Between desire and reality.
A bit.
Between fact and breakfast,
madness, lies, lies, lies…
A bit.
I hate you, I hate you and yet…
I hate you…
As love, rage and aches of the ear.
Pretension by Fry and Laurie.
Strangest thing, really, isn't it? Tony's off to lunch again.
I swear that man gets earlier and earlier every time.
He's gonna meet himself having breakfast one day.
You all right, old fellow?
Oh, I'm… Yes, yes, sorry, I'm just…
No, come on, come on. Whatever it is, out with it. It can't be that bad.
I… I just can't help feeling that,
you know, my life is grey and hopeless.
Grey and hopeless? Grey and hopeless? Whatever do you mean?
Well, you know, I look into the future, and what do I see?
I don't know. What do you see?
Just the blank rolling of the years, one after another, like…
Like grey, hopeless waves beating against my brain
until the blood runs out of my ears.
Oh, come on now.
Look at you, you've got a lovely wife. Well, you've got a wife.
You've got a very pleasant house, three loving goldfish…
Oh, I know, I know. But… Well, I mean, what does it mean?
You know, we live in a doomed world.
Oh, nonsense, what do you mean, “doomed”?
Nobody likes anybody any more. Nobody cares about anybody or anything.
People go around hitting and stealing and stabbing and insulting.
Cities are unbreathable, the countryside's a poisonous mess.
You can get beaten up by a 12-year-old, and ripped off by your neighbour.
Well, I grant you, things aren't perfect, but I mean…
There are no certainties any more, it's just battle lines.
There's no pleasure in anything, except in getting drunk,
or high on dangerous drugs supplied by maniacs with machine guns.
Well, it's a grim old world, all right, but surely it's always been like…
I mean, films and music are crap, books are crap.
Streets are so full, you can't walk in a town without getting pushed off the pavement.
Roads are unusable, trains are a bloody joke.
The politicians are so feeble-minded and gutless, you can't even hate them.
Even sport isn't that much fun any more, is it?
You smile at someone in the street, you're either knifed in the kidneys,
or up in court for rape.
Looking at a newspaper is like opening a fold of used lavatory paper.
You turn on the television, you're sprayed in coloured vomit.
It's frigging useless, isn't it?
We're done for.
We're shagged. We're absolutely shagged.
It's grey and hopeless.
No pleasure, no prospect, no future, nothing.
Just grey, hopeless hell.
-Jesus. -Oh, Christ Jesus.
We're dead, we're dead, we're dead, we're dead.
Well, first of all, my colleague and I would like to welcome you to a brand-spanking-new series
of A Bit of Fry and Laurie,
the show that tries to put a bit of jolliness back into the darker corners of modern Britain,
-but doesn't. -Mmm.
Yes, I'd…
I'd like to add my own individual welcome, on a more personal note,
separate and distinct from my colleague's joint welcome,
which I always think is a bit stiff, bit formal.
Uh, you know, my welcome's really just a bit of an old “Hi.”
Sort of, just… Just, “Hi.”
Jesus.
So, the choice of welcomes on BBC television,
it's either, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” or it's…
Hi.
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Oh, you're very kind.
How very sweet. Thank you so much.
Thank you. Thank you.
Well, now my colleague and I would like to introduce some guests
onto the A Bit of Fry and Laurie programme.
That's right. They're going to be popping in and out over the next half-an-hour or so,
fetching, carrying, handing round bowls of nuts and raisins during the quiet portions.
And the first of those guests is, well, will you please welcome,
cook, father of nine, cook and amateur chef,
yes, it's John Bird.
-John, welcome. -Thank you, great to be here.
It is, isn't it? We were just saying that.
-So much better than being over there. -Yeah.
John, tell the ladies and gentlemen what you've been up to for the past 30 years,
and what plans you've come up with for the restructuring of modern Britain.
-Well… -You're a Sagittarian, is that right?
-Yes. -Mmm-hmm. And your favourite colour is?
Aquamarine with a streak of mottled purple where it joins the edge.
They like you already, John. I can tell.
I know this crowd. They're a crazy crowd, and they like you. Hugh.
Well, our next, last and final guest, last, next and final guest,
is the chef, writer, author, chef, cook and amateur professional,
yes, it's Jane Booker.
-No, it isn't. -It is.
Jane, hello.
Jane, you worked, um…
You worked with Norman Lamont. What was he like as a man, as a human being?
Well, I remember once driving back from Bristol…
Bristol. That's an absolutely marvellous story, and that's…
-That story is now available on CD, am I right? -Yes.
Now, one of the things we hope to be doing on this series of A Bit of Fry and Laurie
is to be building up a collection of guest movements.
And to that end, I've asked Jane, here, and John
if they would come along with some movements for us.
John, can we have your movement first?
-What a lovely movement. -A great way to start our collection. Yeah.
Jane, can we have your movement now, please?
Two fabulous movements.
Now, perhaps, John, you wouldn't mind taking the Twiglets up that side.
And, Jane, can you dish out the condoms up that side?
I think these guests have been really a great success.
-We have been very lucky. -Very lucky.
Well, we have one final guest for you to meet,
who hopefully is going to be with us throughout the show,
and his name is Dodger.
Oh, bless him.
Dodger is half-retriever, half-retriever,
and he's going to be,
well, hopefully, growing up with us as the show goes on.
That's right. Well, I think that's more than enough introducing
to satisfy even the most introduction-hungry viewer.
So, meantime, it's on with the ruthless subversion of family values.
Tonight's theme is “Themes:
“what good are they?”
No, I don't think they're any good at all.
Useless. I sold all mine years ago.
Themes? Well, themes are what you make of them, you know.
I mean, a good theme, like, say,
“Sex between people of vastly differing heights: can Britain take it?”
can be a wonderful thing, in the right hands, of course.
Uh…
Yeah, sex is a good theme. Yeah.
Sex is thematically strong.
Makes me want to throw up, makes me want to keck,
makes me want to vomit. “Hearts of gold.” Arse of gold, more like.
I don't pay my licence fee every year.
But if I did…
It was the strangest thing, you know. I dreamt the other night
that I was in bed with Andrew Neil.
And, you know, I woke up, and I was thinking,
“Why Andrew Neil?” you know.
And then I realised that the cat had been sick on the duvet.
So…
People are often mistaking me for Luther Vandross.
Oh, my God. What's happened, Leonard?
I am bloody furious, Jennifer, I tell you.
Oh, the blood! What's happened?
What's happened? Well, I've killed your parents. Basically, that's what's happened.
-What? -Stabbed them both to death.
-What? -I could not be more furious.
-Stabbed, but why? -Exactly. Why?
It was so unnecessary. That's why I'm so bloody annoyed.
What?
Well, you know, your father was being a bit ratty, complained that the tonic water was flat,
and all of a sudden, there I was, stabbing him in the neck with a knife.
I mean, what is going on here?
God, you killed him!
Yeah, all right. Don't go on about it. How do you think I feel?
I don't know, Leonard.
Bloody annoyed, that's how.
-Annoyed? -Well, somebody should have stopped this.
I had to go out.
No, no, no, I'm not blaming you, darling.
But somebody should have seen that this was a tragedy waiting to happen
and done something about it. I really am livid.
Oh, God, and Mummy, too!
Yeah, well, she got in the way, tried to defend him, so…
There she was, lying dead, another victim of bureaucratic inefficiency.
I mean, it just won't do.
Have you called the police?
No, no, I thought I'd write, actually. I thought that would carry more weight.
I mean, have you told them what you've done?
-What I've done? -Yes!
What I've done? Oh, that's nice. That's charming, isn't it?
I stab your parents to death with a bread knife, and all of a sudden it's my fault.
Leonard, darling, I mean, you did it. You said so yourself.
No. No, no, no, no, my hand did it, Jennifer, my hand and the knife did it, yes.
But what is making my hand do these things, hmm?
That's what you should be asking yourself.
Well, you.
No! No, no, no, no, absolutely not. It's the system.
I loved your parents, Jennifer. You know that.
You father could be a bit gassy at times, but they were lovely people.
And now they're dead, all because the system failed again.
You're right. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have gone out shopping.
Well, that was my first reaction, I must admit. Bloody Jennifer.
God, she's left me in a right pickle here. But it's not you, darling.
You know, there are people paid to make sure this kind of thing doesn't happen,
and those people simply didn't do their job.
Yes, but if I had been here, I could…
Yeah, but you weren't, my angel. You weren't.
You know, the system failed you, just like it failed me.
Oh, God. What are we going to do now?
Well, I've got a bloody good mind to kill you, to be honest.
Yeah, well, that would teach the social services a lesson, wouldn't it?
I'd like to see them talk their way out of three dead bodies.
-Well, I'd rather you didn't. -Well, I'd rather I didn't,
Jennifer, but what about my hand? What is making my hand do these things, hmm?
-The system. -The system, exactly.
You know, these people with their cosy little offices,
and their fat bloody salaries, sitting there
while your parents, Jennifer,
you know, good people, kind people, are being slaughtered.
I mean, what is this country coming to?
-Mr Hammond? -Yes.
Derek Broom, social services.
Oh, well, hurrah for the bloody cavalry. I hope you're satisfied.
-I'm sorry. -Leonard's killed my parents.
He's stabbed them with a knife.
Oh, damn.
Yes, well, quite funny, but only quite.
Oh, thanks very much.
But what can you do about it? Well, until recently, nothing.
But, ladies, and, in a broader sense, gentlemen,
my colleague and I, concerned as ever with providing a higher and higher comic service
here at A Bit of Fry and Laurie have decided to institute a charter.
The charter, or “charter,”
that we're proposing contains a raft of key points,
and a key basket of top proposals to ensure that you, the viewer…
-The man on the Clapham omnibus, if you like. -Yes.
Yes, well, the man who would've been on the Clapham omnibus,
but discovered, after waiting for two hours, that it's been cancelled
and replaced by a bright yellow Transit van
called a Shopper Hopper flopper…
that only runs at peak times…
Whatever the bleeding hell they are.
…to ensure that you have the right,
the muscle, the arse-widening power, to make a difference.
Now, there are two main prongs.
By which we mean two main sticky-out bits at the end.
-There is delivery. -And there is quality.
Any joke which fails to come up to the standard that you'd expect
from A Bit of Fry and Laurie
can be reported to the charter commission,
where it will be inspected by a key team of top experts,
who will then pass it on to a top team of key experts.
And they will award, in a very grown-up way, charter marks.
And if the joke and your complaint about it is upheld,
then that joke will be humanely destroyed.
Which brings us to our other sticky-out bit, delivery.
Prong two: delivery.
In a modern society, jokes must be delivered on time.
If you experience any delivery where the timing is too…
Slow?
-Or if the timing should be… -Quick.
Or if the joke never even…
Then the commission will be only too happy to look into it.
-The comedy charter, peace of mind. -Audience power.
Your guarantee of satisfaction and delivery.
Without dripping.
Oh, now, how did that poem go? Um…
“They bring you up, your mum and dad”
“Crate, a normal nighman Hane a freethy stipe
“You veen where musse is Simon Critch Botty trees a wipe”
I first wrote the poem, from which that verse was an extract,
when my grandfather was murdered.
I wrote it again in 1978,
after hearing of the death of rock music.
I'd like, with your kind indulgence, to write it once more.
Thank you.
We see things, we hear things,
we touch things, we taste things.
But never forget that we also smell.
John, my spies tell me…
I should point out here that when I say spies, of course,
I don't mean spies in the sense of people with hidden cameras or false bottoms.
I'm talking about spies in the sense of people who tell me things.
My spies, in that sense, tell me that in your spare time,
you are Vice Professor of Smell at De Montfort University.
Reserve your seat of learning now.
John, do you think we've forgotten smell?
Do I think we've forgotten smell?
I think we neglect smell.
I think that smell is the one sense that got left behind
in the mad rush for profit and cheap housing.
-Can you give me any examples? -Of what?
Well, um, examples of the things you say… When I say that, I stress the word “you.”
The things you say that we're missing out on.
Yes, and have a go at this and tell me what you think.
Oh, God, what is that?
That's revolting. What is it?
Now, that is Michael Portillo getting out of a Rover 200
after quite a long journey.
How on earth did you get hold of that?
Everybody asks me that.
-Let's try this one. -Oh, that.
Oh, actually, I know this.
-Well, you ought to. -Oh, ah, what is it?
Well, you… You have a guess.
-Ah… No, no, tell me. -Go on, go on. Go on.
Is… Ah! Is it, um… Is it the lavatories at Earl's Court during the Royal Tournament?
No, but I can see the way your mind's working. No.
In fact, that's your right knee.
Is it?
Good Lord, so it is.
-There you are, you see? -And you say, you say
that a lot of people are missing out on this.
I say that. I say that. And I think that's a shame.
So do I, and so does Dodger.
Dodger's grown up a little now, as you can see.
He's had his jabs and he's become very much a friend
of all the staff here at A Bit of Fry and Laurie.
Gordon.
♫ When the poor keep getting hungrier
♫ And the rich keep getting fat
♫ Politicians change but they're never gonna change that
♫ But you and me girl
♫ We got the answer right in our hands
♫ All we got to do is
♫ When the winds of war are blowing
♫ And the tide is coming in
♫ Don't you be hoping for the good times
♫ Because the good times have already been
♫ But girl we got the answer
♫ So easy you won't believe
♫ All we got to do is
♫ It's so easy to see
♫ If only they'd listen to you and me
♫ We got to
♫ Since we can
♫ We got to
♫ Woman every man
♫ We got to
♫ Time after time
♫ We got to
♫ Caroline ♫
Can't find that channel changer? Where did I put it last?
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As an introductory offer to the Wristchanger,
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It's over. It's all over, just end it.
The whole bloody thing's gone and finished with.
Let's face it, the world will be a better place without me.
Oh, I wish I'd never been born.
Oh, Jesus.
Don't do it, son.
Oh, my.
Who, what, which, where, how many? Did I ever? What?
There, there, take it easy.
I should be dead. How the hell did I…
-Who are you? -Me? Oh, Clarence Cosy, angel, second class.
-You are Rupert. -How did you know that?
Well, I've granted your wish.
You've never been born.
Jigs, that's all I need.
-Well, shag me twice. -What's that?
Water must have healed my cut.
What cut? There was never any cut, because you were never born.
Look, angel, just fly away for Christ's sake, will you?
Oh, I can't do that. I haven't got my wings yet.
I'm getting out of here.
Oh, jigs. That's all I need. Some cock-wit's stolen my sodding car.
You don't have a car, Rupert. You haven't been born.
Look, I don't know who you are, or under what law you've been released into the community,
but just frig off, will you?
Angels don't frig, Rupert. We don't have the training.
Listen, Tiny Tim, get this. I own the largest conglomerate
of newspaper and satellite television companies in the world.
I've got slightly better things to be doing than standing here talking to a chocolate cake like you.
Don't you understand, Rupert? I'm your guardian angel.
I'm gonna show you what this town would've been like if you'd never been born.
That way you'll realise your life is worth living after all,
the countless differences you've made to people's lives, the joy you've spread.
I'm going home. Where's a bloody minicab?
-Where to, Governor? -Wapping. Wait a second.
See the difference you've made?
Wait a second. Where the arse are all the satellite dishes?
-There aren't any satellite dishes. -What do you mean?
I keep telling you, you haven't been born yet.
Mind how you go, gents.
Thank you.
People don't have satellite TV.
They don't have the chance to watch World Wrestling and Wheel of Fortune
and Video Bloopers 24 hours a day.
They're still forced to watch the old BBC and ITV,
with all that drama and sports and news programmes.
-You did away with all that. -I did?
Mmm-hmm, swept it all away.
You pretended it was to give people more choice,
but actually it was just to make you fabulously rich.
Come on, let's go inside.
Whoa, wait a minute. Not my kind of place.
Well, why not?
Well, you know, a lot of minorities.
Don't you like minorities?
Well, I don't mind them but, you know, they're not gonna like me very much.
No, no, no, I keep telling you, because you haven't been born,
the newspapers you would have owned haven't been able to teach everybody
to sneer at their neighbours because they're foreign or different or left-wing.
People have ended up liking each other, and liking this country.
Heck, they might even like you.
Now, two very nice drinks, please.
Jesus, mothering arse. Where the hell are all the tits?
They're right in front of women's chests.
I guess the editor didn't think that was much of a news story.
-Gotta have tits to sell a paper. -Well, apparently not.
Without your newspapers debasing people's view of the world
with every sentence they produce,
people have turned out to be interested in all kinds of other things.
Strange, isn't it?
-Here, I'll get these. -Thank you.
Well, suck my arse. Who the hell is that?
That's the Queen. They still have one, you see.
♫ Silent night
♫ Holy night ♫
Get me the cock out of here.
-Well? -It's brilliant. Totally bloody brilliant.
Big red buses, free hospitals, an amusing royal family,
proper taxis, decent newspapers, best television in the world,
people actually getting on with each other.
-You like it? You really like it? -It's fantastic, it's paradise.
Oh, help me, Clarence. I wanna live again.
Well, this is marvellous news, Rupert.
Just think of the money I could make in a world like this.
I could introduce big tits, break up the broadcasting monopolies,
destroy The Times, the BBC, the royal family.
I could make an absolute bloody fortune.
Twat.
Well, once more, old Father Time has raised his sickle,
and mown us ruthlessly down without stopping.
We've come now to the end of this edition of A Bit of Fry and Laurie.
My colleague, thoughts, views, visions, a summary, if you please.
-Well, Stephen, it's been a… -Oh, no, no, no. Not out loud.
-Right. I'm so very… -I know.
I know, I know.
My guests, have you… Have you chosen tonight's cocktail? What's it to be?
-Oh, a golden meteorite, I think, Stephen. -Yes, please. A golden meteorite.
A golden meteorite.
Well, now, for a golden meteorite you will need
one shot gin, one shot vodka,
one shot of this highball tumbler, close up,
one shot of straight Kentucky sour mash sipping whisky,
a zeal of ice,
a priest of lemon, a slug of milk,
two-and-a-half litres of air,
and a finger of slug shot.
We will also need some warm, warm, warm, warm, warm, warmest music,
which is achieved by my saying these words,
please, Mr Music, will you play?
Soupy twist.