All language subtitles for The.History.Boys.2006.720p.WEBRip.x264.AAC-[YTS.MX]

The peace of God, which passes all
understanding, keep your hearts and minds

in the knowledge and love of God
and of His Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord,

and the blessing of God Almighty.

The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit

be upon you and remain with you,
this day and always. Amen.

Will that do the trick, do you think?

We're about to find out.

Jimmy!

- Ready?
- Ready.

Mum, please. Lads, wait.

Just get in the car.
I'll be back in five minutes.

Let's get it over with.

Fiona, Fiona!

Read out from the top.
Fiona, just read it out. Let's see.

Three A's! I got three A's! Three A's!

- Chris, what did you get, man?
- Full house!

Three A's! Three A's!

- Told you you would.
- Full house!

- Hey, what did you get?
- Er, A and two B's.

- Hey, it's Dakin.
- Stuuuuhoooo...

Stu, what happened?

- Are you not gonna look?
- I got mine last night.

- I bet you did.
- You jammy sod.

- Lockwood.
- Felix.

- Lockwood.
- Sir.

Why are you dressed as a milkman?

- Working, sir. For the 'olidays.
- As a milkman?

After the holidays you'll be coming
back to try for Oxford and Cambridge.

Your A-level results
are the best we've ever had,

and they demand
that you return for an extra term

to work for the examination
to our ancient universities.

One more term, boys. One more push.

In the meantime,
try and do something... fitting.

- I'm in a bookshop, sir.
- Good, good.

- I'm on the bins.
- I'm a bouncer, sir.

- Lavatory attendant, sir.
- Gigolo.

- Congratulations, boys.
- Mrs. Lintott!

Three A's! Three A's!

So, we shall be meeting again after all.

- Yes, sir.
- At school you don't get parole.

Good behavior
just brings a longer sentence.

- Ah, you poor boys.
- See you next term, sir.

Thank you, Miss.

"The happiest youth,
viewing his progress through,

What perils past, what crosses to ensue,

Would shut the book
and sit him down and die."

Congratulations, Dorothy.
You must be very pleased.

Morning!

You are entitled,
though only for five minutes, Dakin,

to feel pleased with yourselves.

No one has done as well.
Not in English, not in science,

not even, dare I say it, in media studies.

And you alone are up
for Oxford and Cambridge.

So, to work. First essay this term will be
the Church on the eve of the Reformation.

- Not again, Miss.
- This is Oxford and Cambridge.

You don't just need to know it, you
need to know it backwards, Timms.

Facts, facts, facts.

They're clever, but they're crass.

And were it Bristol or York,
I'd have no worries.

But Oxford and Cambridge?

We need a strategy, Dorothy,
a game plan.

- They know their stuff.
- But they lack flair.

Culture they can get from Hector.

History from you, but...

I'm thinking aloud now.

Is there something else?

Think charm, think polish.

Think... Renaissance man.

Leave it with me, Dorothy,
leave it with me.

Yes, Headmaster.

Wilkes.

Ah, yes. An innovation to the timetable.

- PE.
- Yes, Headmaster.

For the Oxbridge set.
"Surely not", you say. But why not?

This is the biggest hurdle of their lives
and I want them... galvanized.

Galvanized. Yes, Headmaster.

In the timetable,
our esteemed headmaster

has given these periods
the dubious title of "general studies".

I will let you into a little secret, boys.

There is no such thing
as general studies.

General studies is a waste of time.

Knowledge is not general, it is specific.

And nothing to do with getting on.

But remember, open quotation marks,
"All knowledge is precious

whether or not it serves the slightest
human use", close quotation marks.

Who said, Akhtar? Timms?

Lockwood, Dakin?

"Loveliest of trees, the cherry now..."

- A Housman, sir.
- "AE Housman, sir."

Wasn't he a nancy, sir?

Foul, festering, grubby-minded
little trollop.

- Do not use that word.
- But you use it, sir.

I do, sir, I know.
But I am far gone in age and decrepitude.

Er, you're not supposed to hit us, sir.
We could report you.

I know, I know.

You should treat us with more respect.
We're scholarship candidates now, sir.

We're all going in for
Oxford and Cambridge.

Oxford and Cambridge! What for?

Old, sir. Tried and tested.

No! It's because other boys
want to go there.

It's the hot ticket, standing room only.

- Where did you go, sir?
- I went to Sheffield.

I was happy!

"Happy is England,
sweet her artless daughters;

Enough her simple
loveliness for me." Keats.

We won't be examined on that,
will we, sir?

- Keats?
- Happiness.

- You are?
- Irwin.

- Irwin?
- The temporary contract teacher.

Quite so.

The examinations are at the end of term,

which gives us, er...
three months, at the outside.

- You were at Cambridge. You know the form.
- Oxford. Jesus.

You see... I-I thought of going.

But this was the... the '50s.

Change was in the air,
and a spirit of adventure.

So, where did you go?

I was a geographer. I went to Hull.

They're a likely lot, the boys. Erm, erm...

All keen. One oddity - Rudge.

Determined to try for Oxford.
Christ Church, of all places.

No hope. No.

Might get into Loughborough,
in a bad year.

Er... otherwise, all bright.

But they need polish.

Edge. Your job.

We're low in the league.

I want to see us up there with Manchester
Grammar School, Haberdasher Askes,

Leighton Park.

Or is that an open prison?

No matter.

There is a vacancy, in history.

That's very true.

In the school.

Ah.

Get me scholarships, Irwin.

Pull us up the table and it's yours.

I-I'm corseted by the curriculum.

But I can find you,
er... three lessons a week.

- Not enough.
- Yes, I agree. However...

I think I know where
we can filch an hour.

O voudriez-vous travailler
cet apr s-midi?

Je voudrais travailler
dans une maison de passe.

- Oh l l !
- Qu'est-ce que c'est?

- A brothel.
- Ah!

He'd like to work in a brothel.

Tr s bien.

Mais une maison de passe

o tous les clients utilizent
le subjonctif ou le conditionnel.

Bien.

- D'accord, monsieur.
- Voil .

Voil .

D j un client.

- Bonjour, monsieur.
- Bonjour, ch rie.

Entrez, s'il vous pla t. Voil votre lit.

- Et voici votre prostitu e.
- Oh l l !

Je veux m' tendre sur le lit.

Je voudrais. "I would like
to stretch out on the bed,"

in the conditional or the subjunctive.

Continuez, mes enfants.

Mais les chaussures, monsieur.
Pas sur le lit.

Oh! Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,
excusez-moi.

Et votre pantalon, s'il vous pla t.

- Come on! Sir...
- Sir! Sir!

Oh! Quelles belles jambes!

Et maintenant-Claudine.

Oui. La prostitu e, s'il vous pla t.

- A quel prix?
- Dix francs.

Dix francs. Pour dix francs, je peux
vous montrer ma prodigieuse poitrine.

Ah, non, non, non...

Un autre client.

Ah! Cher monsieur le directeur.

Mr. Hector, what on earth is happening?

L'anglais c'est interdit.
Ici, on ne parle que fran ais.

En accordant une importance
particuli re au subjonctif.

Oh... Erm...

Qu'est-ce qui s'est pass ici?

Pourquoi ce gar on...
Er... Dakin, isn't it?

est sans... er... trousers?

Ah! Erm... Quelqu'un?

Oh! Ne sois pas timide.

Dites cher monsieur le directeur
ce que nous faisons.

- Je suis un homme qui...
- Vous n' tes pas un homme!

Vous tes un soldat. Un soldat bless .

Vous comprenez,
cher monsieur le directeur?

- Soldat bless .
- Wounded soldier, of course.

Ici, c'est un h pital en Belgique.

Belgique? Pourquoi Belgique?

- Ypres.
- Ypres?

- Ypres.
- Ypres?

Pendant la guerre mondiale num ro un.

- Ypres.
- C'est a!

Dakin est un soldat bless .

Un mutil de guerre.

Et les autres sont des m decins,
infirmi res,

et tout le personnel d'un grand
tablissement m dical et th rapeutique.

Continuez, mes enfants.

Il appelle sa m re.

Mon p re! Mon p re!

Il appelle son p re!

Il est distrait, il est distrait.

Il est commotionn , peut- tre.

Comment?

Commotionn . Shell-shocked.

C'est possible. Commotionn .
Oui, c'est le mot juste.

Permettez-moi d'introduire Monsieur Irwin,
notre nouveau professeur.

Enchant .

Enough of this silliness!
No, not silliness!

Mr. Hector, you are aware
these pupils are Oxbridge candidates?

Nobody's told me.

Mr. Irwin will be coaching them,
but it's a question of time.

I've found him three lessons
a week, but I was wondering...

Purely on a temporary basis.

- The last time, I promise.
- Last time was the last time.

I'm thinking of the boys.

I am, too. No, absolutely
not. No. No, no, no.

C'est hors de question,
et puis, si vous voulez m'excuser,

je dois continuer ma le on.
tout l'heure.

Fuck.

It's true, though, sir.
We don't have much time.

We don't even have to do French.

Now, who goes home?

Well, surely I can give somebody a lift.

- Who's on pillion duty? Dakin?
- Not me, sir. I'm going into town.

- Crowther?
- I'm off for a run, sir.

- Akhtar?
- Er... computer club, sir.

- Ah.
- I'll come, sir.

Oh, no, never mind.

I'll come, sir.

Ah! Scripps.

The things I do for Jesus.

- It's never me.
- You're too young still.

It will happen.
Now that you've achieved puberty.

If rather late in the day.

Mr. Hector is likely, at some point,
to try and put his hand on your knee.

This is because Mr. Hector
is a homosexual and a sad fuck.

The drill is to look at the hand and go,
"And what does Mr. Hector want?"

Well, he has no answer for this
and so will desist.

Thrutch up.

- I just think I should have been told.
- He comes highly recommended.

- So did Anne of Cleves.
- Who?

He's up to the minute, Dorothy,
more "now".

Now? I thought history was "then".

Felix.

Anne of Cleves. Remind me.

- Fourth wife of Henry VIII, sir.
- Of course.

She was the one they told him
was Miss Dish,

only, when she turned up, she had a face
like the wrong end of a camel's turd.

Quite so.

- What's the matter with you, lad?
- Oh, I've got a note, sir.

How much for?
I don't do notes. Get changed.

- Sir...
- God doesn't do notes either.

Did Jesus say, "Can I be
excused the Crucifixion?" No.

Actually, sir, I think he did.

Change! One day it will save your life.

Nothing saves anyone's life, sir.
It just postpones their death.

Jesus Christ will save your life, lad,

if you only let him into your heart!

I'm Jewish, sir.

I'm Muslim, sir.

Very good.

Most excellent.

Ooooh!

Go on!

Lad, lad, lad!

You're letting yourself down,
you're letting God down.

- What's God got to do with it?
- Listen, boy, this isn't your body.

- No?
- No!

This body is on loan to you from God.

- Fuck me.
- I heard that! Give me 20.

20 what? Hail Marys?

Do it.

- You're late. Get your kit off.
- I'm on the staff.

Well, I've never seen you.

What's this?

- Do you need a hand with that, sir?
- Is it joined-up writing?

Mrs. Lintott's given me a view
of some of your latest essays.

The experience was interesting.
The essays not. Dull.

Dull. Abysmally dull.

A triumph. The dullest of the lot.

- I got all the points.
- I didn't say it was wrong. I said "dull".

- Its sheer competence was staggering.
- You've got crap handwriting.

It's your eyesight that's bad
and we know what causes that.

Sir! Is that a coded reference
to the mythical dangers of self-abuse?

- It might even be a joke!
- A joke, sir?

Oh. Are jokes gonna be a feature?
We need to know as it affects our mindset.

You don't object to our using
the expression "mindset", do you, sir?

Mr. Hector doesn't care for it.

At the... er... at the
time of the Reformation,

there were 14 foreskins
of Christ preserved,

but it was thought the Church of St. John
Lateran in Rome had the authentic prepuce.

Don't think we're shocked by your
mention of the word "foreskin", sir.

No, sir. Some of us even have them.

Not Posner, though,
cos he's, well... Jewish.

It's one of several things he doesn't have.

- Fuck off.
- That's not racist, though, sir.

- Isn't it?
- It's race-related. But not racist.

Has anybody been to Rome or Venice?

Florence? No.

'Cause other candidates will have been and
have done courses on what they've seen.

Most likely.

So they'll know, when they do an essay on
the Church at the time of the Reformation,

that, oh, look, some silly nonsense on
the foreskins of Christ will come in handy,

so that their essays,
unlike yours, will not be dull.

They're not even bad, they're just boring.
You haven't got a hope.

- So, why are we bothering?
- I don't know. You tell me.

You want it. Your parents want it.
The headmaster, he certainly wants it.

Me? I wouldn't waste the money.
I'd go to Newcastle and be happy.

- Of course, there is another way.
- Oh! How?

- Cheat!
- Possibly.

- Dakin.
- Sir?

Don't take the piss. There isn't time.

- What a wanker.
- They all have to do it, don't they?

- Do what?
- Show you they're still in the game.

Foreskins and stuff. "Oh, sir, you devil."

Have a heart.
He's only five minutes older than we are.

What happened with Hector,
on the bike?

As per.
Except I managed to get my bag down.

I think he thought he'd got me going,

but, in fact, it was my
Tudor Economic Documents, Volume Two.

So, let's summarize. The First World War,
what points do we make?

- Trench warfare.
- Mountains of dead.

- On both sides.
- Generals stupid.

- On both sides.
- Armistice. Germany humiliated.

- Keep it coming.
- Mass unemployment. Inflation.

Collapse of the Weimar Republic,
internal disorder, the rise of Hitler.

So our conclusion is
that the origins of the second war

lie in the unsatisfactory
outcome of the first.

- Yes. Yes.
- First class.

Bristol welcomes you with open arms.

Manchester longs to have you.
You can walk into Leeds!

But I'm the fellow of Magdalene College,

I've just read 70 papers saying the same,
and I'm asleep.

- But it's all true.
- What's truth got to do with it?

What's truth got to do with anything?

- The new man seems clever.
- He does. Depressingly so.

- Didn't you try for Oxford?
- Cambridge.

Cloisters. Ancient libraries.

I was confusing learning
with the smell of cold stone.

If I had gone I'd probably never
have worked out the difference.

Durham was very good for history.
It's where I had my first pizza.

Other things too, of course,
but it's the pizza that stands out.

Er, Dakin's a good-looking boy,
though somehow sad.

You always think they're sad, Hector.
Every, every time.

Actually, I wouldn't have said he was sad,
I would have said he was cunt-struck.

Dorothy.

I'd have thought you'd have liked that.
It's a compound adjective.

- You like compound adjectives.
- Yeah.

- Oh. Going walkabout.
- Oh, yeah.

The truth was, in 1914,
Germany doesn't want war.

Yeah, there's an arms race,
but it's Britain who's leading it.

So, why does no one admit this?

That's why. The dead.

The body count.

We don't like to admit the
war was even partly our fault

cos so many of our people died.

And all the mourning's veiled the truth.

It's not "lest we forget",
it's "lest we remember".

See that's what all this is about...

the memorials, the Cenotaph,
the two minutes' silence.

Because there is no better
way of forgetting something

than by commemorating it.

As for the truth, Scripps, forget it.

In an examination, truth's not an issue.

You really believe this, sir?
Or are you just trying to make us think?

You can't explain away the poetry, sir.

- Art wins in the end.
- What about this one, sir?

"Those long, uneven lines
Standing as patiently

As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,

The crowns of hats, the sun
On mustached archaic faces

Grinning as if it were all
An August Bank Holiday lark."

"Never such innocence,
Never before or since,

As changed itself to past
Without a word."

"The men leaving the gardens tidy."

"The thousands of marriages
Lasting a little while longer."

"Never such innocence again."

How come you know all this by heart?

Not that it answers the question.

So much for our "glorious dead".

Quite.

Actually, Fiona's my Western front.

Well, last night, for instance.

I thought it might be the big push.

So, encountering only token resistance,

I reconnoitered the ground
as far as the actual place.

- Shit!
- No, I mean not onto it.

- Certainly not into it. Up to it.
- Fuck.

And the metaphor really fits.

I mean, moving up to the front,

troops presumably had to pass
the sites of previous battles.

Well, so it is with me.

Like particularly her tits, which only
surrendered about three weeks ago.

And which were indeed the start line
of a determined thrust southwards.

What's the matter?

- No-man's-land.
- Ah, fuck.

So, what do I do with this?

Carry out a controlled explosion?

Still, at least I'm
doing better than Felix.

- Felix?
- No!

Tries to. Chases her around the desk.

No!

Actually, the metaphor isn't exact

because what Fiona is presumably
carrying out is a planned withdrawal.

You're not forcing her, she's not
being overwhelmed by superior forces.

- Does she like you?
- Course she likes me.

Then you're not disputing the territory,

just negotiating over the
pace of the occupation.

Just let us know when you get to Berlin.

I'm beginning to like him more.

- Who, me?
- Irwin. Though he hates me.

Jimmy!

Cheer up. At least he speaks to you.

Most guys wouldn't even speak to you.

- Love can be very irritating.
- How do you know?

That's what I always think about God.

He must get so pissed off,
everyone adoring him all the time.

Yes. Only you don't catch God
poncing about in his underpants.

Well done, Posner.

And now for some poetry
of a more traditional sort.

Oh, God!

Er, Timms, w-w-what is this?

Sir, I don't always understand poetry.

You don't always understand it?
Timms, I never understand it.

But learn it now, know it now,
and you will understand it, whenever.

I don't see how we can understand it.

Most of what poetry's about
hasn't happened to us yet.

But it will, Timms, it will.

And when it does,
you'll have the antidote ready.

Grief, happiness,
even when you're dying.

We're making your deathbeds
here, boys.

Er, we've got an ending, sir.

Oh! Goody! Yes, well...
Be sharp. Where's the kitty?

And we have to smoke, sir.

And I happen to have some, sir.

Very well.

Jerry, please help me.

Shall we just have a cigarette on it?

Yes!

May I sometimes come here?

Whenever you like. It's your home too.
There are people here who love you.

And will you be happy, Charlotte?

Oh, Jerry! Don't let's ask
for the moon. We have the stars!

Lovely.

Hm!

Could it be Paul Henreid
and Bette Davis in Now, Voyager?.

It is famous, you ignorant little tarts.

- But we never heard of it, sir.
- Oh! Walt Whitman, "Leaves of Grass".

"The untold want,
by life and land ne'er granted,

Now, Voyager, sail thou forth,
to seek and find."

50p, please.

Ah, Rudge.

There's nothing on the Carry On films.

- Why? Should there be?
- The exam.

Mr. Irwin said the Carry Ons
would be good films to talk about.

How peculiar.
Does he like them, do you think?

Probably not. You never know with him.

I'm now wondering if there's
something there that I've missed.

Well, Mr. Irwin says that, "Whilst
they have no intrinsic artistic merit..."

Ahem!

"they achieve some of the
permanence of art simply by persisting

and acquire incremental significance
if only as social history."

Dear me. What fun you must all have.

Well, it's not like your stuff, Miss.
It's cutting edge, it really is.

- Where do you live, sir?
- Horsforth.

Not far from Mr. Hector, sir.
He might even give you a lift.

It's not a loft, is it, sir?

Do you exist
on an unhealthy diet of takeaways

or do you whisk up gourmet meals for one?

- Or is it a lonely pizza, sir?
- I manage!

No questions from you, Dakin?

What they want to know, sir,
is do you have a life?

Or are we it? Are we your life?

It's pretty dismal if you are,
cos these are as dreary as ever.

You get a question, you know the answer.
But then, so does everybody else.

So, say something different,
say the opposite.

OK, look, er... take Stalin.

He's generally agreed
to be a monster, and rightly so.

Dissent. Find something, anything,
and say it in his defense.

A question is about what you know,
it's not about what you don't know.

A question about Rembrandt, for instance,
might prompt an answer on Degas.

- Is Degas an old master?
- "About suffering they were never wrong,

The Old Masters; how it takes place while
someone's eating or opening a window."

- Have you done that with Mr. Hector?
- Done what?

The poem. You're quoting somebody.
Auden, isn't it?

Was it, sir? Sometimes it just
flows out, you know, brims over.

Does he have a program
or is it just at random?

- Knowledge.
- The pursuit of it for its own sake.

Breaking bread with the dead,
that's what we do.

It's higher than your
stuff, sir, it's nobler.

Only not useful.
Mr. Hector's not as focused.

Not focused at all. He's blurred, sir.

We know what we're doing with you.

Half the time with him,
we don't know what we're doing.

We're poor little sheep
that have lost our way.

- Where are we? Where are we, sir?
- Sit down.

You're very young, sir.
This isn't your gap year, is it, sir?

I wish it was.

Why, sir? Do you not like teaching us?

We're not just a hiccup between the end
of university and the beginning of life,

like Auden, are we, sir?

- Do you like Auden's poetry, sir?
- Some, yeah.

Mr. Hector does. We know about Auden.

Oh, yes, we do.

- He was a schoolmaster for a bit.
- I believe he was.

Yeah, he was. Do you think he was
more like you or more like Mr. Hector?

I have no idea.
Why should he be like either of us?

Oh, I think he was more like Mr. Hector.

Bit of a shambles.
He snogged his pupils.

Auden, sir, not Mr. Hector.

So, you could answer
a question on Auden, then?

No, sir! Mr. Hector's stuff's
not meant for the exam!

It's to make us
more rounded human beings.

Listen! This examination's gonna be about
everything and anything you know and are,

and if there's a question on Auden or
whoever and you know about it, answer it.

That would be a betrayal of trust.

Yeah! Is nothing sacred, sir?
We're shocked.

I would, sir, and they would.
They're taking the piss.

"England, you've been here too long,

And the songs you sing
are the songs you sung

On a braver day, now they are wrong."

- Who's that?
- Oh! Mr. Irwin!

Sir! It's Stevie Smith of
"Not Waving But Drowning" fame.

Don't tell me that's useless knowledge.

If you get an essay on
post-imperial decline,

you're losing an empire, finding a role,
all that kind of stuff.

A gobbet like that,
it's the perfect way to end it.

A what, sir?

A gobbet. A quotation.

How much more have you up your sleeves?

We've got all sorts.
Hey! The train, the train!

I really meant to do it.
I stood there trembling right on the edge.

But I couldn't. I wasn't brave enough.

I should like to able to say the thought
of you and the children prevented me.

But it wasn't. I had no thoughts at all.

Only an overwhelming desire
not to feel anything at all ever again.

Not to be unhappy any more.

I went back into the refreshment room.
That's when I nearly fainted.

- What is all this?
- Shh!

- Laura.
- Yes, dear?

Whatever your dream was,
it wasn't a very happy one, was it?

No.

Is there anything I can do to help?

Fred, you always help.

You've been a long way away.

Thank you for coming back to me.

God knows why you've
learned Brief Encounter.

I think you ought to know this
lesson's been a complete waste of time.

A bit like Mr. Hector's lessons then, sir.
They're a complete waste of time too.

Smart arse. But he's not
trying to get you through an exam.

Ooooh!

- French Kiss?
- I beg your pardon?

Newmarket, three o'clock.

- Dorothy.
- Thank you, Stanley.

So, how are you finding them?

You've taught them too well.
They can't see it's a game.

- History? Is it a game?
- For an exam like this, yeah.

- Dorothy.
- Ah, fuck.

- Dorothy.
- Headmaster.

- I call him the awful warning.
- Who? Felix?

If you don't watch out,
he's what you turn into.

If this was a 1940s film, he'd be
played by Raymond Huntley.

Who?

He made a speciality of sour-faced judges
and vinegary schoolmasters.

- Who would I be played by?
- Dirk Bogarde.

I'm not sure I like that.

- Dorothy.
- Watch out.

Ah, Hector! The very man.

- Chin up, Rudge.
- Hello!

Mrs. Lintott.

Our lord and master having grudgingly
conceded that art may have its uses,

I gather I'm supposed to give your
Oxbridge boys a smattering of art history.

Not my bag, Hazel. Irwin's your man.

- It's really just the icing on the cake.
- Is art ever anything else?

Michelangelo.

Well... I suppose.

Who've you got?

- Both nancies.
- Are they?

These aren't women.
They're just men with tits.

And the tits look put on
with an ice-cream scoop.

- Do you like Turner, then?
- He's all right.

Well, choose someone you do like.
Art's meant to be enjoyed.

In the long term, maybe,
but with us, enjoyment don't come into it.

We haven't time to read the books.
We haven't time to look at the pictures.

We really need lessons in acting.

That's what this whole
scholarship thing is: an acting job.

So, have the boys
given you a nickname?

- Not that I'm aware of.
- A nickname is an achievement.

Both in the sense of something won
and also in its armorial sense.

Of a badge, a blazon.

Unsurprisingly, I am Tott. Or Tottie.

Some irony there, one feels.

- Hector has no nickname.
- Yes, he has. Hector.

- But he's called Hector.
- That's his nickname too.

He isn't called Hector.
His name's Douglas.

Though the only person
I've ever heard address him as such

is his somewhat unexpected wife.

Posner came to see me yesterday.
He has a problem.

No nickname, but at least
you get their problems. I seldom do.

Sir, I think I may be homosexual.

- I love Dakin.
- Does Dakin know?

Yes. He doesn't think it's surprising.

Though Dakin likes girls, basically.

I sympathized, though not so much
as to suggest I might be in the same boat.

- With Dakin?
- With anybody.

That's sensible.

One of the hardest things for boys to learn
is that a teacher is human.

One of the hardest things for a teacher
to learn is not to try and tell them.

- Is it a phase, sir?
- Do you think it's a phase?

Some of the literature says it will pass.

I'm not sure I want it to pass.

But I want to get into Oxford.
If I do, Dakin might love me.

Or I might stop caring.

- Do you look at your life, sir?
- I thought everybody did.

I'm a Jew, I'm small,

I'm homosexual, and I live in Sheffield.

I'm fucked.

So, all this religion. What do you do?

Go to church. Pray.

Yes?

It's so time-consuming.
You have no idea.

Yeah? What else?

Well. Er... it's what you don't do.

You don't not wank?

- Jesus! You're headed for the bin.
- It's not forever.

Yeah, well, just tell me on the big day
and I'll stand well back.

What bothers me is the more you read,

the more you see
literature is actually about losers.

- Ugh, no.
- Yeah.

It's consolation.
All literature is consolation.

I don't care what Hector says.
I find literature really louring.

This is Irwin, isn't it?
A line of stuff for the exam.

No.

Well, it isn't wholly my idea.

I've been reading this book by Nieshaw.

- Who?
- Nieshaw. He's a philosopher.

Frederick Nieshaw.

I think that's pronounced Nietzsche.

Oh, shit. Shit!

- What's the matter?
- I talked to Irwin about it.

He didn't correct me.
He let me call him Nieeee-shaw!

- He'll think I'm a right fool. Shit!
- What have I done?

Nothing. You've done nothing.

The world doesn't revolve
around you, you know.

Ah! Irwin! How are
our young men doing?

- Are they on stream?
- I think so.

You think so? Are they or aren't they?

Must always be something of a lottery.

A lottery? I don't like
the sound of that, Irwin.

I don't want you to fuck up.

We've been down that road
too many times before.

Oi!

He's coming.

They took the lead off the roofs,
they used the timbers to melt it down,

and time did the rest,
and all thanks to Henry VIII.

If you want to learn about Stalin,
study Henry VIII.

If you want to learn about
Mrs. Thatcher, study Henry VIII.

While you and Dorothy are taking them
through the history, I'll pitch camp.

Though, Irwin, I am constantly available

for the provision of useful quotations -
sorry, gobbets - on request.

"Bare ruin'd choirs, where
late the sweet birds sang."

Remember, boys, festoon
your answers with gobbets

and you won't go very far wrong.

Actually, singing was the least of it.

The monks were farmers,
clothiers, tanners, tailors...

- This was a toilet?
- One of them.

- A bit draughty on the bum.
- That was the drain down there.

And then they drank out of it?
Fucking Christians.

What about the Ganges?
You're just as bad.

- I'm Muslim, knob.
- You all look alike to me anyway.

- So, what was this, then? Chapel?
- No, it was a storeroom.

A barn. All the produce
would come in here.

- You know it all, don't ya?
- It interests me.

No, that's good. That's good.

- All-male community, was it, sir?
- Of course. They were monks.

- Bit of that, you think?
- What?

- Same-sex stuff.
- You blushed, sir.

- Have I fuck blushed.
- Sir, this is consecrated ground!

Not to me, sir. To me it's a pagan temple.

Only you did blush a bit, sir.

So, is that why Henry VIII put the boot in,
then, sir - because of them bunking up?

It's what he said.

Not much else for them to do,
was there?

- I mean, in the time off.
- Pray?

Posner would make a good monk,
except he's Jewish.

- Do Jews have monks?
- Yes. I'm one now.

In your own time, sir.

Pass the parcel.
That's sometimes all you can do.

Take it, feel it, and pass it on.

Not for me. Not for you.

But for someone, somewhere.

One day.

Pass it on, boys.
That's the game I want you to learn.

Pass it on!

Hector. A word.

Er, this is not the first time, apparently.

But on this occasion, she managed
to make a note of the number.

For the moment,
I propose to say nothing about this.

But, fortunately, it's not long
before you're due to retire.

In the circumstances,
I propose that we bring that forward.

I think we should be
looking at the end of term.

Have you nothing to say?

"The tree of man was never quiet;

Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I."

This is no time for poetry.

Erm, I'm assuming
your wife doesn't know.

I've no idea.

What women know or don't know
has always been a mystery to me.

And are you going to tell her?

I don't know.
I'm not sure she'd be interested.

Well, erm... there's another thing.

Strange how even
the most tragic turn of events

generally resolve themselves
into questions about the timetable.

Irwin's been badgering me for more lessons.

In the circumstances,
a concession might be in order.

In future, I think you and he might share.

- Share?
- Share!

In the meantime,
you must consider your position.

I do not want to sack you.

People talk.

It's so... untidy.

It would be easier for all concerned
if you retired early.

Look, nothing happened.

A hand on a boy's genitals at 50mph

and you call it nothing?

The transmission of knowledge
is in itself an erotic act.

- In the Renaissance...
- Fuck the Renaissance!

And fuck literature and Plato
and Michelangelo and Oscar Wilde

and all the other shrunken violets
you people line up.

This is a school, and it isn't normal.

- Still here?
- It is Wednesday, sir.

I thought with the day trip
to Fountains and...

Well, it's only half past four.

- Well, in that case, where's Dakin?
- With Mr. Irwin, sir.

Ah. Of course.

He's showing him
some old exam questions.

Ah, with all the appropriate gobbets,
no doubt.

Well, no matter. We must
keep up the fight without him.

- What have you learned this week?
- "Drummer Hodge", sir. Hardy.

Ah, nice.

"They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined -just as found:

His landmark is a kopje-crest
Which breaks the veldt around;

And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound."

"Young Hodge the Drummer never knew -
Fresh from his Wessex home -

The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,

And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam."

"Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge for ever be;

His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,

And strange-eyed constellations reign
His stars eternally."

Good. Very good.

Any thoughts?

I wondered, sir, if this "portion of that
unknown plain will Hodge forever be"

is like Rupert Brooke, sir.

"There's some corner of foreign field,

In that dust a richer dust concealed."

It is, it is. It's the same thought.
Though Hardy is better, I think.

It's more... more, er...
well, down-to-earth.

Quite literally down-to-earth.

- Anything about his name?
- Hodge?

The important thing is, he has a name.

Say Hardy's writing about the Zulu Wars.

Or later, or... The Boer War, possibly.

And these were the first campaigns

when soldiers, common soldiers,
were commemorated.

The names of the dead were recorded
and inscribed on war memorials.

Before this, soldiers - private soldiers -

were all unknown soldiers.

And so far from being revered,
there was a firm in the 19th century

in Yorkshire, of course,
which swept up their bones

from the battlefields of Europe
in order to grind them into fertilizer.

So, thrown into a common grave
though he may be,

he's still Hodge, the Drummer.

Lost boy though he is,
on the far side of the world...

he still has a name.

How old was he?

If he was a drummer he'd be a boy soldier.
Not even as old as you, probably.

- No, Hardy.
- Oh, how old was Hardy?

Oh, erm. When he wrote this... about 60.

My age, I suppose.

A saddish life, though not unappreciated.

"Uncoffined" is a typical Hardy usage.

It's a compound adjective, formed
by putting "un" in front of the noun.

Or verb, of course.

Unkissed,

unrejoicing,

unconfessed,

unembraced.

It's a turn of phrase

that brings with it a sense of not sharing.

Of being out of it, whether
because of diffidence or shyness.

But a holding back.

Not being in the swim.

Can you see that?

Yes, sir.

I felt that a bit.

The best moments in reading
are when you come across something -

a thought, a feeling,
a way of looking at things -

that you'd thought special,
particular to you,

and here it is,
set down by someone else.

A person you've never met,
maybe even someone long dead.

And... it's as if a hand...

has come out... and taken yours.

Let's just have that last verse again
and I'll let you go.

"Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge forever be;

His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,

And strange-eyed constellations reign
His stars eternally."

Shall I tell you what is wrong
with Hector as a teacher?

And it isn't that he doesn't
produce results - he does.

But they're unpredictable
and unquantifiable.

And in the current educational climate,
that is of no use.

I mean, there's inspiration, certainly.
But how do I quantify that?

And I heard one child
singing yesterday morning,

and on inquiry I find that his pupils

know all the words of
"When I'm Cleaning Windows".

George Formby, and Gracie Fields.

Dorothy, what has Gracie Fields
got to do with anything?

So, the upshot is... I'm glad
he handled his pupils' balls

because that at least I can categorize.

It's a reason for his going
no one can dispute.

You didn't know.

Not that, no.

I assumed you knew.

- He handled the boys' balls?
- I don't want to spell it out.

You've been married yourself.
You know the form.

And, to be fair, I think it was
more appreciative than investigatory.

But it's... inexcusable, nevertheless.

No. No, it's to everyone's benefit
that he should go.

As soon as possible.

Sir? Can I say something, sir?

Well, we've got the most important exam
of our lives coming up

and we're just sat here reading literature.

Leaving that aside for the moment,
there's something I have to tell you.

We know all that, sir.

How do you know?

About sharing classes with Mr. Irwin, sir.

- No, no, not that.
- Why is that, sir?

It's a question of timetabling, apparently.

No, no, this is... something else.

Does that mean your lessons
will be more like Mr. Irwin's?

- More use, sir?
- Less farting about?

Hush, boys, hush.

Can't you see? I'm not in the mood.

What mood is that, sir? The subjunctive?
The mood of possibility?

Get on with some work. Read.

That's what we're saying.
There's no time for reading!

- Can't you just give us the gist, sir?
- Precis it, sir. Like Mr. Irwin does.

Just the outline, sir. Then we can pretend.

Pretend?

No, no, no, sir! That's what exams are for!

Will you shut up about these exams!

Shut up, all of you!

What made me piss my life away
in this godforsaken place?

There's nothing of me left.

Go away.

Go.

Sir...

Sir...

Sir...

Would you like to start?

I don't mind.

How do you normally start?
It is your lesson, general studies.

Well, the boys decide. Ask them.

Anybody? Floor's open.

Oh, come on, boys. Don't sulk.

We don't know where we are, sir.
Your class or Mr. Irwin's.

- Does it matter?
- Well, yes, sir.

Depends if you want us
thoughtful or... smart.

He wants you civil, you rancid little turd.

Hitting us. You're a witness.
He could be sacked.

I thought we'd talk about the Holocaust.

Good gracious!
How can you teach the Holocaust?

That would do as a question.
Can you, should you, teach the Holocaust?

Anybody? Come on.

It has origins, it has consequences.
It's a subject like any other.

Not like any other, surely.
Not like any other at all.

No, but it's a topic.

They go on school trips there nowadays,
don't they? Auschwitz, Dachau.

What's always concerned me
is where do they have their sandwiches?

The visitors' center.
It's like anywhere else.

Yeah, but do they take
pictures of each other there?

Are they smiling?

Do they hold hands?
Nothing is appropriate.

What if you were to write
this was so far beyond one's experience,

silence is the only proper response?

Mr. Hector's answer to lots of questions,
isn't it, sir?

Er, yes. Yes, Dakin, it is.

"Whereof one cannot speak,
thereof one must be silent."

That's right, isn't it, sir? Wittgenstein.

- Yes, that's good.
- No, it's not good.

It's flip, it's glib, it's journalism.

- It's you that taught us it.
- I didn't teach you.

And Wittgenstein did not
screw it out of his very guts

in order for you
to turn it into a dinky formula.

Why can't we simply just condemn the camps
outright as an unprecedented horror?

There's no point, sir.
Everybody will do that.

"The camp's an event unlike any other."

"The evil unprecedented."
Et cetera, et cetera.

No! Can't you see
that even to say "et cetera"

is... monstrous?

"Et cetera" is what
the Nazis would have said.

The dead reduced
to mere verbal abbreviation.

All right, not et cetera. But given that
the death camps are thought of as unique,

wouldn't another approach be
to show precedents?

- Put them, well, in proportion.
- Proportion?

Not proportion, then,
but putting them in context.

But to put something in context

is a step towards saying
it can be understood and explained.

And if it can be explained,
then it can be explained away.

Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner.

- That's good, Posner.
- It isn't good. I mean it, sir.

When we talk about putting them in context,

it's the same as
the dissolution of the monasteries.

After all, monasteries had been dissolved
before Henry VIII. Dozens of them.

Yes. But the difference is...

I didn't lose any relatives in the
dissolution of the monasteries.

Good point.

You keep saying, "good point".
Not good point, sir. True!

To you, th-the Holocaust is just another

topic on which we may
or may not get a question.

No!

No! But this is history.
Distance yourselves.

Our perspective on the past alters.

And looking back, immediately in front
of us is dead ground - we don't see it.

And because we don't see it, this means there
is no period so remote as the recent past.

And one of the historian's jobs

is to anticipate what our perspective
of that period will be.

Even on the Holocaust.

- Won the argument there, sir.
- What?

The Holocaust.
Yep, you really showed him.

- You flirt!
- I don't understand it.

I've never wanted to please
anybody the way I do him.

Girls not excepted.

- He's going, you know.
- The big man?

Yeah. Don't let on. Fiona says.

Sacked? Who complained?

That's why the lifts have stopped.

Poor sod. Though in some ways,
I can't say I'm sorry.

No. No more genital massage
as one speeds along leafy suburban roads!

No more of the bike's melancholy,
long, withdrawing roar

as he dropped you at the corner,
your honor still intact.

'Ey.

A lecher though one is,
or one aspires to be,

it occurs to me that
the lot of woman cannot be easy,

who must suffer such inexpert
male fumblings virtually on a daily basis.

Are we scarred for life, do you think?

Well, we must hope so.

"<(i>by Echo and the Bunnymen)

Dad.

Never gives an inch, does he?

"Lucid and, up to a point, compelling, but
if you reached a conclusion it escaped me."

- Seen your handwriting recently?
- Why?

- You're beginning to write like him.
- I'm not trying to, honestly.

- You're writing like him and all.
- No, I'm not!

Dakin writes like him. I write like Dakin.

It's done wonders for the sex life.

Apparently I talk about him so much,
Fiona gets really pissed off.

Doing it's about the only time I shut up.

- Would you do it with him?
- Yeah, I wondered about that.

I might. Bring a little bit
of sunshine into his life.

It's only a wank, after all.

What makes you think
he'd do it with you?

You complacent fuck!

The Archbishop of Canterbury
know you talk like this?

I like him. Just wish
I thought he liked me.

Irwin does like him.
He seldom looks at anyone else.

- How do you know?
- Because nor do I!

Our eyes meet looking at Dakin.

Oh, Pos. With your spaniel heart.

- It will pass.
- Yes, it's only a phase.

Who says I want it to pass?

But the pain. The pain!

Hector would say
it's the only education worth having.

I just wish there were marks for it.

Mr. Crowther, now,
one of your interests is the theater.

Tell us about that.

Erm, I'm keen on acting.
I've done various parts.

Can I stop you?
Don't mention the theater.

Oh. Well, it's what I'm interested in.

Then soft-pedal it,
the acting side, anyway.

Dons, most dons think
the theater is a waste of time.

Music is all right, though, isn't it?
They don't frown on that.

No, you should just say what you enjoy.

- Mozart?
- No.

Everybody likes Mozart. Somebody more
off the beaten track. Tippett, or Broekman.

- But I don't know them.
- May I make a silly suggestion?

Why can they not all just tell the truth?

I hesitate to mention this
lest it occasion a sophisticated groan.

But it may not have crossed your minds,

but one of the dons
who interviews you may be a woman.

I'm reluctant at this stage in the game
to expose you to new ideas

but, having taught you all history
on a strictly non-gender orientated basis,

I just wonder whether it occurs to
any of you how... dispiriting this can be.

- Am I embarrassing you?
- A bit, Miss.

It's not our fault.
It's just the way it is.

"The world is everything that is the case."
It's Wittgenstein, Miss.

Yes, yes, I know it's Wittgenstein,
thank you.

Can you for a moment
imagine how depressing it is

to teach five centuries
of masculine ineptitude?

Why do you think there are
no woman historians on TV?

- No tits!
- Hit that boy!

- Hit him!
- Sir, you can't, sir.

I'll tell you why!

Because history's not such a frolic
for women as it is for men.

Why should it be? They never
get round the conference table.

In 1919, for instance,
they just... arranged the flowers,

then gracefully retired.

History is a commentary

on the various and continuing
incapabilities of men.

What is history?

History is women
following behind... with a bucket.

Erm... Rudge.

Now, how do you
define history, Mr. Rudge?

Can I speak freely, Miss?

- Without being hit?
- I will protect you.

How do I define history?

It's just one fucking thing after another.

I see. And why do you want
to come to Christ Church?

It's the one I thought I might get into.

No other reason?

Do you like the architecture,
for instance?

But they'll ask me about sport,
won't they?

If you're as uncommunicative as this,
they may be forced to.

The point is, Rudge,

even if they want to take you on
the basis of your prowess on the field,

you have to help them, at least pretend
there are other considerations.

Look, I'm shit at all this. Sorry.

If they like me and they want to take me,

they'll take me because
I'm dull and ordinary.

I'm no good in interviews,

but I've got enough chat to
take me round the golf course,

and maybe there'll be someone on the board
who wants to go around the golf course.

I may not know much
about Jean-Paul Sartre,

but I've got a handicap of four.

Where have you heard about Sartre?

- He was a good golfer.
- Really?

I never knew that. Interesting!

Peter, how did you know
Sartre was a golfer?

I don't know that he was.

How could I? I don't even know
who the fuck he is.

Well, they keep telling us you have to lie.

I have a feeling Kafka
was good at table tennis.

- I'll see you tomorrow.
- Sir. I never gave you my essay.

What degree did you get, sir?
You never said.

- Second.
- Ha, boring.

- Didn't the old magic work?
- I hadn't perfected the technique.

- No, come on.
- It's after four. I'm gonna.

- What college were you at?
- Corpus.

- That's not one anyone's going in for.
- No.

- You happy?
- There? Yeah. Yeah, I was quite.

Do you think we'll be happy,
say we get in?

- You'll be happy, anyway.
- I'm not sure I like that.

Why? Uncomplicated -
is that what you mean?

Outgoing? Straight?

They're none of them
bad things to be, you know.

It depends. Nice to be
a bit more complicated.

Or to be thought so.

It's Felix!

Oh, Christ!

Shh!

- Not very bright, are you?
- Am I not?

No, sir.

- How's Posner?
- Why?

- He likes you, doesn't he?
- Well, it's his age.

- He's growing up.
- It's hard for him.

Boring for me.

You're not suggesting
that I do something about it?

It happens.
I wouldn't anyway. Too young.

- You still look quite young.
- That's cos I am, I suppose.

- How do you think history happens?
- What?

How does stuff happen, do you think?

People decide to do stuff.
Make moves, alter things.

- I'm not sure what you're talking about.
- No? Think about it.

Some do, make moves. I suppose.

Some people react to events.

I mean, in 1939, for instance,

Hitler made a move on Poland, Poland...

- Gave in.
- Is that what you mean?

No.

Not Poland, anyway.

- Was Poland taken by surprise?
- To some extent.

Although they knew something was up.

- What was your essay about?
- Turning points.

Ah, yeah. That's moments
when history rattles over the points.

Shall I tell you what
you've written? Dunkirk.

Yep.

- Hitler turning on Russia.
- Yeah.

- Alamein.
- Yeah, all those.

More? That's good.

When Chamberlain resigned
as prime minister,

Churchill wasn't the first thought.
Halifax more generally acceptable.

But on the afternoon the decision was
taken, Halifax chose to go to the dentist.

If Halifax had had better teeth,
we might have lost the war.

- That's terrific.
- Well, it's subjunctive history.

Come again?

Subjunctive - the mood used when something
might or might not have happened.

When it's imagined.

Hector's crazy about the subjunctive.

- Why are you smiling?
- Nothing.

Good luck.

You may begin.

Shit.

- Yes?
- Bit hit-and-miss, Miss.

I was so nice about Hitler,
a much misunderstood man.

Queen Elizabeth, Miss.

Less remarkable for her abilities

than the fact that, unlike so many of her
sisters, she got a chance to exercise them.

That's the stuff!

Hope they don't mind trainers.
They're all I've got.

It's not an exam in footwear.

Somebody told me it's
four miles to the bogs.

Do you want somewhere with a shit degree
but has toilets en suite?

I say if they don't like me, then fuck 'em.

Oh, Peter, I wish I had your philosophy.

What'll you do? Flutter
the eyelashes as usual?

I think in the circumstances it will be
the half-smile with a hint of sadness.

Fuck off!

Get in, sit down.

Good luck.

Come in.

Mr. Lockwood?

No Irwin here.

- This is Corpus, isn't it?
- Yeah.

They liked my Hitler answer, praised
what they called my "sense of detachment".

They said it was
the foundation of writing history.

Ah, fucking hell!

It's like a stately home.
My parents would love it.

This is Mr. Rudge, who, if he comes up,
is hoping to read history.

- Who is he?
- Rudge.

- What's he want us for?
- No idea.

- Pep talk?
- Bit late for that.

It's probably about Hector.

- I sort of know.
- I imagine everyone sort of knows.

- Does his wife?
- He doesn't think so, apparently.

But I imagine she's another one
who's sort of known all along.

The husband on a low light.

That's what they want,
these supposedly unsuspecting wives.

The husband's lukewarm attentions.
Just what they married them for.

Oh, he's a fool, but he was also unlucky.

For a start, the lollipop lady's
only on duty a couple of hours.

Five minutes later, she'd have gone off.

And what if the lights had been green?

Or if there'd been no children coming?

The smallest of incidents,
the junction of a dizzying range of...

alternatives.

Any one of which could have
had a different outcome.

If I was... a bold teacher -
if I was you, even -

I could spend a lesson dissecting
what the headmaster insists on calling

"this unfortunate incident".

And it would teach the boys
more about history

and the utter randomness
of things than...

well, than I've ever
managed to do, so far.

I wonder how they're going on.

- Don't you ever want to go back?
- To Oxford?

I'm not clever enough.

I'm not anything enough, really.

Dorothy, a word.

Trouble at t'mill.

That's the news he's aching to impart.
My marching orders.

- I sort of knew.
- Ah.

Dakin told me.

Did he tell you why?

I've got this idea of buying a van,

filling it with books and taking it
round to country markets.

Shropshire, Herefordshire.

"The open road, the dusty highway."

"Travel, change, interest, excitement."
Poop-poop!

See, what I didn't want
was to turn out boys

who would claim in later life
to have a deep love of "literature".

Or who would talk in their middle age

of the lure of language
and their love of words.

"Words" said in a reverential way
that is somehow...

Welsh.

That's what the tosh was for -
Gracie Fields, Brief Encounter.

It's an antidote.
Sheer, calculated silliness.

Has a boy ever made you unhappy?

They used to do.

See it as an inoculation, rather.

Briefly painful, but providing immunity
for however long it takes.

Given the occasional booster,
another face,

another reminder of the pain,

it can last you... half a lifetime.

- Love.
- Who could love me?

- I talk too much.
- Do they know?

They know... everything.

Don't touch him. He'll think you're a fool.

It's what they think of me.

You knew as well, I gather?

And the boys knew.

Well, of course the boys knew.
They had it at first hand.

I didn't actually do anything.

I mean, it was a laying on of hands.
I don't deny that.

But more my way of...
benediction than gratification.

Hector, darling, love you as I do,
that is the most colossal balls.

- Is it?
- A grope is a grope.

It is not the Annunciation.

You twerp!

Anyway, what Felix wanted to tell me
is that when I finish next year,

he's hoping he can persuade you
to step into my shoes.

Irwin.

For your information, they're a
size seven court shoe, broad fitting.

Chris! Chris!

Adi!

David!

Evening. Lockwood, 4C.

Ah, Irwin!

Splendid news! Splendid news.

Posner, a scholarship.
Dakin, an exhibition.

And places for everybody else!

It's more than one would
ever have hoped for.

Irwin, you're to be congratulated
on a remarkable achievement.

Oh, and you too. You too, Dorothy,
of course, who laid the foundations.

- Not Rudge, Headmaster.
- Not Rudge. Oh, dear.

- The others have all had letters.
- It was always an outside chance.

It's a pity. It would have been good
to have a clean sweep.

Still, as I've said all along,
you can't polish a turd.

Rudge!

You haven't heard from Oxford?

Perhaps you'll hear tomorrow.

Why should I?
They told me when I was there.

I'm sorry.

What for? I got in.

How come?

What, how come they told me,
or how come they took a thick sod like me?

I had family connections.

Somebody in your family
went to Christ Church?

Well, in a manner of speaking. My dad.

Before he got married
he was a college servant there.

This old... parson who'd just been sitting
there most of the interview suddenly said

was I related to Bill Rudge who'd been
a scout in staircase seven in the 1950s.

So, I said he's my dad,

and they said I was just the kind
of candidate they were looking for.

Mind you, I did do the other stuff like...

Stalin was a sweetie
and Wilfred Owen was a wuss.

They said I plainly thought for myself and
was exactly what their rugger team needed.

- Are you not pleased?
- It's not like winning a match.

You see, Miss...
I want to do the stuff I want to do.

I mean, this, I only wanted it
cos the others did, and my dad.

Now I'm in, I just feel like
telling the college to stuff it.

I think that's Mr. Hector.

No, it isn't, Miss. It's me.

- I went round to your college.
- I'm surprised you're interested.

I was kind of lonely.
I wanted to see where you'd been.

- Only no one had heard of you at Corpus.
- I was at Jesus.

- You said Corpus.
- Corpus, Jesus... What does it matter?

I never got in. I was at Bristol.

I did go to Oxford but it was
just to do a teaching diploma.

- Does that make any difference?
- To what? To me?

At least you lied, and lying's good, isn't
it? We've established that. Lying works.

You ought to learn to do it properly.

Anybody else,
I'd say we could have a drink.

Is that a euphemism - a drink?

Saying "a drink" when you
actually mean something else?

- It is, yeah.
- Actually, forget the euphemism.

I'm just kicking the tires on this one,
but further to the drink...

What I was really wondering was,
is there any chance of your sucking me off?

Or something similar.

Actually, that would please Hector.

- What?
- "Your sucking me off."

It's a gerund. He likes gerunds.

And "your being scared shitless",
that's another gerund.

- I didn't know you were that way inclined.
- I'm not.

But it's the end of
term, I've got into Oxford.

I thought we might push the boat out.

Anyway, I'll leave it on the table.

I don't understand this.

Reckless, impulsive, immoral.

How come there's such a difference between
the way you teach and the way you live?

Why are you so bold in argument and
talking, but when it comes to the point...

when it's something
that's actually happening,

I mean, now you're so fucking careful.

Is it because
you're a teacher and I'm a boy?

- Obviously that.
- Well, why? Who cares? I don't.

You've already had one master touch you up.

Is that what it is?
It's that you don't want to be like Hector?

Well, you won't be.
You can't be. How could you be?

- Hector's a joke.
- He isn't, you see. He isn't.

- That side of him is.
- Dakin.

- All right. Let's go for a drink.
- Don't take out your sodding diary.

- Maybe next week...
- Next week?

Get this, man -
"You can suck me off next week."

I've heard of a crowded schedule,
but this is ridiculous.

God, we've got a long way to go.

- Do you ever take your glasses off?
- Why?

- It's a start.
- Not with me.

Taking off my glasses
is the last thing I do.

Yeah? I'll look forward to it.

What do you do on Sunday afternoons?

What are you doing
this Sunday afternoon?

I was going to go through
the accounts of Roche Abbey.

It's a... it's a Cistercian house.
It's just to the south of Doncaster.

Only, I think I've just had a better offer.

I think you have.

And we're not
in the subjunctive any more, either.

It's going to happen.

I just wanted to say thank you.

So? Give him a subscription
to The Spectator or a box of Black Magic!

Just cos you got a scholarship

doesn't mean you've got to give him
unfettered access to your dick!

- Well, how would you say thank you?
- On my knees probably, same as you.

I shall want a full report.

- Are you jealous?
- No!

- You're jealous, aren't you?
- No, not of the sex.

Just... of your being up for it.

- Me, erm...
- Oh, write it down.

- Wish me luck.
- What for?

What for?

Dakin? Can I help you?

I've never known such impertinence!

Your scholarship seems
to have gone to your head.

- The point I'm making...
- I know the point.

I'm just curious, sir.

I mean, what's the difference between
Mr. Hector touching us up on the bike

and your feeling up Fiona?

A comparable situation historically

would be the dismissal
of Cardinal Wolsey.

Don't give me that Cardinal Wolsey shit.

Who else knows about this?

Fiona. Erm... Miss Procter.
Mr. Hector to my study, please.

- I might try the army.
- You? You're a shambles!

They put you through
college, pay your fees.

Provided you kill people afterwards.

We won't go to war again.
Who's there to fight?

I don't know about a career. I've
got to get fucking out of the way first!

- That goes on.
- Or doesn't.

Now look, everybody.
This is known as Posner's reward.

Is that it? The longed-for moment?

- Well, what's wrong with it?
- It's too fucking brief.

I was looking for something
more... lingering.

Go on, Stu, go on!

Come on, come on!

And what's this? Hector's reward?

It's only polite. Just for old times' sake.

Just don't let him go
past the lollipop lady.

Ready, sir?

- Oh, Dakin.
- Think of it as a gesture, sir.

But I'm not leaving.
I'm coming back next year.

That's brilliant!

A boy in a motorcycle helmet? Dakin!

No! No-no-no-no!
Under no circumstances.

Hector, I thought I'd made this plain.

Take... somebody else.

Take... take Irwin.

- Irwin?
- Sure. Why not?

Do you want my
Tudor Economic Documents?

Fuck off. Fuck right off!

"How does history happen?"
I asked Irwin.

And he couldn't answer.

But now he knew. Nothing special.

Skid on a corner. Ordinary stuff.

Irwin had never been
on the back of a bike before, so...

maybe going around the corner he leaned out
instead of in and so unbalanced Hector.

Trust him to lean the opposite way
to everyone else.

But he had no memory of what caused it.

I suppose the last thing he remembered
was me asking him out for a drink.

Something we never did, incidentally.

Still, at least I asked him.

And, barring accidents,
it would have happened.

Listen. There is no "barring accidents".
It's what I said.

History is just one
fucking thing after another.

If I speak of Hector,

it is of enthusiasm shared,
passion conveyed

and seeds sown of future harvest.

He loved language. He loved words.

For each and every one
of you, his pupils,

he opened a deposit account
in the bank of literature

and made you all shareholders
in that wonderful world of words.

Will they come to my funeral, I wonder?

And what will they be?

Akhtar, what are you?

A headmaster, Miss.
In Keighley, near Bradford.

One of you is a magistrate, I know.

- And, Timms, what are you?
- Chain of dry-cleaners, Miss.

And I take drugs at the weekend.

And are you all happy?

Kids don't help, though, Miss.

Dakin, you're happy, I'm sure.

Of course I'm happy.
I'm a tax lawyer. Money's incredible.

For fuck's sake!

Despite knowing,
along with Wittgenstein,

that the world is
everything that is the case,

Lieutenant James Lockwood of the First
Battalion York and Lancaster Regiment,

is wounded by friendly fire

and dies on his way to hospital.

He is 28.

Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner.

- Rudge, I'd forgotten you.
- As usual, Miss.

You're a builder.
Carpeting the Dales in handy homes.

Rudge homes are at least affordable homes
for the first-time buyer.

I take wives around the showhouse.

I tell them I was at Oxford.
I get fucks galore.

There is one journalist,
though on a better class of paper -

a career he's always threatening to abandon
in order, as he puts it, "really to write".

Hector always said I was a journalist.

And so you were. School was just
an apprenticeship for television.

I enjoy your programmes, but
they're more... journalism than history.

But of all Hector's boys,

there is only one
who truly took everything to heart,

remembers everything
he was ever taught.

The songs, the poems,
the sayings, the endings.

The words of Hector never forgotten.

Slightly to my surprise,
I've ended up, like you, a teacher.

I'm a bit of a stock figure.
I do a wonderful school play, for instance.

And though I never touch the boys,
it's always a struggle.

But maybe that's why I'm a good teacher.

I'm not happy, but I'm
not unhappy about it.

He was a good man.

But I don't think there's time
for his kind of teaching any more.

No. Love apart, it is
the only education worth having.

Pass the parcel.
That's sometimes all you can do.

Take it, feel it, and pass it on.

Pass it on, boys - that's
the game I want you to learn.

Pass it on.

Subtitles by Visiontext

WebRip resynch by hamonwheat88