(DANCE MUSIC PLAYS)
I'm terribly sorry, I just have to... em... not be with you.
I'll be right back.
You rang? What did you say to her?
I said I'd be right back.
But I had my fingers crossed.
My employer wishes to speak with you.
Enjoying the club?
Ghastly, isn't it?
The music?
The music, of course, is unpardonable.
Everywhere I hear this name. My name?
The company for which you are not quite a partner.
Widely spoken of. (MUSIC STOPS)
That's impressive. We can talk.
You must be well-acquainted with the management.
I seldom acquaint myself with management at all.
He bought Annabel's? Yup.
When? Last night. He arrived at nine o'clock.
At ten, he summoned his lawyers.
At eleven, they informed the management that their client wished to buy the club.
By midnight, it was his. Bloody hellfire.
Fascinating. Martin, the real world beckons.
In half an hour we have Princess Michael
who's got a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.
She can't help that.
No, she had an altercation with traffic wardens.
Oh. (Mouths) Moreover...
I have never heard an anecdote
so deliberately protracted to conceal information.
What aren't you telling us, Jamie? Who is he?
His name's Reza, R-E-Z-A.
Reza what?
His surname you'll find difficult to pronounce.
But he's the real international deal.
Harrow, Harvard.
Thereafter intelligent guidance of the family shipping money,
conducted mostly from the deck of his yacht.
He's a real gent. And what's more - he's heard that we're the best.
We are the best, what does he want?
He wants to buy British Airways.
If the smell of rat gets any stronger, I shall vomit Niagarishly.
Jamie.
What's his name?
Bin Laden.
One minute!
He wants to buy British Airways.
He has the experience in business and he has the clout.
Above all, he has the money. He has so much money.
He's the cousin of the most execrated man on the planet.
We can finesse that. Charles? 42 seconds.
It's not like you to refuse a challenge.
But very like me not to embrace a gross imbecility on a whim.
Unless it's my own. Anything else? All we need do is change his name.
The precedent's right there. That's not Elizabeth Saxe Coburg Gothe.
That's Betty Windsor, bless her.
Actually, it's Charles Darwin. Common mistake. Probably the beard.
Please. Sort Princess Mickey out
and shoot straight down to the Savoy, just meet this guy.
He's got something about him.
Semtex, probably.
And your minute is up.
Martin...
Oh, God, very well.
We can give Sir Reza Blades Bin Bloody Liner
a quick once-over, can't we, Charles?
Thank you, Martin.
We should take Alison with us - he likes sophisticated women.
You have to concede she is a woman.
This way, please. ALISON: Ow!
She's unwell?
That's one of the euphemisms we use for her, yes.
I'm fine, it's just... There.
Safe as houses. Right, let's go and meet Mr Hussein...
Bin Laden.
Whatever.
Jesus Christ!
If Christ were a shooting man, Mr McCabe,
doubtless he would shoot Purdeys.
I'll take the pair.
But let us discuss British Airways.
Jamie I know.
You are Charles Prentiss. But who is this ravishing creature?
Oh...
Oh, I'm so sorry. Never mind, nobody was hurt.
Yes, I'm afraid we're required by law
to employ a certain number of people like her.
It's my pleasure to meet you, Alison. Er, now, Mr Bin Laden...
my work experience boy says you're interested in making a hostile bid
for the company in question.
Hostile in what respect? I'll offer substantially over the odds for it.
Please sit. Tea? Thank you, yes.
A great English class indicator.
My mother used to characterise arrivistes as rather M I F - Milk In First.
I continue to insist that my tea is served with the milk in first
as a matter of adolescent defiance.
But that does not make me an unfit person
to possess a great British institution.
MARTIN: I must ask you this, Mr, er, Mr Bin Laden...
because the shareholders certainly will,
as indeed will the public at large - why British Airways?
Lord Hanson bought the London Brick Company because he likes bricks.
So you like to fly?
Not particularly. What I like is the Britishness.
The captain's authority.
The beef-faced stewardess pretending to be a debutante.
The livery, the uniform, the salute, the glacial smile,
the comfortable discipline.
The salute?
Does the captain not salute you when you board a British Airways flight?
Not usually, no.
He salutes me.
Monica, memo. Every passenger to be saluted by the captain.
But why not something else British which isn't BA?
Marks and Sparks? They've gone right off the rails.
You could have that for sixpence and a pair of tracksuit bottoms.
The price is immaterial.
JAMIE: May we speak frankly?
People do not go to Marks and Spencer
in order to fly in safety and comfort to another continent.
In this respect, the name Bin Laden could be a... disincentive
for prospective passengers.
We need to change your name.
There, you see, you don't mind at all.
Jamie said that if I said that, there'd be some kind of explosion.
Obviously, I don't mean explosion in the sense of bombs going off.
My dear, the object of the exercise is to rehabilitate the name of my family.
You must understand that.
Osama is a bad egg.
What's worse, he's a dreadful bore. But Bin Laden is a noble house.
And I shall see its name established
in the heart and soul of Anglo-Saxon respectability.
British Airways. Precisely. But I am no fool.
I know the nation must be persuaded.
Are you equal to the task? Naturally.
Although it may take some time.
At four o'clock this afternoon
I shall interview your rivals Pottinger and Bell.
Unless, that is, I hear your detailed proposal first.
Time enough? Plenty.
Paul Getty. Yes.
Go on.
Reza Bin Laden, the discreet, publicity-spurning philanthropist,
the altruistic supporter of charity.
Didn't somebody do something anonymous that was rather remarkable?
Guide Dogs.
They got ten million from a benefactor who doesn't wish to be named.
That's right, well, that was him. That was Reza.
Was it? Ali, do try.
CHARLES: Reza was the donor.
And he doesn't want to be named.
And we can't name him because it wasn't actually him,
but we can let it be known that he jolly well was.
Yes, still...
Bloody guide dogs, though.
What about Andrew Lloyd Webber?
I don't think I'd be drawn to a bloke who stumped up ten million quid
for the propagation of Andrew Lloyd Weber.
You remember.
He bought that big Cannelloni for the nation... Canaletto.
(SNIGGERS) What IS the matter with you?
All you ever do is pick and sneer.
All you had to do this morning was flap your hooters at a client.
Children, children.
Perfect. Reza buys the Cannelloni.
Hans Holbein's Ambassadors.
The National Gallery's most admired possession.
I like it.
Naturally I should like to buy the original.
Well, you can't.
It is our understanding that within a year
this great national treasure will only be available to view
by visiting the downstairs lavatory of a certain Japanese collector.
If that were allowed to happen, it would be an outrage.
Wouldn't it? Luckily, there is one man
to whom an anxious art-Ioving nation can turn in this emergency.
Well... I am honoured to be of service.
The Japanese is rumoured to be offering £30 million.
I offer 31.
Then I think I can confidently state that the painting will be yours.
A small ceremony, I think, don't you, Martin,
marking the return of the picture to its rightful owners?
Small ceremony, in impeccable taste.
Or a great big blowsy one with Hello! And footballers.
CHARLES: Why not both?
The National trousers the cheque and opens a new wing.
The Bin Laden Wing.
Why not?
One thing. The Japanese are not beloved of the Brits,
but they don't seem quite adequate as objects of resentment and vilification.
Did you say Japanese?
I meant French.
Hmm.
Monica. Call Mssrs. Pottinger and Bell.
Beg to advise them that Mr Bin Laden has representation in this country,
and so their attendance this afternoon is not required.
Insouciance. That's the word.
That, I think, is what one aspires to. The ability to say,
"I offer 31," like that, shrugging,
and people in the room not thinking, "What a wanker,"
because they know you've got the money
and they know you really, really don't care.
It is style, Charles, it is elan.
It is the fee. It is the fee. Christ!
Pull this off and one could live in the country like a gentleman
and fret about one's vegetables.
Fretting about one's vegetables is rather what we do now.
Yes, God, yes, Jamie, stupid boy.
His behaviour is becoming very resistible. Shall I have a word?
You have matron's touch.
I shall always remember it.
Listen, Charles.
We bagged the client and that's money in the bank and that's dandy.
But Bin Laden, Charles?!
A sackful of bloody Holbeins won't swing that.
No. It needs an interview.
Something soft.
Something soft with the appearance of something hard.
Are you thinking what I'm thinking?
That, Martin, would be my worst nightmare.
We have favours up our sleeves and favours up our sleeves
but we have ONE favour up our sleeve.
Oh, that particular favour is so far up our sleeve
that it'll never come down.
Oh, I think it'll come down all right.
I've seen the agricultural photographs
featuring the individual in question. So's he.
They are not to be forgotten.
Blackmail? A mutually beneficial amnesia.
I endeavour to forget what I saw.
He contrives to forget how to do his job.
Reza runs the gauntlet
of the toughest interrogation on television and emerges unscathed.
Let's do it.
Not happy about this, McCabe.
Well, I don't suppose the beater was delighted.
Must've been quite a shock.
But my memory of the image is rapidly fading.
In just five minutes, it will be... poof! Completely gone.
Hmm. As with you.
It was disclosed today that the National Gallery
may have been involved in secret negotiations
with an unnamed French businessman to buy one of the gallery's
most valuable assets - Holbein's The Ambassadors.
The spokesman declined...
Looking good, Reza.
...confirmed that the Gallery had received a donation of £31 million
from "a continental philanthropist." His name is Reza Bin Laden.
He is indeed related to Osama - he's his cousin - and he joins me now.
Mr Bin Laden, what the hell's going on?
£31 million is an astonishing amount of money to be chucking about.
Is it?!
BOTH: Yes, it is.
I suppose it is. Well, Mr Crossman...
Jonathan. ...Jonathan.
I heard the rumour, like everyone else, that this awful Frog...
You can't say "awful Frog"! Yes, you can.
He's loving it.
Try perfidious Frenchman.
...perfidious Frenchman, if you will,
was manoeuvring to buy this fabulous painting, and I thought it's not on.
I contacted the Gallery, who were unable to give me a straight answer.
So I said, if there were a "perfidious F"
trying to buy this painting, how much might he be offering?
"£30 million." I said, "If I give you a cheque for 31,
"could Franz Holbein remain here in peace?"
Hans! Franz?!
Hans. The Ambassadors is umbilically linked to Britain, Jonathan.
It belongs to the British people, it simply can't be bought and sold...
Where's your cousin?! Heard from him lately?
He's stopped breathing. Have a care, Jonathan.
Presumably you're in touch with him? Constantly!
CHARLES: Say it. Trust me.
Constantly. He speaks very highly of you.
Do you have a view on this conflict in which we are engaged with Osama?
The people of this country may be interested to know
what kind of a man has been defending their heritage for them.
Relax and follow me - the tradition of...
Britain has heart... He's unplugged us. Fuck!
It is a great titan. By comparison, Al Qaeda is a crippled dwarf.
We don't like cripple. Nor dwarf, but he's said them.
The answer to the question you seem reluctant to ask is this -
if I went home and found cousin Osama there,
I would embrace him as a member of my blood family.
And then I would deliver him straight to the authorities,
for he has betrayed that family and brought ignominy to its name.
Oh, that's very pretty. Spoken like a true Brit.
Quick, Jonathan, before I get my memory back.
Well, I applaud your palpable sincerity in this... scenario.
Which brings us tidily round to you-know-what.
May I ask you one other question?
There's conjecture on the Internet about the future of British Airways.
Are you prepared to comment?
Yes. There is just a few things I'd like to say about this.
Bin Laden. B-l-N...
Gone. This is silly.
I don't know why we're getting so stressy
about fixing Reza up with an English girlfriend.
He could walk into any party in London and come out streaming women,
them stuck all over him like sucker fish.
A vivid image.
He has charm.
Of course he does, he's gay. He is not gay.
Punt-wise, Reza definitely poles from the Cambridge end.
That is such rubbish!
Reza Bin Laden has enough sex appeal to choke a horse.
Great strap-line for the campaign. They're right.
Reza needs a helping of white sugar to make him palatable.
And as much as you might wish to be that little spoonful, Ali,
you're just not sweet enough.
Alison. Would you mind awfully making me a cup of tea?
Did I ever tell you about Joanna Lumley?
Most unfortunate thing.
Oh, God, it's not true. What Jamie said.
Er... What did Jamie say? That she's got a wooden leg.
Well, it's not actually wooden, it's made of some ghastly bendy stuff.
No.
It was a stunt on The Avengers, with a wheelbarrow. It got hushed up.
No, Ali, that isn't true.
But it is to do with Jamie.
And it was hushed up.
Yes, it's true. Reza is now one of ours.
What's more, he's got the horn for British Airways.
The horn! Well, ask one of the palace servants.
Sorry, Patrick, got to go, the embuggerance factor is high today.
Oh, it's too early in the morning to deal with Clarence House.
So, young Nicholas... Blackmore.
Oh, God, he's awful!
"Lionel Blackmore, television presenter" -
the four most depressing words in the English language.
He's been calling all morning. God!
Shouldn't he be in prison by now for inciting racial hatred?
What does he want, apart from the Fourth Reich?
He wants to open the Motor Show.
"He used to do it every year!
"Why's it always Jeremy Clarkson? What's he got that I haven't?
"What are you lot doing about it?" And what are we doing about it?
I've booked him to open a Shopping Centre in Shepherds Bush.
Well, it's too good for him, of course, but then again so is everything else...
(TELEPHONE RINGS) Yes?
Charles, a couple of gentlemen to see you.
Joanna Lumley.
Apparently, the Pope's going to beatify her.
I know what you did. Keep that under what?
I know why she isn't a client.
How are you, Charles?
I'm glorious, how are you?
Let me rephrase that - who are you?
Well, yes, my goodness, it has been a while.
Gerald Thurnham. This is my secretary, Davis.
He, I think, would have been in the shortest of trousers
when you and I had our conversation.
It's quite possible you don't remember my name.
That's because I was never told it.
No, well, probably wouldn't have been.
Not the form to go giving out names to undergraduates, you understand.
You made it perfectly clear that the Foreign Office could flourish without me.
Yes, and aren't you glad?
Look how well you've done in your profession. Jolly well.
Do you speak?
I tend not to. I'm rather dull.
So what can I do for you, gentlemen?
This chap - Reza. He really is the most frightful, pushy wog, don't you think?
Go on.
For ten years now, Charles has been in a stinking bait.
The words "Joanna" and "Lumley" can not be uttered in his presence.
Let's revisit why that is.
Well, there was a bit of an upset.
Ab Fab was up and running and Joanna's star was reborn and rising,
and she wanted to come with us.
The perfect client - actually wanted to come with us.
And you were sent to get her a cab. Yeah. I went to see her in a cab.
But she never arrived. No, she changed her mind.
Because you told her not to come. Didn't you?
Because you liked her and you wanted to protect her.
You told her in the cab, "Yours is a natural talent, Jo, people love you.
"PR can offer you nothing.
"All Prentiss McCabe would do is rip out your soul."
She got out of the car. That's ridiculous!
But so impressed was Jo with your honesty, she rang Martin,
told him all about it.
Martin did not tell Charles, because if he had, he would have torn you to pieces.
Still would, right now.
IF he knew.
Your terms? Um...
Can you read my writing?
It may not be too misleading to draw an analogy with Mohammed Fayed.
What Mohammed wants, Mohammed cannot have.
He can have a great deal else, but he cannot have citizenship of this country.
On what grounds?
We don't like him.
Not one little bit.
Now perhaps it should be explained to Mr Bin Laden that his prospects
in acquiring British Airways are not dissimilar
to Mohammed's getting a passport.
And what could possibly persuade me
to undermine the ambitions of my own client?
Another client, Charles - us.
I can't say that our disbursements would rival Mr Bin Laden's
in their extravagance,
but we would be a reliable source of further employment for the future.
We're a big firm.
So you see, Charles, you end up serving your country after all.
I'll tell you what.
Why don't you both fuck off?
Oh, dear Charles. That's not a sensible decision.
Yeah, well, I don't set much store by sensible.
That's a decision that's made me, um... Oh, what's the word? Um...
Rich.
Well...
Good luck with the BA shareholders.
Who are that shower nobody's quite aware of who actually own 30%?
General Holdings. Never heard of them.
Who are they really? Us.
That's right. They're us.
Well, good luck with the rest.
We have a strict rule in this office
that nobody is allowed to make threats, naked or veiled, except me.
Goodbye.
Nick. I want you to get a message to Martin.
And it gives me great pleasure,
on this fine, English, autumn afternoon...
(LAUGHTER) We don't mind a bit of rain, do we?
We were brought up to put up with it. Excuse me...
If you are going to cause a disturbance, I shall have to ask the police to move you on.
For the rest of us -
those who understand the concept of rain in this country...
CROWD: Come on!
Oh, yes, that's right. Let's turn the opening of a supermarket
into a rally for the Nation of Islam!
MAN: Get him out!
(SHOUTING AND JEERING)
Incredible. From "Good afternoon" to full-scale riot in six seconds flat.
Lionel Blackmore could start a punch-up in a room full of nuns.
Come on.
Bloody big dipper, this one, Charles. It'll be fine.
What is the meaning of this?
Don't speak. Lionel Blackmore has been appointed to the BA board.
Yes, we put him there.
I thought you had control of these... What?!
We put him there. Why?
The man's an infamous racist. He's a ranter!
Yes. He's somewhere on the road to cross-burning
and pointy hats, I grant you.
But don't you see, Reza?
The Holbein was the overture, Crossman the aria,
and now Blackmore is the grand, thundering finale.
We've arranged for him to appear on breakfast television.
You have...
Blackmore will be clinically unable to resist
making some appalling racist slur against you.
Against your family.
Which you will ignore, with the massive dignity at your disposal.
But we will ensure that the media do not. His outburst will cause a storm.
As a result, it will be impossible for any executive or shareholder
to oppose your bid on any grounds which might just smack of racial mistrust.
And British Airways will sail into your lap.
Why are you sweating?
I'm excited.
I don't care for this, gentlemen. Nobody cares for it.
But it will work.
...the appointment of outspoken media critic Lionel Blackmore
to the board of British Airways. He's with me now.
Mr Blackmore, presumably, you are violently opposed to Mr Bin Laden
because of who he is and what he is.
If you're suggesting I'm prejudiced against Mr Bin Laden personally,
then you're wrong.
I do hope not.
But he's Osama's cousin.
Well, that's a cross he must bear, and the people of this country
must make up their minds whether or not they can trust him.
But if you're saying,
"Am I prejudiced against him because he's not British?"
The answer's yes.
Oh, come on, Lionel. Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of doings!
I'm saying the company's not called 'Al-Qaeda Airways', is it?
And that's what it'll be.
We have lift-off!
I mean, can you imagine what it's like 30,000 feet up,
heading towards America, and it's time to bow down to Mecca?
Does the pilot turn the plane around to face the east,
so we can say our prayers?
In-flight Koran and your hands chopped off
if you ask for a bit of gin with your tonic?
And if you wink at a stewardess, does your knob get sliced off?
But... No, no, no!
You may laugh, but that's what you'll get
if British Airways falls into the hands of this bloody murdering rag-headed darky.
Whoa! Whoa!
And there we will leave it! Thank you very much.
We'll take a break. ("THIS MORNING" THEME PLAYS)
Thank you. That's all we needed - the man, his race, his faith - full house.
Our client is now vaccinated against all known political criticism.
Not even "General Arse Holdings" can block him now.
Further future gainful employment for Blackmore?
Parkinson or Ross? Take your pick.
Both... Alison.
Oh, just keeping tabs on the rolling news.
I'm sure it's all the better for your scrutiny.
There's Reza now, shaking hands with Richard Branson.
Turn it up.
MAN: Can you tell me what happened to your love affair with British Airways?
For God's sake!
I will say only this.
Now that my interests in this country are being properly represented
by Mr Bell and Mr Pottinger, I was able to discover in advance
of the government's intention to renationalise British Airways.
Do what?!
I'm delighted to be able to say
that I have concluded the details of a deal with Mr Branson...
Did you know about this?! No.
Pottinger and bloody Tinker?!
None of it surprises me, though.
Come off it, Charles! What about BA re-bloody-nationalised?! You didn't...
That's the bit I particularly like. Don't you see?
WE made that happen.
The government came to us a-wooing, we told them to sling their hook,
and what did they do by way of a next move, to foil us?
They renationalised a major industry, just to render it unsaleable.
We made them do something they really didn't want to do.
That is power.
If you need me, I shall be in my office, drinking incontinently.
JAMIE: Charles... A moment of your time, please.
(SNORES)
(KNOCK ON DOOR)
Sorry, Martin. Could you come through?
You really do want to come through.
(SIGHS)
What's going on? Are you two about to announce your engagement?
Jamie is about to read out a statement prepared by me.
The grammar's appalling.
If he implies, through his inflection and ironic detachment from the material...
All right, all right! Please sit down.
Any popcorn?
Please refrain from comment until the statement is concluded. Thank you.
"Ladies and gentlemen.
"I wish to put on record,
"before my colleagues and superiors, three facts about myself.
"One - I, Jamie, think I'm God's gift to women,
"and, quite frankly, I'm just not.
"Two - I have routinely appropriated other people's ideas as my own,
"especially the one about old people that Alison did
"and I got all the credit for, which was totally unfair..."
Crikey! Shh.
"Three - I have been horrid to people,
"especially to Alison,
"and I apologise to them and to her unreservedly.
"I shall henceforth strive to be 'nicer'..."
Stop!
You said that in inverted commas. Say it again, please.
"I shall henceforth strive to be nicer to my colleagues
"and never to make sexist comments about their breasts.
"I will now demonstrate that,
as I make this promise, my fingers are not crossed."
MARTIN: Bravo, Jamie.
Poor old Reza.
CHARLES: Why? He's got Branson.
Poor bastard. Of course, the really stylish thing to do...
would be to unpick the nationalisation,
seduce Bin Laden back from Pottinger and Bell,
and get him British Airways after all.
It's Liaisons Dangereuses every night of the week with you, isn't it?
You love it. I tolerate it.
Let's face it, Martin. If I didn't exist,
you'd pay someone to have me invented.
Up your bum, Prentiss!