…find some tissues in the drawer, there.
Good evening and welcome to another packed half-hour of misery and abject desperation,
a catalogue of cynicism and emptiness,
and a whole ottoman full of vapid excuses.
-My colleague would like to add something. -Ta.
Yes. I'd just like to say a big hi to historians of the future, who may be looking at this show
as part of a higher-education course in the year 2010 entitled,
“Britain: Just What the Bloody Hell Went Wrong?”
That's probably enough wandering and talking to the camera for now.
In the words of the Emperor Hadrian, “Let's expose some light-sensitive magnetic tape,
“and let's do it now.”
-My colleague. -My colleague.
After me.
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.
Thank you. Thank you very much.
Stephen, here we are again.
Hugh, to my knowledge, you've only three times in your life spoken a truer word than that.
Stephen, of course I can remember the first two occasions, that goes without saying,
but what was the third time?
Well, you said,
that the BBC's motoring programme Top Gear had become “irritatingly facetious”.
Ah, yes. Yes, I remember it well. Paris, a crisp November morning.
You wore grey, the Germans wore bleached denim.
You said, and correct me if I'm over-sexed, you said…
You said, “Why can't they talk about cars on Top Gear,
-“instead of farting around, trying to be funny?” -“Trying to be funny.”
-Yes. -I mean, you said, “People don't road-test
“Nissan Micras on comedy programmes,
-“so, why do they…” -The latest offering from Nissan comes
in either three, or five-door hatchback form,
with a choice of the 1-litre or 1.3-litre 16-valve twin cam engine.
Although the design is, overall, quite satisfactory, there are one or two irritating little niggles.
For example, this boot lid is awkward and quite heavy to lift.
Imagine trying to heave the lifeless body
of Kenneth Baker into that on a wet Friday evening.
Elsewhere, the car is quite pleasingly designed…
Well, time now to introduce some people onto the show.
First out of the guest box is a woman who's variously been described as
a woman, a risk-taker, a deal-maker, a heart-breaker,
a gravel-raker, a baker, a faker,
three-quarters of an acre, and an iron fist in an iron glove,
with iron bits sticking out from the knuckles.
Ladies and gentlemen, please give some muted and barely polite applause for Caroline Quentin.
Although the controls are quite well laid out,
they are often quite difficult to read while driving at night,
as is A Suitable Boy, by Vikram Seth.
Caroline, it's tremendous to have you here. Have you come far?
Well, no. I was just over there.
Oh. Oh, well, that's not too bad then, 'cause you used to live in Cairo, didn't you?
-No. -No. I see.
It was a bit of a wild guess, actually.
Mind you, it would've been creepy if I'd been right, wouldn't it?
-Yes. -All right, okay.
Well, why don't you take the weight off your feet and transfer it onto your buttocks,
while I introduce a man who's variously been tipped
for the post of Minister of the Interior in the Republic of Chile
until that unfortunate business of the out-of-date
weekend-away saver daybreak ticket from Paddington to Reading.
Ladies and gentlemen, would you please move your hands repeatedly towards each other,
until they make contact, releasing energy in the form of sound, for Patrick Barlow.
Another slightly annoying problem is that the bonnet-release catch
can get a little bit stiff if it's not regularly greased,
as can A Suitable Boy, by Vikram Seth.
It's right here…
Patrick. A great pleasure to have you here.
-Well, Stephen, it's terrific to be here. -Well, there's no need to lie.
-No. No, I wasn't. I was just… -Well, there's no need to go around sneering,
-and telling snide, creepy little lies! -Well, I…
-I wasn't… -Oh, shut up!
Just shut the arse up will you?
You! Points out of 10.
Road-holding and economy, seven.
Performance and styling, five. Overall likeability, nil.
Well, time now for an amusing little item written by a colony of dragonflies
from Devon in Exeter.
You're a parent. You have children.
You want those children to become Premier League footballers.
Well, this is the place for you.
The Dave Wilson School in Ipswich, in the heart of London's East End.
Now, shake out, shake out.
The name of Dave Wilson will be familiar to anyone who knows it
and to those who followed the fortunes of Reading Town reserves
during the dark days of the 1970s.
Oh, yeah. They were dark. They were… They were very, very dark days.
I never actually thought they were dark, but now that you mention it,
they were ever so dark.
Dave played in a total of two games for the side
before a cartilage snapped in his head.
Okay, next one…
Following the accident, Dave tried his hand at many things:
astrologer, night-club owner, interior designer, shadow home secretary.
The jobs came and went, but nothing seemed to stick.
Until Dave turned up one day to watch his nephew playing for the school side.
Yeah, well, I saw a chance, you know, to get involved.
Uh, you know, football's been good to me, I…
I saw a chance to put something back into the game.
Right, now. Listen!
Okay, now. Football is a very simple game. What is it?
-A very simple game! -Right.
Now, what is the object of the game of football?
-To run into the box and fall over! -Run into the box and fall over.
Let's try that now. One at a time. Ricky, off you go.
What I'm really trying to do here is to teach fundamental footballing skills
at the earliest possible age.
I've actually started teaching my eight-month-old son.
And, I've got to say, he's a natural. Falls over like a diamond.
Okay, listen. A lot of you, as you go, are not getting your head back.
Okay?
Nice and loose in the neck. As you get into the box, a lot of height.
Goes like this, okay?
You roll and roll. Okay?
The same applies for the static fall. Right, that's when you run into the box,
you've forgotten to fall over and you're just standing there, okay.
Nice and loose in the neck, and…
Okay, then. Limping. Two lengths of the pitch. Go.
Mr Wilson, found this in the changing room. What is it?
Never you mind what that is. Right, you lot. Come here!
Makes you sick, doesn't it?
Right, listen. I'm gonna say this once, and once only, okay?
Martin has found this in the changing room. Right?
Now then, I don't want to see any of you mucking around with these things, okay?
Any one of you sees one of these, I want you to tell me or Mr Collins immediately. All right?
You want to make it to the top? It's training.
No one ever got on in football messing around with these things. Right, off you go.
This makes me sad.
Yeah. You see, people just don't realise how much training
goes into being an estate agent.
Uh… virtually none.
I don't mind growing old. It does have some disadvantages, I suppose.
I can't stoop to weed the garden so much as I used to be able to.
And nor can I bend down to take it from my husband.
No, I think that Virginia Bottomley is doing the best she can, you know.
It's just a shame it's crap.
Good morning.
I beg your pardon?
I said good morning.
At last!
-I'm sorry? -After all these years!
-What? -Welcome, comrade. Welcome!
Sit down, rest your weary elbows.
You'll take a glass of vodka? Mr Dalliard! Mr Dalliard!
Break out the false passports and the rabbit-skin hats.
We are going to Moscow!
Moscow?
What news? Comrade Stalin in rude health, I trust.
Wait, wait, wait. Wait a minute.
-All I said was good morning. -Precisely. The code.
-“The code”? -It is now 27 summers
since Comrade Melinsky stood slightly to the left of where you are now
and told me that, one day, a man would come into the shop and give notice of his allegiance
with the phrase “Good morning,”
and that, on hearing those words, Mr Dalliard and I were to detonate our relatives
and fly to Dover…
“Fly to Dover”?
…where a man named Smith would see us safely onto a goods train
delivering livestock to Minsk.
No, no, no. Wait. Wait. Wait a minute.
When I said, “Good morning,” all I meant was, you know, good morning.
Oh!
That's all I meant.
Ah. Oh, well, in that case, please accept my green felt apologies.
That's all right. I just came in here to buy a model.
-A model. A model. -Yes. Yes.
-A model? -Yes.
-A model? -Yes, that's right. I want to buy a model.
With or without plastic struts?
Um, well, I don't know. I just thought maybe a model aeroplane.
Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm.
Let me ask a different question in the same way. Who is this aeroplane for?
It's for my son. It's his birthday.
-Your son? Just your son? -Yes. Yes.
-Mmm-hmm. And when is this birthday of his? -Wednesday.
Yes. That's what I said. When is the day?
No. Wednesday.
Are you stupid or just plain deaf?
-Wednesday. -Oh! You are genuinely stupid. I do apologise.
I'm sorry, I thought you were just being deaf. Mr Dalliard, command the earth to swallow me up.
I do apologise, sir. Life must be hard enough
for stupid people, without tactless old bastards
like that lady over there rubbing it into your face with salt, widely.
Mr Dalliard, I've gone peculiar now.
So, in plain-flavoured English.
When. Is. Your.
Son's. Birthday.
The day after Tuesday.
The day after… My word, doctors are so specific these days, aren't they?
Are you expecting this boy to be a boy or a girl?
No, it's my son. He's nine. This is going to be his 10th birthday.
His 10th? Oh, sir, I feel you're spoiling him.
I was only ever allowed one,
on my birthday usually.
Still, I guess that you know your own business best.
Just don't come bleating to Mr Dalliard and me if this son of yours turns out to be one of those
drug jockeys we're always reading about on television.
Um, a glass of water?
-No, thank you. -A cup of water?
-No. -A plate of water, then?
No, thank you. I just want a model aeroplane.
-A model aeroplane of water? -No, no.
Forget the… I don't want any water. Forget the water.
I just want to buy a model aeroplane.
I thought, perhaps, the Messerschmitt 109E in the window.
-The Messerschmitt 109E in the window? -That's right.
Fizzy or still?
-What? -Ah.
That doesn't count. I had my hand on my head.
Just ignore anything I say when my hand is on my head.
Right.
-So, the Messerschmitt 109E. -Yes.
-And I suppose some glue. -Some glue?
Then your son is already a drug jockey.
Mr Dalliard and I warned you on bended legs.
But would you listen? No. Now look at you.
Hey, ho.
What's this?
A Messerschmitt 109E and a fix for that degenerate junkie son of yours.
Well, it's already done.
-So? -Well, the model's ready-assembled.
Well, you can't expect us to do all the work ourselves, sir.
The whole joy of modelling lies in carefully scraping off the paint,
soaking off the transfers, taking the plane apart, piece by piece,
putting each piece into a small polythene bag, which is then sealed and placed inside the box.
An achievement, something to be proud of.
Rare words, indeed, in these days of supersonic hedgehog brothers
and ready-sliced golf shots.
That's it. Just forget it, forget it. I'll try somewhere else.
Mr Dalliard has a gun trained on you through the curtain, sir. At a single word from me,
he will blow your head clean off
with as much mercy as if you were a helpless seal pup called Arnold.
What?
I'm so sorry we couldn't help you, sir. We do try to accommodate our customers,
but not being a hotel, we find it almost impossible.
Right. Well, all I can say is this has not been a very good morning.
“Good morning”? Mr Dalliard! Mr Dalliard!
We've been activated after all these years!
Strange man.
Ladies and gentleman, some of you may be thinking,
you know, “Hello, they've got these guests on the show,
“but the guests don't seem to do very much.”
You know, “The tall one and his slightly less tall, less-talented friend seem to have hogged it all.”
Uh, well, that's not actually…
That's not actually true, because how many people
watching now and here in the studio tonight actually noticed
that Patrick here was in that last sketch. Anybody?
Anybody notice that? Well, that's interesting because actually Patrick, in that last sketch,
played the part of my colleague, Stephen Fry.
Now, you see, Patrick, looking at that, it is absolutely amazing.
You know, it's hard to believe it's the same person.
Did you do a lot of work for the role?
Oh, I did, yeah, I mean, I basically devoured all the source material I could find.
Right, right.
I'm just thinking, in case we've got any viewers from planet Earth,
it would be quite nice if you put that into a known language.
“You devoured all the…”
Well, basically, I read everything I could find…
-You read a lot. Right. -…on Stephen and his school years,
-his biography, his novel. -You read his novel?
-Yeah. -Did you finish it?
-I didn't, actually. -No, I didn't either.
And then I started to concentrate on the walk.
Mmm.
Although, in actual fact, you were standing still all the way through that.
Uh, yes. Yes, I was. But you've got to be able to walk before you can stand.
Right, fascinating. Well, Caroline, I don't want to leave you out.
I suppose some people may be thinking now,
“Hello, I suppose Caroline played the part of Hugh Laurie.”
But that's not actually true, is it?
No, no. I played the wall behind your head.
-Right, I think you can see that now. -Yeah.
There you are. Caroline, did you have to spend a lot of time in makeup for that? Was that a…
-No, no, about 20 minutes, that's all… -Is that all?
Yeah, a couple of coats of primer and an eggshell top coat, and I was ready.
-Yeah. No coving? -We did talk about it,
but I didn't think my wall would have coving.
Yeah, right. Well…
Well, Caroline, not a very demanding role, I suppose, having to play the wall,
but here's something that people won't have noticed,
and that is that, at this actual moment, Caroline is actually playing me.
Yes, that's right. Underneath all this makeup, it's actually me, Hugh Laurie, sitting right here.
Tricks of the trade there. Anyway.
Now, on with the meaningless slaughter of migrating birds.
♫ Standing on a bus We packed shoulder to shoulder
♫ With strangers in my face I can feel it getting colder
♫ Bus doors open Nobody get out
♫ Look here, a little old woman Getting on, I start to shout
♫ Say, get up, stand up Up on your feet
♫ Make space for the lady Somebody give a seat
♫ She's just standing there aching Her whole body shaking
♫ She's starting to fall over This time she ain't faking it
♫ But what? Nobody move Don't hear a word I say
♫ So I take a deep breath This time I get my way
♫ Say, please, don't make me say it twice
♫ 'Cause I'll get you as mad as hell Let's try to be nice
♫ Be nice
♫ 'Cause I'm a good-ass mother-liker
♫ Get home to my bitch She been waiting all alone
♫ I put water in a bowl And I give her a bone
♫ Neighbours come calling Holding out a cup
♫ So I get out the sugar And I fill it right up
♫ Be nice
♫ 'Cause I'm a good-ass mother-liker ♫
No, it was the damnedest thing.
I was in this hardware store about three weeks ago,
buying a 30-gallon drum of car wax for my daughter-in-law,
when, suddenly, the door burst open
and 30 coppers came lumbering in, arrested everyone.
Turned out the place was a brothel.
Well, they've closed all the brothels around us.
All bloody bingo halls now.
If you've got a jar of marmalade in a cupboard, right?
And you take the marmalade out of the cupboard, right?
You've still got the marmalade, yeah?
It's not in the cupboard, but you've got the marmalade.
You've got to put the marmalade somewhere else, haven't you?
Of course you have, it stands to reason.
There's the cupboard, no marmalade, but you've still got the marmalade.
It's the same with sex and violence on television.
Yeah, you can take sex and violence off television, but where you gonna put 'em?
Hmm? Tell me that.
Yes, I've had two letters read out on Points Of View now.
Rather proud of that. They say that if you can get three read out,
you're automatically sectioned under the Mental Health Act.
Hello. If you're anything like me, then you probably wash your hair quite often.
And you probably use a shampoo. You're pretty tall, you're called Stephen,
and you haven't got much time for gardening.
Well, I may just have the answer for you, Stephen.
It came to me yesterday… Oh, tell a pointless, transparent lie, the day before yesterday,
when I was standing here, bent over the wash-hair basin.
Here's a thing, I thought, that we do a couple of times a week, which utilises
the very same key nutrients and minerals that any gardener will tell you are essential
for healthy plants and gums.
So, Stephen, I've come up with this new five-minute addition
to my hair grooming and facial scrub programme
Now, if you're anything like me, you'll probably like to rinse after your second wash,
and you'll have a friend called Hugh who plays with an Etch A Sketch in your airing cupboard.
Hugh, come on out and help me explain my new breakthrough in hair.
-Righto. -I was just telling the viewing several there
that after the second wash, I like to have a thorough rinse.
-No harm in that, if it's done sensibly. -My point exactly.
Now, it's at this very stage when my new development comes in.
Here, in my freshly-watered,
protein-enriched hair are the ideal conditions,
neutral-balanced pH-active liposomes and gentle cleansing agents,
for a small, but attractive, town garden.
Hugh, what have you decided to sow?
Well, I've gone for a mix of dog roses, begonias and clematis.
-No vegetables? -Well, I thought I might do one or two potatoes
just behind the crown there.
-Uh-huh. So a general utility garden? -Pretty much, yes.
All right.
Now it's time for me to put my Pifco Tressmatic onto its lowest setting
and let nature do the work.
Well, let's see how it's fared, shall we?
Oh, I think that's come out rather well.
Simple, cheap, effective.
Well done, Hugh, my “head” gardener.
That's amusing.
Of course, your own hair-garden
needn't be confined to this limited range of plants.
The sky is very much the limit.
Climbing wisterias, alpines, runner beans, you name it.
And if you have dandruff problems,
you might consider the virtues of a traditional Japanese snow garden.
If you're like me, you'll be keen to experiment,
and you'll enjoy wearing Lycra one-pieces, alone, in your bedroom.
-Stephen, what are you doing? -Hugh, I'm south-facing.
-Well, back to the airing cupboard with me. -See you next wash day.
-Bye-bye. -Bye-bye.
Between imagination and desire,
between reality and ambition,
between what is known and what is feared,
between purpose and despair, between sense and shite,
between the visible world and the inner world
that straddles the curtain between what we know and what we think we suspect,
hangs a dark veil
that waves gently between the beckoning finger,
drawing us into the world of what could be
and what never couldn't be impossible to dread.
Or do they?
Perhaps it isn't. Maybe we were only dreaming.
Perhaps the answers could be found in that other realm
that lies between the foundry of the heart
and the sweating laundry room of the imagination,
where the only rhythms are the smiles of the forgotten winter
and the incessant beating of the frightened human thigh that we call fear.
Or is it?
I'm Gelliant Gutfright, and tonight's tale must give us pause.
It is called “Flowers for Wendy,”
but might it rather have been called “You Have Been Warned”?
No, it might not.
Andrew Beckett is on his way home from work.
A nice young man is Andrew Beckett, a kind word for everyone, and everyone for a kind word,
liked by all who come into contact with him.
Another hard day's work, another quiet evening in,
perhaps a little television, a crossword,
maybe he'll finally get round to cataloguing those… Wait.
What is he thinking of? Not just another evening. After all, it's Wendy's birthday.
Dinner at Mario's, but first he should…
Strange, he's never noticed that flower-seller before,
yet he comes home this route everyday. Providential.
Good evening, Mr Beckett.
Well, that's extraordinary.
How could you possibly have known that it was evening? You aren't wearing a watch.
I know most things, Mr Beckett.
How about buying some flowers for your wife's birthday?
But this is uncanny. That's exactly what I want. How could you possibly have known?
How about some roses, Mr Beckett? All the ladies love a rose.
-Well, now, what are these? -Ah.
Don't want to bother with those, sir. They are special blooms.
-They're rather splendid. What are they called? -Ranunculus pugnans.
Ranun… what?
Commonly known as “Old Man's Wrinkles”, sir, or…
…“the Fighting Buttercup”.
I must say, the smell is very…
-It didn't get that name by accident, Mr Beckett. -What name?
Fighting Buttercup.
They say that the bouquet of this bloom can bring out all the anger in a person.
-Well, what nonsense. -That's what they say, sir.
-Superstitious hooey. -No doubt about it, sir.
-Arse clap. -As you say, sir.
Rhino bollocks.
-How much are they? -Five pounds, sir. But I must…
Oh, get out of it.
Poor Andrew, poor Wendy.
A kind thought for a birthday and a simple bunch of flowers.
But when your life is a perilous yo-yo eaten by destiny's right hand,
when fate lights the cigarette,
when chance plays the trumpet not very well,
and hazard deals the cards from the bottom of your aunt…
Oh, come on!
…then you must expect the unexpected.
-Andrew, what… -Jesus, suffering arse, this bloody door!
-I don't understand! -Don't understand?
Don't understand what, you hopeless saucer of puss?
It's a frig-mothering door and it keeps getting vomiting stuck!
That's all there is to understand! It's not differential calculus!
Andrew!
Ow!
Now look what you've done, you pointless tart. You've broken the snotting banister.
Andrew, what's wrong?
I'm gonna get a drink. Happy birthday, you saggy old bitch.
Oh, thank you.
They're lovely
and they smell…
…gorgeous.
Oh, come on, open, you scrotum-ing dribble of faeces!
That's better.
Ah, that's much better.
After all, it's only a door.
It's not the end of the world. Nothing to get annoyed about.
-What the… -Sorry.
-“Sorry”? -Yes.
Sorry I didn't hit you with a sock full of gravel, you flabby, drivelling waste of clothes.
-Wendy, darling. -“Wendy, darling”?
I'll darling your arse with a rusty lawn sprinkler.
-What… What's happened? -“Happened”?
Nothing's happened that a Swiss Army penknife can't sort out.
Now why don't you take these bottom-wipingly ugly flowers
and stick them into your lungs!
The flowers! Of course. Listen, Wendy.
I think I know what's happened, what this is all about.
You see…
And so, Wendy Beckett
sat at her husband's knees and listened to a story,
a fantastic story, a tale that danced along the crumbling brim of credibility,
yet never once lost its footing.
A tale of walking home, and pavements,
and forgettings of birthdays, and rememberings,
and wantings to buy flowerings,
and discoverings of a flower stalling just at the right momentings.
And when he had finished, Andrew Beckett took his wife's face in his lovely, young hands…
Now, Wendy, do you see? Do you understand what's happened?
-Oh, Andrew, I feel such a fool. -Well, Wendy, I think we've both been a little mad.
But what matters now is the future. It's us.
-Oh, Andy. -Oh, Wendy.
A happy ending, you may think,
loose ends tied up, the books balanced.
And yet… And yet.
What of our friend, the blind flower-seller?
Old Man's Wrinkle, madam,
or the Fighting Buttercup.
They say that the bouquet of this bloom
brings out all the anger in a person.
-Really? -And when they've done that for a bit,
they explode.
-How much? -To you, madam, nothing.
Ooh, thank you very much.
Good night,
if you can.
Well, we come now to that part of the show
where I say, “Well, we come now to that part of the show”.
Oh, get on with it.
Have you chosen your cocktail, Caroline?
Yes, I'll have A Quick One With You, Stephen, please.
A Quick One With You, Stephen, it will be. For you, Patrick?
Could I just have a glass of water, Stephen?
Oh, I'm sorry, I'm afraid the answer is, “No, you can't.” I do apologise.
You can have A Quick One With You, Stephen.
A Quick One With You, Stephen. Now you may be making this at home,
in which case, what you'll need is a measure of gin,
two measures of gin,
one of gin,
a measure of gin,
an item of clothing worn by any member of the cast of Two Point Four Children.
In this case, I'm using a pair of Gary Olsen's Fruit of the Loom Y-pants
and a measure of gin.
And now, into the cocktail shaker of my mouth,
I throw these six magnificent words,
you, please, Music, Mr, will, play.
I give a brief shake
and I pour out this golden phrase,
“Please, Mr Music, will you play?”
Soupy twist.