- (PHONE RINGS) - Hello, Prentiss McCabe Public Relations.
- My God, it's enormous. - I promised her you'd read it.
- Me?! - I'd read it myself, but I can't.
It's your fault. You bring us the famously unclothed runner-up on "Big Brother".
Hurrah. And she comes with a fat handwritten novel and a demand for its promotion.
OK. Good point. Give it back to me.
Alison, you can read it.
Alison, how would you feel about reading Theresa O'Leary's magnum tedious?
- Well... - Unless you've got other plans for the day?
No. That's fine. I was thinking about getting to grips with Mark Thatcher...
- Cripes. - Poor Mark.
Marry the money. Still when he goes to the Ritz gets a table by the bogs.
He can wait. Where's Charles?
Ah, he left me a sticky.
"Gone to the Connaught for a bit of a goat."
Right... Good Lord.
It's the way of the world - one week it's blasphemy to say "Fuck" at the opera,
the next it's the only way to get a seat.
- "A bit of a gloat." - Yup. Exactly.
Hello, my dear. Yes. I'm lunching with Marcus Payne.
Oh, I see him.
Well, I think we should drink some champagne.
Deference they despise. Treat 'em rough, they're lovely.
Attack, attack, attack and so forth. Now... has anybody seen a newspaper?
Oh, look. Here's one.
You don't actually read this rubbish? You just edit it. He'll have champagne.
Ooh. "The 'Herald' cocks up.
"Dennis Waterman not a shirt-lifter shock." What a pity.
Especially after yesterday's headline. What was it?
"Mind 'er."
Outstanding. Shame it wasn't true.
- We were misinformed. - Not by me. I warned you.
What you actually said, Charles, was "Suck it and see."
Unfortunately for you, words never uttered by my client. I was teasing, Marcus.
- Why didn't your proprietor stop it? - None of it matters.
- But we'd like to stay friends with Dennis. - Why aren't you lunching him?
- Eugh! - Point taken.
Letters in Latin from Anne of Cleves -
ill-fated fourth wife of King Henry VIII.
They recount first hand the terrible rejection Anne suffered
when the king first beheld his new bride in the flesh
and turned away in disgust at her ugliness.
For this discourteous action alone, history has reviled him,
but perhaps the old boy had a point.
Because when Anne's father wrote back,
he began his letter, "Ave filius..."
"Dear son."
I'm sorry, Miriam, this is ridiculous.
I'm delivering myself of the most astonishing revelations,
I've got this gorilla peering down my ear.
It's not witty, it lacks gravitas, I do not feel well served.
And cut. Very good, Nigel. Thank you.
No, it's not "very good"! It's a bloody travesty and I'm seriously off-piste!
Five minutes, everybody.
Look, this is a complete fucking disaster. Will you get this girl Miriam?
- (INDISTINCT) - Dear Nigel.
So much more authoritative when you don't hear what he says.
I was wrong about Dennis being a bender.
I'm sorry. My memory's shocking these days.
I've already forgotten that sentence. You were what?
I was wrong about Dennis.
But I do know something about chummy here.
Him? Oh, my aching sides! I think not.
- What? - No.
What?
So here's Theresa O'thingy on "Big Brother".
Look at the others grimacing. She's boring us all to tears.
But she's not stupid. She knows she's on her way out.
She thinks about it and she gets her kit off.
Basic, but it wins her second place and a slot at Prentiss McCabe.
That's her real story. That's her scale.
I don't think anybody's obliged to read her ruddy book just to humour her.
- Ugh. - Um...
The girl's devoid of charm, she's without even decent conversation
and her book will be the same - a dreary catalogue of complaint unrelieved by wit.
- Actually, it's about her mother. - Principle's the same.
It's "Cancer Ward" without the laughs.
- Read me the bit you're reading now. - Which bit? This bit?
Any bit, Alison. I'm just trying to make a point.
Right. "Grandma bent down to scoop the placenta from her fallen drawers..."
- Thank you. - "Childbirth did not dim her sense of duty.
"'This'll feed the babbies for a week."'
Ah. I rest my case.
Jamie. This wretched girl, is she worth it?
Wait till you see her in the peephole surplus.
Also, I found this wicked thing on the Net. It's split-crotch wimple.
Give Theresa the right vibes on the book and she'll wear it for "Loaded".
I thought a wimple was a pointy-head thing.
- Worn vertically, yeah. - I think...
Go on. You've a democratic right to express your opinion.
- I just... - Mm?
I don't think she should have been in that costume and subjected to a photo
with Roy Keane holding up a red card saying, "None of that."
It wasn't funny and it wasn't dignified.
- It wasn't funny? - It was funny.
Everybody leave. Now!
- Right. - Not you, Martin.
Oh, all right.
I've just had lunch at the Connaught. Bad news.
Don't say bloody Ramsay's got rid of the puddings?
Marcus Payne.
He's a shit of colossal stature. Was he there?
At my table. Telling me the filthy little secret of Nigel Harting.
- Really? - He's one of ours, Martin. He's family.
I know, but for the first time he interests me.
- He is finished. - What?
What is the crucial virtue one requires of an historian, both on and off television?
The single unequivocal demand that we make.
That he wears a leather jacket? Writes a book with pictures in? For Christ's sake.
That the facts upon which he speculates are facts, not lies.
Oh, Jesus!
Our Nigel Harting faked the letters about Wolsey shagging his mother.
Now he's faked letters about Anne of Cleves having a schlong.
It turns up in the archive of his own college.
They send for an expert to authenticate. Who's the expert?
- Nigel. - He's buggered, Martin.
And I don't mean that in a nice way.
Marcus already has more than one don in his pocket.
They hate Harting - he makes too much money.
Why doesn't Marcus just print it?
- He wants to give us a sporting chance. - Bastard.
He's prefer something more salacious.
He doesn't realise that if I give him what he wants - which I shall -
it will be entirely to our advantage.
But... Oh, yes! What a fool!
The historical jiggery-pokery stays canned, but as a commodity, Nigel goes nuclear.
- Which, frankly, he could use. - Now he'll glow in the dark.
Marcus's circulation will go up, so he'll get hissy kisses from his proprietor.
And he'll be relishing the illusion that he shafted me. But what am I not?
- A man to be shafted. - Precisely.
Can you believe it? I feel hungry.
- That's too much. - She's coming.
I'm coming.
Yes.
- Can't you knock? - Knocking is for A, B or C list.
- Her legs go all the way up to her arse. - That's the usual arrangement.
- We're really late, Ali. - I know, Jamie, but...
How do I look? Don't answer that. Let's get on with it.
What did you do with my book?
I gave it to Martin - partner. He's hooked into literary London.
- What did Martin make of it? - He loves it, loves it.
- There you go. Ba-ba-ba ba! - So when do we talk to the publisher?
You do this, I'll get on to Martin about that.
I was never a bloody nun. I was taught by nuns.
That's close enough. Theresa, I know. This must seem pretty demeaning.
We appreciate that. But the public has to think it knows who you are
before it can get to grips with the person you really are.
It has to have a handle on you.
You and I both know we're going to snap that handle off, yeah?
But, right now, it's necessary.
- Yeah? - OK.
Snap the handle?
His heart and loins throbbing with anticipation
stirred by Holbein's ludicrously flattering portrait,
Henry made haste to Rochester.
- He was um... - Cut! Get ready to go again.
Charles. You got my message?
Yes. I've just been speaking to Anne of Cleves. Seems nice.
The whole thing's a bloody dog's breakfast.
This one will have to go. She's not even a mechanic, she's a fitter.
- Nigel, I bring you good news. - Oh?
Little bit of bad news first to make the good news more piquant.
- Oh. - Your career, as we have hitherto understood it, is fucked.
That's a technical term. The good news is we can fix it.
Marcus has had the letters in his hands.
He's had them radio-carbon dated, X-rayed and copies made.
- Ah... - Fortunately, I've distracted him
with the story and graphic video recording of your disgusting adultery
with a distinguished female social commentator.
But I've never committed adultery.
Not yet you haven't.
God, God, God.
Nick, I've just been in reception with Theresa O'doing. She is a total crasher.
- When I do this, throw me Miramax. - Miramax, right.
- You were saying, Martin? - An extraordinary read. Yes.
One detects in it the themes and structures of the great Russian novels.
Massive ideas carried in solution.
Language under pressure, soaring emotions.
- But the suffering... - It's fantastic.
Tell me, do you think the scene where we meet O'Gara was too much?
That scene was extraordinary.
Martin? Miramax.
Oh, God. Yes. I forgot. Conference call. Hollywood.
- You're talking to Miramax? - Harvey W and I hook up once a week.
- You're going to talk about my book? - Naturally.
This is so exciting.
So who would you cast as O'Gara? Fantasy casting?
Fantasy casting for O'Gara? Clooney. In an ideal world, George every time.
Tom Conti?
I have it on good authority that John Hurt is off the sauce.
- O'Gara's a nun. - She's actually a woman, Martin.
Of course O'Gara's a woman. I was just trying to think of cutting edge casting.
- Miramax, Martin. - Must take this call.
Look. On my desk, I have a thrilling new television format called "Big Sister".
Six female celebrities spend a month in a convent with Carmelite nuns.
Incense, cold showers and the faintest unspoken suggestion of Sapphic frottage.
I've put your name in the hat to present.
Toot-toot! The gravy train's coming, Theresa.
And look what's written on the front.
Channel Five.
I want no part of frotting nuns on Channel Five.
- Oh? - I'm Pandora. My box is open.
- I beg your pardon? - I don't find this satisfactory.
I don't think you're pulling out the stops.
My dear Theresa, I don't wish to be ungallant,
but the stops that got you here were pulled out by you.
I will attempt to put your book in the spotlight.
But now I must speak to Paramount.
- Miramax. - Precisely. Charles.
Jamie, in my office.
Royal Television Society Awards. Dorchester seating plan.
What we need is the civilised man's totty. Where is she?
Who is the Joan Bakewell de nos jours?
- Anneka Rice? - She'll do.
Right... Move Nigel to there, her to here, those two to...
wherever.
What she's doing at that table, I've no idea. There. Bob's your auntie.
- Hm. - Do I detect a note of dissent, Jamie?
Charles, I know it's a condition of employment
that we recognise and proclaim your genius regularly,
but not even you can make Anneka Rice do what we want.
Three ingredients are essential here - camera, Anneka, blow-job.
Think about it. Only the camera has to be the real thing.
What is it about you, do you think, that makes people say,
"You are a dead ringer for Anneka Rice."
One day I just woke up, looked in the mirror... and there she was,
staring at me.
I phoned the agency the next morning.
I knew my life would never be the same.
What's the most exciting thing you've done as Anneka?
I opened a shoe shop with Dale Winton.
- Premieres, dinners. - Opening a leisure centre with Dale Winton.
So in many ways my whole life changed
when I just accepted that I was always going to be mistaken for her.
- Permission to speak? - I'm listening.
Are you sure you've got this right? We've all seen Nigel's wife - Sarah Harting.
Mary Archer without the crazy sense of fun.
If Nigel wants a shag, he probably has to get permission from two Anglican bishops.
- Your point? - Is she controllable?
- Sarah and Nigel are... connoisseurs. - I know he's a major bore.
What she really enjoys, what is the very bedrock of the Harting's union,
is Nigel's impressive collection of modern money.
- That's what shivers her timbers. - How refreshing.
I think she'll sail through it pretty well.
Hi. Mayor's office, please.
Yeah. Alison Jackman, Prentiss McCabe.
Hi. It's just a query about Mr Livingstone's choice of ideal dinner guests
for the "Sunday Times" feature.
I think we're OK with Napoleon and Dick Whittington.
It's an image thing, really. We're wondering if he had an alternative for Pol Pot.
We were thinking more Patricia Routledge.
That's the glorious thing about the Tudors.
- They're all bloody dead. - Not unique among historical figures.
Yes. But dead such a wonderfully long time ago, one can say whatever one wants.
- As long as one doesn't go to court. - Gentlemen... you're on.
(REPORTERS CLAMOUR)
Anneka? Amazing! What are you doing here? Darling.
How lovely to see you.
Look, I've got this dreadful screening to go to. We must catch up.
- Lovely. - Do give us a call.
- I didn't know we were acquainted. - Never seen the creep before in my life.
Excuse me, what are you doing?
That is my computer. It is on my desk.
Hot desking, Ali. 21st-century prophylactic against the urge to nest in the workplace.
- I'm using that. - You're not, actually.
- Bumping up the price of Penelope Keith. - You're making calls in your head.
- He doesn't know that. - Who's he?
John, are you still there? Sorry to keep you.
I've been speaking to Carlton, Granada and the Network Centre.
They're all stacked around the place like jumbos.
This is your chance, John, so improve your bid.
You should see Penny these days. We are talking serious high octane here.
Imagine Christine Hamilton on acid.
She is? That's hilarious. I can't say I'm surprised.
Persons of a nervous disposition and those offended by gratuitous obscenity,
you're working for the wrong firm.
John, I'm sorry. I'm going to have to slide you on ice. I've gotta deal with HBO.
- Where are we? - Back at the bogs at the Dorch.
- Classy. - (ECSTATIC GROANING)
Oh, that's Nigel Harting. I quite like him. He's good.
Who's blondie there? I can't tell from the back of her head.
What's she doing?
Oh.
Nigel, I think you're going to be pleased. It's all very discreet.
Just enough to tell the story. Not salacious...
- (BEEP) - Let me just get rid of whoever this is.
Marcus, you big poof!
I'm biking you over a video of unadulterated red-hot filth.
Enjoy and acknowledge delivery of "Hard-On Harting Part One".
No, but he does pull a face like Jeremy Irons being buggered with a car horn.
I just want to finalise Mr Blair's itinerary for tonight's premiere.
Odeon, Leicester Square at seven sharp.
It's "The Diary of Anne Frank Il". Yes, sort of a sequel.
- Here we are. - Yummy.
I look like a bloody corpse. It's fantastic.
There'll be flash photography, so no blinking. We don't want Matthew Kelly eyes.
Thank you, Sarah. You're being a tremendous sport about all this.
Friends know what one's like.
Christ. There's hordes of the bastards.
If only all my wronged wives would adopt such a robust attitude.
Oh, dear. Your work is hard. Poor Charles.
I blame David Mellor. He queered the pitch once and for all.
The demonstration of contrition at the gate used to be a straightforward affair.
Actually... I think I'm going to be sick.
What I want to do here is apologise...
in public...
to my wonderful wife of 15 years.
Sarah, I am more sorry than I can sensibly express
for the stupid, cruel and selfish act
that I committed with a pretty woman, much younger than myself, who cannot be named.
It would be so easy to blame the gruelling demands of filming a 12-part series
to be broadcast this autumn on BBC1...
but the fault is entirely mine.
Darling, Sarah...
mea maxima culpa.
Forgive me.
(REPORTERS CLAMOUR)
You will all of you doubtless be disappointed to hear
that I am in fact not in the least bit surprised
and, I find, hardly at all distressed
to learn that my husband has been enjoying fellatio in a public car park.
I feel sorry for him...
because this isn't the first time this has happened.
Ladies and gentlemen...
my husband is addicted to the thrill of committing sordid acts of filth
in public places.
More normally in sites of historical significance.
Fountains Abbey, the Cabinet War Rooms, St Paul's Cathedral...
- Holy Mother of God. - The Long Room at Lords, the Cenotaph.
Open "The Heritage Guide to Britain" anywhere
and the chances are my husband has shot his bolt there,
with or without the assistance of another person. Thank you.
(ALL CLAMOUR)
Thank you. You'll receive printed copies of the statements as usual.
- I did go off-piste. Was that all right? - Sarah, you were magnificent.
- A bit worried about the Cenotaph. - That was brilliant.
- You knew she was going to do that? - It's true, isn't it?
I told Charles that we twice made love in the Gladstone Room at the Oxford Union.
Twice. That's a habit.
I did slip my hand under the rug for you at Glyndebourne.
I think some sort of counselling really.
You told her to say all that atrocious shit?
Now you're getting the idea.
Why don't you pop to the cellar and find us a bottle of something expensive?
Nigel, are you familiar with your arse? Because your wife has just saved it.
Now get us a drink.
OK. Here's Theresa O'Leary's home page.
- With a picture in the bathroom? - That's the boys. We can change that.
See to it. I want a picture of me in glasses.
- So this is the bulletin board? - Yeah. Got messages already.
"What's your favourite?" That's not a good one.
"What's your favourite position?" Jesus!
- Chris... - "What's your favourite position?"
- OK. Here's a woman. Dina in Cornwall. - "What's your favourite position?"
Theresa, a thought. Your dear old mum. Can I ask you this?
All this stuff she went through - did she ever take it out on you?
- What? - Give you the odd wallop.
You want to know if she abused me?
Then a bit of over-zealous attention with the sponge at bath time to say sorry?
You're inviting me to recall sexual mistreatment by my dead mother,
none of which occurred, to enhance my prospects of finding a publisher?
Could be handy.
(CLASSICAL MUSIC PLAYS)
Marcus? Big fat whammy of a chaser, I think.
Very impressive... If you say so, Charles, you must be.
I said you must be the best.
- You want me to do what? - I want you to honour your promise,
I'm sorry, Charles, but I can't possibly not print this forgery stuff.
Not now. Nigel's just too hot. I got people calling in.
His emissions have gripped the nation.
And, guess what, it's all your fault.
And, by the way, added bonus - lovely Sarah. Thanks for her.
I've hoovered her exclusively for 20 grand,
"Why have I done all this?" I hear you ask,
Because I can, you wanker.
Yes. I'm sure it must be tremendous fun playing Mr Boasty in front of your menials.
My advice to you is this.
Get one or two of them who know how to operate a telephone to do a ring round.
- What? - I'd start with Piers.
Mm... Mm.
I couldn't agree more. But Germaine's always had a thing about her feet.
Well, exactly.
Well, about this rites of passage novel.
Mostly Dublin, yes.
Oh, God, it's jammed with suffering. The suffering's fantastic.
It's "Angela's Ashes" meets "Caged Heat".
Lesbian fumblings in the dorm, tearful singalongs in the pub, lashings of TB.
He says it sounds like a pile of crap.
Is she what?
Oh, Lord, no. She's concentrated more on the... mainstream forums -
the more accessible vehicles for the arts.
"Big Brother".
She was the one in the shower, yes.
With the? Yes.
Oh, I didn't notice that.
They all do these days by all accounts.
Why don't I get her to pop into LWT some?
Fine. Even better. Yes, I've got your mobile number.
Excellent, Melvin. I know she'll be delighted.
Bye.
I told you.
(OPERA PLAYS)
Well, this is fun. Where are you going to hide me, by the way?
- Somewhere expensive. Marcus will pay. - Oh?
I anticipate that within the hour I will close a deal for £250,000.
Marcus won't like it, but his master, Rupert, will insist.
- How do you know? - Because I have all Rupert's direct lines.
And I'm incredibly good at my job.
"Cosi Fan Tutte".
We could almost be at Glyndebourne.
The rug is on the back seat.