Apparently it's my responsibility.

Do me a fact sheet, Nigel.

Santa rang me last night, William. His elves are taking industrial action, so

there might be a shortage of Teletubbies.

I want a full set, Dad.

December the 19th, a proud moment.

Sorry, excuse me. Sorry, there are seats. William is to appear as goat in

what Mrs Parvez calls a multicultural festive celebration, i.e. the nativity

play. Welcome to our celebration of the season of goodwill.

The taking of photographs is strictly prohibited.

Excuse me.

Miss Flood.

I hope you don't mind.

The last woman to handle my trousers was an

assistant in Skechley's.

And as a result of being exposed to the anti-fouling paint, the female whelks

here are growing a penis.

Here.

A bit like Margaret Thatcher. It's an extremely serious environmental issue.

But what can Pan do for these sex change whelks?

Offer them counselling?

You can address the whelk workers' rally on Tuesday and assure them that the

government is taking this seriously.

And get your pretty face on TV.

Where are these bloody whelk workers, anyway? Wells next to sea.

I caught crabs there.

Mum and Dad have got a caravan in the pine woods.

Since when were the Spice Girls at Bethlehem?

A phoenix, symbol of dead things, rising.

Yeah, that Joseph's crap.

He's the very epitome of goatiness.

He puts real goats in the shade.

Oh, Mr. Eagleburger.

What are you doing, writing? No, I was at the, um, theatre.

The Roland Riveron Show wants you real bad, Adrian.

Really? When? Tomorrow night, quarter to midnight. I can't possibly.

I've got tinsel to buy and fairy lights to mend. And do I want to expose myself

on national television?

December the 23rd. To London to appear on the Roland Riveron Show.

They'll pay me a modest fee, but are putting me off at the £300 a night

minimalist hotel, The Temple.

Look at these idiots.

Why do people leave it to the last minute to do their Christmas shopping?

I'm smoking too much. Don't worry, Pandora. It's only Norfolk. You get

applause here for standing up right.

You're reading a whelk, Nigel.

I've had some funny things in my mouth, Pan, but never a whelk.

London is the shopping capital of the world. The place should be thronging

with Teletubbies.

I blame the government for this.

Hello. I've come here today to reassure you that my government fully recognises

the vital importance of the British fish industry to the economy... I bet you

ain't never tasted a whelk in your life, gal.

The government is totally committed to whelks and other seafood and will

bring in measures to clean up our seas.

This clearly cannot be accomplished overnight.

Our shellfish are dying!

Come back to Tony Blair and have sun-dried tomatoes!

Listen, I practically live on seafood.

I adore lobster.

Have you ever eaten a whelk? Go on, eat a whelk! Eat a whelk!

Eat a whelk! Eat a whelk!

Come on, Pam.

Get one down in here.

No, I can't. I have a client who needs a drinking straw manufacturer in Taiwan.

Oh, Ivan, get off that computer. Sit on the sofa and have a fag.

You know I don't smoke.

Well, it's about time you started.

We haven't done it for three nights running.

Sex isn't everything, Pauline.

Oh, it is, Ivan.

If I wanted a brother, I'd go and live with our Pete in Norwich.

Eat the world! Eat the world! Eat the world! You look great, Anne.

Nearly there, just framing up.

Jesus!

Mandelson's spending Christmas in the Caribbean and here I am surrounded by a

load of Norfolk Inbreds.

Oh, God! Eat the world! Eat the world!

Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth!

Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth! Eat the wealth!

This can't be a hotel.

It looks like some sort of monastery.

Pardon?

What's he hanging around for?

A tip?

A caravan.

No room at the inn.

You said?

Have you seen the show before?

Er, no. No, no. Well, it's just a quick interview about the book. And don't

worry, cos Rowan's really nice.

Give it a rest! Give it a rest! Right!

Anyway, my next guest is ex-celebrity chef Adrian Mould.

Sit down. Quick!

Hurry up!

Sit down.

Church, church, church, give it a rest.

So,

I understand you've written a book about offal, is that correct?

Yes, it's called Offaly Good.

Offaly...

Good Christmas, mate.

Well, I haven't seen such bad taste since Robin Cook's wedding suit.

We brought Adrian on holiday with us one year.

He spent every day in the caravan reading Dostoevsky.

He could be almost attractive if it weren't for... His clothes.

His hair.

His personality.

I miss him sometimes.

Adrian?

Why?

Because he absolutely adores me.

This room doesn't want me here. I don't go with the decor.

I'm a vile human being, and this room knows it.

Thank God the boys are asleep in bed and didn't witness my humiliation.

So how'd you flush it?

Don't panic, Adrian. There must be water and light around here somewhere.

Oh, for God's sake.

You know, I can't find any taste of it.

You're having a laugh, aren't you? Try up there.

Oh, no.

Please help me, God.

Please, Jesus, help me.

Yeah. Pandora, I need help. Are you in London?

No, I'm in Caravan. In wells next to sea. It's an all-time bloody low.

I'm in the temple and my room's flooded and the futon's wet and I'm naked.

Adrian's in the temple and it's beaten him.

Just call reception.

I can't call reception, Pandora. I'm a coward.

I'm also a failed author and an ex-celebrity.

I've snorted the sweet smell of success and it stinks of offal.

I miss my boys.

I want to go home.

How can I tell Sharon her son's gone missing on Christmas Eve?

Where did he go?

I don't know.

Do I still get paid?

Where have you been?

I've been worried sick.

What have you been doing?

Getting these.

Where did you get these?

You're an arse, Dad.

Tinky-winky.

Dipsy.

La-la.

Happy Christmas, Glenn.

Must have been great when women did the cooking.

Men just lolled about reading the paper.

It was a golden age, lad.

I'm only sorry you never lived to see it as an adult man.

Get a move on, Adrian.

I'm not eating another Christmas dinner to news at ten.

Oh, for God's sake, Ivan.

They're valuable customers.

It's Christmas Day.

Not in Kuala Lumpur.

I come home from work, me dinner would be on the table, shirts ironed.

Me socks would be in balls.

I did now have to turn the oven on, let alone cook on the bloody thing. Did

Camelot really exist?

Your mother was never the same after reading the fame of Bleeding Eunuch.

How much longer must we wait?

I'm hypoglycemic, you know.

He's just about to serve up.

The gravy!

I forgot to make the Christmas gravy.

I'll make the gravy. George, pass me those chicken oxtail cubes.

I can't, Tanya. Don't ask me who.

What are you doing? I'm making... the gravy.

Only someone carrying the Mole family name is allowed to make the Christmas

gravy. Whether you like it or not, I will soon be a Mole.

George and I are going to get married as soon as we're all divorced.

Fine. Fine.

Then you can make your own Christmas gravy in your own house. Until then, get

out of my kitchen.

Oh, Adrian, look at these.

That's it.

He's ruined another Christmas.

I've never known a man get roast potatoes right.

William says he's bored with the Teletubbies.

What he really wanted was a fuzzy felt farm.

After all that trouble.

Dad,

I've got to go.

Mum's home with the baby.

She wants me back.

Oh.

Her name's Kayster.

We had a lovely holiday there, didn't we, Glenn?

Social services took us.

Can I hold you? No, you're too clumsy, Glenn. You're never on the floor.

You'll be all right.

He's been a good lad with me.

In fact... I was wondering if I could take him off your hands.

For how long?

Well... Permanently.

He'd have a better life with you.

I can't give him a lot at the moment.

I could come some weekends, ma'am.

You still owe me £15,000 for him.

I haven't got it, Sharon.

I could manage... ..£1,000.

Cash?

Should old acquaintance be forgot? For the sake of auld lang syne.

Ivy! For auld lang syne, my dear.

For auld lang syne. We'll drink a cup of

kindness. Pauline! Quick, it's Pandora!

For the sake of auld lang syne.

Hello.

Happy New Year. I bring you coal from a dark friend.

Me.

Oh.

Uh, come in.

It's a woman in black.

And once again, here's the footage shot covertly by a Norfolk news crew last

week, which has claimed the first political casualty of the new year, Dr.

Pandora Braithwaite.

Mandelson spending Christmas in the Caribbean, and here I am, surrounded by

a load of Norfolk inbreds. Oh, my God.

Bloody whelks look like diseased genitals.

Bloody hell, Tam.

Thought telling the truth on telly.

You're all right, then.

She's finished.

Adrian.

Do you want us to be lovers?

Well, I'm not sure.

I need to know that you would...

Walk through fire for me as I would for you My

father rejected me when I was 13 years old and men have been casting me aside

ever since Just because your father ran away. It doesn't mean that didn't run

away He died in an accident I'm sorry Was it a car crash?

That would have been acceptable

A small dog fell on his head from a balcony in Torremolinos.

Go on, laugh.

Laugh at the most tragic event of my life.

I'll be back.

It wouldn't have worked out. She had no breasts to speak of.

I've resigned from ag and fish.

I don't know why I'm here.

I thought I'd make a difference, but I haven't.

The poorer is still poor, the richer, richer.

Why are you taking my pulse?

You've always been there for me, Aidy.

Since I was 13.

I'm disappointed.

I expected satin and lace.

Perhaps a ribbon or two.

I'm so very, very tired.

Who was that?

Alistair Campbell.

He wants me for breakfast.

So did I.

Thanks.

I have often wondered how I would stand up to fire and tempest.

Would I run in panic and try and save my own life?

But when it came to it, I found my own life was unimportant to me.

Nothing else mattered apart from removing my sons from danger.

Hello.

Hello, pal.

Yes, he is.

Adrian, it's Pam.

Hello?

Pandora!

No, we didn't do it.

We went to sleep.

Oh, God, what a relief.

Look, is there anything I can do?

I'll let you know.

Adrian, tell me you're insured.

I expect that by tomorrow I will have embellished this story and given myself

an heroic status I do not deserve.

But all the same, on this night, at this hour, I'm pleased to record that I

acquitted myself well.

I found this under a mattress.

When

I

grow up,

I would like to be like my dad.