All language subtitles for Ripping Yarns - S02xE03

A ripping tale of a young man
caught in a world of changing values

and forced by circumstances
to the most despicable act

known to the British Army.

The reasons for what I
did that fateful night in India

really began in my childhood.

I was luckier than
most boys of my age,

in that my father did have
enormously large amounts of money.

The endless, leisured
days at Bartlesham Hall

began, as always,
with the family breakfast.

The toast is frightfully
good today, Barty.

Yes, yes. It's awfully good.

-Very pleasantly brittle.
-Yes, it's really very, very good toast.

I think it's some of the
best toast we have ever had.

Yes, yes. Could be.

I wonder who made
the toast today.

Well, whoever it was,
they're a dab hand.

Mrs Angel.

Who made the toast today?

Er, Judy, I think,
your ladyship.

-Well, commend her. Most highly.
-Yes, your ladyship.

Set her free, Mrs Angel.

She is free, dear.

Judy? Free? Surely not.

They're all free,
dear. All the servants.

There has been no slavery in
this country for donkey's years.

Judy? Little slip of a thing,
washes floors all day long?

She's still free, dear.

Hm. I think it's a great shame.

What is a shame, dear?

Not being able to free people.

I mean, it must have been a wonderful
thing to do. Just sort of... free a chap.

Some poor, miserable wretch in
chains. And along you come and say,

"You're free.

"You're a free man. Off you go.

"Run about
wherever you want to."

-Not in front of the boy, Barty.
-What?

You are not to become
emotional in front of the boy.

Oh, sorry.

What are you going
to do today, Roger?

Oh, um...

I dreaded these moments, when
my mother would suddenly talk to me.

Fortunately, they
were mercifully few.

But I never seemed to
have an answer ready.

I shall be going to Latin
translation with Mr Hopper.

-Hopper? He's a child molester, isn't he?
-He was, dear. He is no longer.

Mr Hopper knew no Latin at all.

In fact, his only
qualification as my tutor

was a forged degree from the
Department of Botany at Bangkok University.

Instead, he used to
teach me social revolution.

From ten in the morning,
until six every evening,

he told me all there was
to know about socialism,

Marxism, the state
ownership of capital,

and the bloodshed that
would inevitably follow

the armed uprising
of the proletariat.

Come on, Roger. Shoot away.

And another. And
another. There we go.

-Come on, Barty. Kill something.
-Oh, sorry.

My mother had killed more grouse
than any other woman in history.

There's a nice fat one.

That's Mr Barlow, ma'am.

Oh, drat! Barty, we must not
choose beaters that look like grouse.

I've just shot Barlow.

-I'll go and get him.
-He's been shot before, ma'am.

I'm sure he don't mind.

It's just such a
waste of cartridges.

Jolly decent sort of
chap, the average slave.

Servant, dear.

Are you just gonna
leave him there?

Wonderful chap anyway.

Came free and yet willing
to be constantly shot at.

I don't think he wants
to be shot at, Father.

I don't think anybody
wants to be shot in the back.

You'd be surprised. Some
of these people quite like it.

Gives them a sense of security. Means
they don't have to take any decisions.

Well, it makes me feel humble.

What, sir?

Chap like Barlow. With
all the world to chose from,

he will repeatedly lie face downwards in
the mud without a single word of complaint.

God! I know chaps who complain
about the skin on top of their porridge.

Rich chaps, too.
Intelligent, well-educated.

And yet there's
Barlow, a simple slave...

...lying face downwards in the field
without the slightest murmur of animosity.

Do stop talking, Barty. You
haven't shot anything for ages.

Fire up, Roger. Come on.

-Shoot your own beaters.
-Roger!

What on earth's the
matter with the boy?

What's wrong with a bit of
shooting, for heaven's sake?

Besides being immensely rich,

my father was also honorary
Colonel of the Dorsetshire Rifles.

And in 1914, we found ourselves
uprooted from Bartlesham Hall.

We were sent 4,000
miles away to the Punjab

to do our bit in the
great war for civilisation.

Mr Hopper was so
pleased to be near Russia

he changed his name to Leon
Hopper and bought a new hat.

Your turn, Barty.

Nice shot, Father.

The evenings were taken up
with endless regimental dinners.

The same people. The same talk.

Until one memorable night
as the women were retiring...

So, ladies, shall we retire?

We'll be in to spank
you later, you...

firm-buttocked
young Amazons, you.

I'm terribly sorry. I don't
know what came over me.

All right, Morrison.

I think you know what to do.

Yes. Yes, of course, sir.

I apologise to you all.

Pity, really. He seemed a
nice enough young chap.

Yes. Talented too.

He could have been Number
Two in the War Office, if he'd lived.

Friend of yours, wasn't he?

Yes, he was my best
friend in the regiment.

I don't understand what makes
a man ruin a career like that.

Clive! What are you doing?

-Don't you want any port?
-Damn it, Clive.

-Don't be a fool.
-But you like port.

Yes, but not like that.

Come on!

-Right to left.
-Let's pass it the other way for once.

Damn it, Clive.
Don't be a bloody fool.

Think of your wife.

And the children.

And the regiment.

Come on. Take it!

I say, Cooper, what's going on?

Oh! Er... It's
nothing really, sir.

He was just... explaining...

I was passing the
port from left to right.

Off you go, Cooper.

All right, I'll go.

But I want you to know that
I don't care, do you hear?

I don't care.

If that's the way you want
to pass the port, you pass it.

But you can pass it without me.

-Perhaps we can get on. Cigar?
-Ah, thank you very much.

I want to go, too.

I think it's about time someone
said what Cooper has just said.

I think anyone should be allowed
to pass the port any way they want.

-Meredith.
-Left to right. Right to left.

-Diagonally.
-Meredith!

Under the table. Over the table.
Behind one man in front of the next.

One-handed, two-handed. Right round
that way and then right around the other.

-Meredith.
-Two to the left. Three to the right.

Missing out every
third person on one side

and every alternate
person on the other side.

Meredith!

May I say,

that it's not just passing
the port that's at stake here.

I believe the women should
be allowed port as well.

-It must be the heat.
-No, no, I want to speak.

I feel that women should
be allowed to drink port.

And brandy.

And Madeira!

Daintry, you must be overtired.

And that they should be
allowed to sing and dance.

And throw back their heads in
laughter and toss their beautiful hair.

And smile.

And make the world a happier,

saner place.

Off you go.

Damn good soldier,
Daintry, don't you agree?

Damn fine, Barty. Damn
fine. Damn fine. Yeah.

And honest.

-I have wanted women in here for years.
-What?!

Yes, I wanted to pass the port from
left to right just like young Daintry did.

And more than that.

I wanted to do away
with the Loyal Toast.

Oh, no, Runciman. Not you.

I wanted to abolish
the national anthem.

I wanted to set up a
socialist republic in this land,

a state where all
those who do the work

should be given the
full reward for such work.

Where patronage and privilege

should be cast away and one man
should be the equal with his fellow.

Smash the monarchy.
Smash the ruling classes.

Break up the homes
of the rich and privileged

and let all humanity
share together,

equally, as God surely intended.

Mr Hopper had once told me
that a moment like this would come.

When the old order
would finally collapse.

And I was to let him know if
it happened while he was out.

But I had plans of my own.

-Miranda?
-Roger!

What are you doing here?

Have you thought it over?

Yes, but my parents
would never allow it.

-Why not?
-We just can't, Roger.

We're too different.

Different? How?

In a hundred ways, I mean for a
start, I'm a woman and you're...

Well, you're a man.

But people of the same
sex don't get married.

My fathers did.

We could run away somewhere.

And start a little
shop. And sell things.

-Go into trade?
-Yes, trade's exciting. It's a challenge.

I've thought it over. It's where
the future of our country lies.

Buying and selling. Profit margins.
Cost-effective maintenance.

Sales projections.

Those are the things that are
real. Those are the things that count.

You're mad!

You'll own 16 mansions all over
the world when your father dies

and yet, you want to throw
it all up and go into trade.

Don't you see? It's beautiful.

Suppose I buy six dozen
gross of elastic stocking hose -

I'm thinking of a
chemist's sundry shop -

at 2 shillings a dozen and
sell them at 4 shillings a dozen.

That's a gross clear profit
of 12 shillings a dozen.

Take off a shilling for overheads
- transport, heating, lights and...

it's a clear profit
of 11 shillings.

That's a net profit, is it?

Yes.

Supposing one
stocked a herbal remedy.

-Not the sort you need a prescription for.
-Obviously not, no, no, no.

Herbal remedy in gallon cans.

And dispensed it in 2-ounce
bottles at the same price.

What percentage
return would that mean?

You are talking of a
profit margin of 2,000%.

We couldn't do that.

We could, Miranda.
We can do anything!

We could sell...
toilet requisites.

And shaving accessories.

And douches. We
could sell douches.

Oh, say yes, Miranda. Say yes.

No, no, Roger. I can't.

-But, Miranda.
-No, no, no, Roger.

We're too rich. You
must understand that.

-We could have a sale...
-No, Roger!

We must have country
houses and croquet parties

and grouse shoots,
you know that.

But why, Miranda. Why?

Somebody has to, Roger.

-Miranda.
-P... Please.

I can hear my father
coming. You must go.

He's terribly rich.

Extraordinary
people, the Pathans.

Who? Derek and Edna?

No, the Pathans.

Local tribe we're fighting.

Oh, yes.

They respond amazingly
well to kindness.

They may be very violent,

often cruel and
senselessly vindictive, but...

if you are kind to them, they
respect you in a strange way.

Jellico was telling me of a
chap who was kind to them.

They wouldn't leave him alone.
Slept outside his door every night.

-Really?
-Mind you, he was very kind to them.

Have you ever tried
the cherry preserve?

You know, I often think that if people
had been a little more kind to each other,

we might have avoided many of the wars
that have plagued society through the ages.

-Rubbish, dear.
-Well, maybe.

Just suppose for a minute,

when Wallenstein reached
the gates of Magdeburg in 1631.

Instead of razing
the city to the ground

and putting its inhabitants
to the sword, he'd said,

"Oh, what a lovely place!

"How lucky you are to live here!

"I come from Sweden. You
must come and see me sometime."

Think what a difference
it would have made.

He'd have gone
down in history as a...

nice chap.

Instead of the
Butcher of Magdeburg.

Eat up, dear. And
stop talking piffle.

Where are you going, Roger?

Erm, to see Mr Hopper, Mother.

There are eight
more courses yet.

We're doing Horace today.

-Child molester, wasn't he?
-No, no.

Horace is a Latin author, Barty.

I knew a child molester
at Eton called Horace.

I don't know what's come
over that boy. I really don't.

He's been off his
kedgeree for weeks.

Perhaps we should have shown
him more love and affection.

More brute force,
if you ask me, dear.

Like we did with Nigel.

Nigel died.

Yes, but think what he'd
have been like if he'd lived.

-Roger.
-Miranda, what is it?

I've decided to come with you.

Where?

I've bought the option on a
two-storey lock-up in the Euston Road,

complete with stock.

-But Miranda, I'm not ready.
-Oh, it's haberdashery, mainly.

But we could open an
accessories section and then

move into surgical appliances
when we've built the business up.

-Well...
-I'll call for you tonight.

I'll bring Rover.

That night I waited, ready.

Ready for a
chance of a lifetime.

This time it had to work.

-Mr Hopper!
-You've heard the news, then.

-What news?
-The Tsar of all the Russias is dead.

-Isn't it wonderful?
-Oh, yes.

Yes, I suppose so.

Hang on to this, Roger.

Right, we'll stack
these in here.

I'm leaving.

No need, we'll start the uprising
here. The whole regiment is with us.

The armed struggle of
the proletariat has begun.

Today, the empire.
Tomorrow, England itself.

I can't, Mr Hopper.

-What?
-The honourable Miranda and I

are going home
to start a little shop.

The Pathans.

-Derek and Edna?
-No!

The violent but proud tribe of hill
people who threaten our very existence.

-I must go and be kind to them.
-Don't be silly, dear.

The servants have orders to come
and tell us if there is a Pathan uprising.

I spent 14 years teaching you,
training you for this moment.

You can't walk out on
me now. Do you hear?

No man owns another, Mr Hopper.

Ohh! Oh-oh-oh!

Stay where you are, Roger.

Now, turn around.

My God! They're armed.

Nonsense, dear.

It's probably just Mr
Mugby shooting an intruder.

-I'd better go and treat them well.
-Lie down and go to sleep!

Probably shooting the
intruder's family as well.

I don't know why they
bring them with them.

Roger! I want you
to lead the revolution.

Go away!

Oh... They're
breaking the place up.

They need sympathy.

Aha, there you are, sir. Mr
Hopper told us to wait here for you.

Look, I'm not in all this.

What do you reckon now, sir?
Should we wait for Mr Hopper?

Well, I don't know. I'm off to
start a little shop somewhere with...

Look, sir.

The men are expecting you to lead
them. You can't let them down now.

I can't help that.

I'm sorry, sir. I think you
better do just as I say.

Hello, Pathans. How about
a drink and some hot soup?

Oh, Hopper. You haven't
killed any of them, have you?

-What, sir?
-The Pathans.

It's not the Pathans,
sir. It's your own men.

Disguised as Pathans?

No, no, it's your
own men firing.

-You mean like in a mutiny?
-Yes, sir. I'm afraid this is a mutiny.

Thank God you're still with me, Hopper. My
wife and I always had a soft spot for you.

-Look...
-What do they want? Money? Double beds?

-Who the hell is behind this?
-Sir!

-I have to tell you...
-What?

Erm, I have to tell
you... It's your son.

They've got him too?

No, no, he's leading them.

-My son leading a mutiny?
-I'm afraid so.

You mean, little...
Little what's-his-name?

Thingy. Yes.

Why?

We gave the dear boy everything.

Good home. Several good homes.

Initialled croquet mallets.
What more does he want?

Perhaps he wants to
found a socialist state,

with centralised ownership of
capital to be used for the benefit of all.

-He wants what?
-A socialist state

with centralised ownership of
capital to be used for the benefit of all.

-Oh, if that's all he wants he shall have it.
-I'm sorry?

No boy of mine shall ever
want for anything, Hopper.

What's going on, Barty?

That boy wants a centralised ownership of
capital to be used for the benefit of all, dear.

The ungrateful little bastard.

I'm going to find out what's
happening. You wait for me here, Rover.

Tell them that the place is surrounded and
that you're taking over personal command.

Ah, hello?

One shot and we
can all go back to bed.

Can everybody hear me?

Perhaps we should just
hear what he has to say, dear.

This is no time to be sentimental,
Barty. We do have other children.

Er... This is very important. You
must listen to everything I say.

Er, and act... accordingly.

The house is surrounded

and I am taking personal
command of the regiment.

My regiment! Give me that.

Oh, Barty, give it to me.

This is at the insistence of the
officers and men of the regiment.

Though I must point out
that I am acting under duress.

Despite... Despite my
high regard for the ideals,

er, of the men.

But I would say to
them, first of all...

that obviously Mr Hopper

has been talking
revolution to you

as he talked revolution to me for
the last 15 years of Latin classes.

And I ask the officers and men of the
regiment, what will you have achieved?

What guarantee have they that
Mr Hopper or I, for that matter,

would treat them any
better than my father did?

This isn't Marxism,

it's Bakuninine anarchism!

So, I say, let us grasp this
opportunity to renounce the violence

implicit in any
centralised authority.

And aim for total
decentralisation of power!

Anarchist!

He has got our
position slightly wrong.

We're not against a
centralised authority as such.

-What we'd like to...
-I am.

No, you're not.

-Yes!
-I agree with the last speaker.

This isn't a bloody
debate. It's time for action!

-Fire!
-Who at?

Look what I found.

-Charge!
-Which way?

-Miranda!
-I'm coming, Roger!

Rover!

-Roger!
-Miranda!

Exactly what happened
that night in India

will probably never be known,

for no one lived
to tell the tale,

save myself and the
honourable Miranda.

After many adventures, we finally
found our way back to England,

and there achieved
our impossible dream -

to throw off the shackles
of wealth and privilege

and live as simple shopkeepers.