Hello, I'm Oprah Winfrey, and I'd like you to meet someone.
Please say hello to Luella de la Tweeb.
Hi.
Tell us about yourself.
Well, my name is Luella. I'm 37 years of age.
I'm beautiful, I'm intelligent, I'm glamorous, I'm attractive,
I'm warm, I'm sensitive, I'm caring,
I'm rich, I'm sexy.
I'm incredibly talented.
So, what exactly is your problem, Luella?
I suffer from low self-esteem.
Mmm.
That's an absolute bugger, isn't it?
And how does that manifest itself?
Well, I used to love myself, I used to think that I was great.
Oh, don't tell me you stopped thinking you were great, that would be heart-breaking.
Well, I stopped talking to myself,
I stopped seeing myself for what I really am. I guess I started to take myself for granted.
Let's have a pointless round of applause there, can we?
So… Thank you. All right.
So, Luella, what did you do next?
-Well, I confronted myself. -Mmm-hmm.
You know, I waited until I got home one day and I confronted myself.
I said, “Hey, lady, what are you doing?”
-You know. -How unbearably tense.
And how did you respond?
Well, you know, I started to shift around, I started blaming all kinds of other things,
but in the end, you know, I had to admit that, yes, I was sleeping with someone else.
I don't think I've ever been more emotionally knotted up than I am at the moment.
Ask a question.
Oh, who, me? Oh!
I'd just like to ask Luella where she gets her strength from.
Luella, lady here wants to know where the mascaraed arse you get your strength from.
-Well, now, can I answer that with a question? -Can she?
-Oh, I'd like that. -She'd like that.
Right, well, I want you to do something for me. I want you to stand in front of a mirror, okay?
Take all your clothes off…
No, hey, look, I'm serious. It's what I did.
You know, I stood naked in front of a mirror and I looked at myself, and I said,
“I love me.
“I love me for what I am. I love my whining aggression,” you know.
“I love my hideous, suffocating self-pity,
“I love the fact that I'm a neurotic and that I demand the world's respect
“without having to do a single thing to earn it. I'm me.
“I'm special, I'm crazy about the way I am.” Now, would you do that for me?
I surely will.
Right, well, I think we'd better take a vomit break now, but don't go away.
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.
Ladies and gentlemen,
a broad, wet kiss of a welcome, with tongues, obviously,
to this edition of A Bit of Fry and Laurie.
That's right. Over the next 30 minutes or so, we'd like you to make yourself at home,
if you are at home, that is.
If you're in a hotel, make yourself…
in a hotel.
Well…
My colleague, you have a way with words that reminds me of…
Reminds me of my old geography teacher after he'd had a couple.
-Couple of what? -Very serious car accidents.
But the substance of his speech is right in there, kicking arse and cutting mustard,
-and that is, be comfortable. -Be comfortable. Exactly.
In fact, I believe my colleague, that you've actually written a song called Be Comfortable.
-Indeed I have. -Very interesting.
Well, now we move on
to that part of the show where we introduce what used to be called “guests”
and are now called “hospitality customers” onto the show.
And first out of the linen press is a man…
Well, is “man” a big enough word? He's got two ears, two eyes,
two legs and one bottom, certainly, but there the resemblance to ordinary mortals ends.
He's the friend of stars and the star of friends.
Lord Owen described his contribution to the peace process in Bosnia
as “meaningless and insulting”.
His children call him “daddy”, his wife calls him regularly.
The underpants that he wears today, you will wear tomorrow.
His light shines in the darkness whenever he leaves it on.
Ladies and gentleman, will you please receive,
in complete and utter contempt and silence,
actor, long-jumper, high-jumper, bungee-jumper,
willy-jumper, queue-jumper, and anything-in-skirts-jumper,
Mr Stephen Moore.
-Please, sit down. -Thank you.
-Stephen, lovely to have you on the show. -Thank you.
Mmm, mmm. I mentioned your bottom earlier on in my introduction,
and that's because it's particularly close to your heart, I believe.
What, are you…
-Are you saying I'm short? -Yes.
No. No, no, no, no.
No. What my colleague is saying
is that you have something that you'd like to tell us about bottoms.
Ah, yes. Well, yes, Stephen, that's right.
-You see, when I was a younger man… -No, no, no…
-No, I'm Hugh, that's Stephen. Stephen, Hugh. -Sorry?
Oh! Yeah, right, yes, uh…
Yeah, I don't watch your stuff, you see, so, you know…
Right. Well, I think we ought to just move as swiftly on as we can, my colleague.
Right. Well, next into the hot seat,
I don't know why I call it that, really, it's actually quite a pleasantly cool seat.
So, next into the quite pleasantly cool seat is a small but serviceable fishing smack.
But is “small but serviceable fishing smack” really the right description?
No, I don't think it is. I think “woman” is better.
A woman whose photograph you've no doubt licked at one time or another.
She drives a hard bargain and a Fiat Tipo.
She breaks wind like an angel and eats macaroni like a bloody warthog.
Her remarkable linocuts have disfigured her kitchen floor,
and her hairstyle was believed by many to be
the inspiration behind Margaret Thatcher's final descent into madness.
So will you please now make the traditional Mahweli gesture of welcome
for Phyllida Law.
-So, Phyllida, hi. -Hello.
You've changed.
No, I wore this on the way here.
No, I meant you've changed your dress.
Didn't really work, did it?
Well, anyway…
Three more civil wars have broken out in Europe while we've been sitting here a-gassing.
So, before the whole world bursts into flames, there's just time, Phyllida, for me to ask you
to hand round the contoured butt plugs and, um, Simon, would you be…
Simon, would you be kind enough to slam your head in a fire door?
-The name's Stephen. -I almost care.
Well, time now to release the handbrake
and slip gently, but with gathering speed, down into the green dell,
what we call “the Valley of Sketches”. See you there in a mo… ment.
Michael, you must be very thrilled ith that result. Take us through the race.
Yes, well, I was not very happy with the car,
and we had a lot of problems.
And the car was not so good, I think that, you know…
Yes, but you won. It's a great result for you. You must be very happy.
Well, we had a lot of problems with the car, and I was not so happy, it was very hard.
Yes, but you won.
I won, yes, but there were many, many problems,
and it was very hard and difficult, and…
I was not happy at all with the car, and…
Yes, can I… But you did actually win, did I get that straight, you actually won the race?
We had a lot of problems. Yes, and it was very hard.
Yeah, well, just leaving aside for the moment how hard it was,
are you happy to have won the race?
Well, it was very difficult…
Yes, well, presumably it was difficult, that's why you get paid half a million pounds per race
and get as much sex as you can eat.
I just need to know if this makes you happy, having won the race.
Delighted, enchanté, over the frigging moon.
-Well, we had a lot of problems… -Are you happy?
-It was very difficult… -Are you happy?
Many problems…
…with the…
Are you arsing-well happy, you dismal, moaning French twat?
You do a job that half of mankind would kill to be able to do
and you can have sex with the other half as often as you like!
I just need to know if this makes you happy!
We had a lot of problems…
See this? Made in England.
And this? Made in England.
And this, made in England.
And, if you please, this, made in England.
And all Sir Dickey, Puttnam et al can do
is whinge on about the death of the British film industry.
Okay, she was mad.
She was mad, she was paranoid, she was a megalomaniac, she was deluded.
But somehow, you know, when she was in charge,
Blue Peter was Blue Peter.
When the news of John Major's election came through, I was in the kitchen
glazing my buns,
and Michael, my husband, came through,
and we broke open a bottle of champagne
and tried to cut our throats with it.
That Home Secretary, he's…
He's a twit, isn't he?
-You are Councillor Kenneth Wade? -I am.
I hope you're aware, Councillor Wade, that this is an informal hearing.
Yes, most certainly. I'd just like to say at the outset
that I have done absolutely nothing of which I'm ashamed,
and I stand by my record in local government. Having said that, I'm perfectly prepared
to cooperate fully with this enquiry and answer such questions as you may see fit to put.
You were elected to the Grangely City Council, Mr Wade, on a ticket of… Let me see…
On a ticket of providing value for money for our charge-paying customers
and for injecting new standards of decency, honour and family values into the community.
Fine words, no doubt, Mr Wade.
You were, I believe, in charge of the contracting out
of the Council's cleaning department.
Cleansing department. We say “cleansing”, not “cleaning”.
Why?
'Cause it annoys people, I suppose.
And the company you chose is called Wade Cleaning Services.
“Cleansing”, Wade Cleansing.
Slogan, “We know the meansing of cleansing.”
Wade Cleansing is wholly owned and run by your wife.
Yes, the matter was fully investigated by an independent enquiry at the time.
Yes, Wade Independent Tribunals Limited.
Certainly, the old publicly-run enquiry services were expensive and inefficient.
We contracted out to Wade Independent Tribunals Limited,
who offered a competitive, hard-hitting and business-oriented
independent tribunal and enquiry service.
Which is wholly owned and run by your son Geoffrey.
As it happens, yes.
Who is five months old.
Five and a half months old.
Geoffrey put together a most attractive bid. I was proud of the lad.
Mmm.
Geoffrey's mother, however, is not your wife, but your secretary, Ms Valerie Jethcott.
Yes, the sexual service that my wife was offering was inefficient,
old-fashioned, cumbersome and, especially after the birth of our first children,
overstretched and with a tendency to too much waist.
I decided to contract out my sexual requirements
and put them out for competitive tender in the marketplace.
My secretary, Valerie, offered a sexual service that was faster,
tighter, certainly, more efficient, streamlined and slimmed-down than my wife's.
I thought you stood for family values and clean living.
-“Cleansed” living. -Cleansed living.
In your electoral literature, for instance, you promised to come down hard on homosexuals.
Since I've been in office, I've spent a great deal of money and energy
coming down very hard indeed on homosexuals.
To return to financial matters, Mr Wade, do you think it is appropriate
-that in these very lean times… -In these very “leanse” times.
Whatever.
The point is, you have been accused of aking a lot of money from being a councillor.
Oh, yes, there we have it, don't we? There we have it. “Accused”.
Suddenly it's a crime to make money.
This is an attitude I have to do deal with every day, nowadays.
Well, I'm sorry. When I grew up, “profit” was not a dirty word.
“Arse” was a dirty word.
“Scrotum” and “titty” were pretty dirty words, too. But “profit” wasn't.
And I have to tell you that I'm not ashamed of graft,
of sheer bloody hard graft, or is “graft” a dirty word as well now?
Like “botty” and “helmet”.
I think we have heard more than enough, Councillor.
This may be an informal hearing, but frankly, I…
-I think we're all agreed, don't you? -Yeah.
-Yeah? -No questions, it's all there.
Mmm-hmm. Good.
Kenneth Wade, your name will now go forward
as that of our officially adopted parliamentary candidate for the Grangely constituency.
-Congratulations, Ken. -Oh, thank you. Thank you.
-Long live Britain. -God save the queens.
Oh, the stuff I deal with, it's mostly small stuff. You know,
car stereos, that kind of thing.
Look, I'll get you something bigger if you want it.
If history has taught us one thing,
it has taught us that the Battle of Agincourt was in 1415.
Well, I mean, you know, hese, these, uh… These…
They just come over here and sponge, don't they? You know, these queers.
These sponging queers come over here and sign on the dole.
Or is that black people?
I don't know. I get so confused sometimes, I…
I was hit on the head as a child, you see.
I'm afraid weight has been a perennial problem with me.
I've tried all the diets, I tried the Hip and Thigh Diet.
And that was… It didn't work for me at all,
because I've always hated the taste of thighs, even when well-done.
Yeah, phone sex is good. I like that, phone sex.
At least you never have to ring them the next day.
It's red, it's shiny, it's instantly desirable and it's remarkably cheap.
Only one drawback, it doesn't yet exist. We wondered, why not?
Douglas Hurd has been Foreign Secretary now for a record five years.
If anyone knows, it'll be Gordon Wade of Market Soundings PLC.
Gordon, it's red, it's shiny, everyone wants one, it needn't cost a fortune,
and it isn't tested on animals. But it doesn't exist.
-What's going on? -I don't know.
I'm sorry, it should exist, I know that, all I can say is that we are working on it.
Mmm-hmm. Have you settled on a name for it yet?
Not as of yet, although the project does have a working title.
There's just time to ask you, what is it?
-The name at the moment is Mark Bannister. -Mark Bannister. Price?
About £3.50, we hope, but it could go as high as 90,000.
-£90,000? -Yes. Rather depends on what it does, you see,
and how much it costs to make it. But these, of course, are just details.
I see, I see. The basic message so far is that you are going ahead,
we might expect to see Mark Bannisters in our shops pretty soon.
-Pretty soon. -Fair answer. My colleague, it's over to you.
-Well, as you can see that is quite a total. -Thanks so much.
Let's see if we can't get it over five million in our telephone quizline quiz.
-Stephen, off you go. -Thanks, David.
Was it…
Or C, the athlete and fast record-breaking fast-miler,
Sir Roger “Four Minute” Bannister, the famous runner?
If you think you know the answer, you could qualify for being one of the people
who got the answer right.
All your calls will be charged at £400 a second.
And do remember that all the money,
the moment you call, goes directly to British Telecom.
That's right.
BT uses only recorded voices and employs no operators or staff,
so there's no wasteful expenditure on salaries and employment.
The money goes directly where it's needed, to men like Phillip.
Phillip is on the board of British Telecom,
for which he receives just £84,000 a year.
To pay for Phillip's three homes, his six cars,
his yacht and his helicopter with en suite cocaine habit,
Phillip desperately relies on the yearly dividend payout
from his British Telecom shares.
Last year, your calls to our quizlines were kind enough to give Phillip
nearly £400,000 in dividends.
But this year, Phillip needs even more.
So do call. And if you don't call, do call.
-But do call. -And if you don't, do please call.
But do call, even if you don't.
Doesn't matter if you don't know the answer, just call.
-Call. -Call anybody.
-About anything. -Just call.
For Phillip's sake.
Call.
Favourite film?
Um, well, what's that one with that poor man who looks like an elephant?
What's his name? Oh, you know, Colin Welland.
Yeah, those dickheads in the Council, they got this noise pollution squad.
I rang them up to complain about my neighbour who plays music, well, he calls it music,
all night, 3:00 in the morning.
They fined me 50 quid for shouting down the phone.
Well, what I think's funny is the way they say “watershed”.
You know, they say things like, “You can't say ‘tit’ till after the 9:00 watershed.”
Well, who keeps water in a shed, and what's that got to do with tits?
What you got in there?
-I'm sorry? -What you got in there, I wonder?
Uh, a cat.
You got a mog in there, have you? Got a kitty-puss?
Lovely. This is Clover, my dachssie.
I've always had dachssies, I like smooth-coated dachssies best.
-Really? Is that right? -Mmm.
So what sort of mogwog is your kitty-puss? Hmm?
Is it a tapples, or a tumtum, or what?
-Burmese. -Aw, a burmie. I love a burmie.
Is it a girl or a boy burmie?
Oh, Christ. Uh… It's, uh… It's male.
Hello, Mr Burmie. What's your name, then?
Yes, he can't speak, actually.
Ah, but they can understand every word you say, can't they?
Not much evidence for that.
My first dachssie, my first ever dachssie, was called Scully.
I named him after Hugh Scully, who presents the Antiques Roadshow.
I love that programme, don't you?
Pervertedly.
Do you know what I do of a Sunday?
Every day, after we've had our walk,
'cause Clover and I always go walkums of a Sunday…
Well, you know, just Clover and me, and of course my little pooper-scooper.
Because that nasty parky man doesn't like to see poochie-poop on his best grass, does he?
-No, so… -Oh, Christ.
And, of course, I don't like to see poochie-poop on my best carpet,
and if I do, Clover knows she can expect a visit from the smack fairy.
So, we come back,
and I make myself a cheese and tommy-toe toasty.
A what?
A cheese and what?
Tommy-toe, tommy-toe, tommy-toe.
-Tomato. -Tommy-toe.
-Tommy-toe… -Don't say it again.
I make myself a cheese and tommy-toe toasty, sometimes two toasties,
and an old muggins of tea,
and I just snudge it down in front of the television
and I watch the Roadshow. I love my Sunday afternoonies.
Jesus. God, help.
And, of course, if it isn't the Roadshow, it might be that animal programme with Desmond.
Desmond Morris.
Ah, yes, but we call him Desmond in our household,
'cause he's like a friend, he's like an old chum, is Desmond.
Or we might watch MasterChef with Loydie,
or the Clothesie Show with Jeff Banksie-Wanksie.
We love our Sunday afties, don't we, Clover?
So, what's wrong with Mr Burmie?
-What? -Mr Burmie.
Why has he come in to see vetiloo, has he got a poorly tums?
Did you just say “vetiloo”?
Sore throatie?
Hmm? What's the matter with Mr Burmie?
I've brought him in to be killed.
Excusie?
He's got cancer of the liver, I've brought him in to be put to death.
-Cancer? -Yes.
-Cancer of the liver? -Yes.
-Cancie-wancie? -Oh, God!
Have you got cancie-didlies then, have you, Mr Burmie?
You going to be put to deathies, are you?
Is your little heart going to be made to stoppie-wop-wop?
Are they going to go killie chum-chums?
Are they going to put your coldie-woldie body-wod in the groundie-wound, are they? Eh?
Clover?
Yeah?
What can I do for you?
I'd like to have this man put down, please.
You low, corrosive lump of faecal horror, you maniac bastardly turd,
I would rather drink stale urine from Norman Fowler's arse-pit
than remain one moment more in your defiling company.
You're filth, you're cack, you're the ooze of a burst boil, I abominate you,
you towering mound of corrupted slime.
Your every utterance is like he slithering hiss of a fat maggot
in the putrid guts of a decomposing rat.
Your face is fouler than the unwiped inner ring of Satan's rectum!
Have a cream slice.
Thanks.
Blimey, they've been up there long enough.
-Oh, good. -What?
Well, if they hadn't been up there long enough, they'd have to go up there again.
-Silly going up twice, all those stairs. -Are you drunk?
-Thanks very much, lovely cup of tea, ta. -Very nice piece of shortbread, too.
-Well? -Well, yes. Now, as you suggested,
there is evidence of your having wasps up in your attic.
-Wasps? -Wasps.
Wasps.
“Evidence”, he said, “Evidence of wasps in the attic.”
What sort of evidence?
-Shall I? -Go ahead.
Yeah, well, the evidence breaks down neatly into three parts:
firstly, there are two wasps' nests up there,
secondly, there are a lot of wasps up there,
and thirdly, my associate swears, and I've never known him to be wrong yet,
swears he heard some buzzing.
-Buzzing? -Not loud, but loud enough.
-I see. -So what are we to do?
Uh… Will you?
Well, we can play this any number of ways. We can pretend it never happened,
simply walk away, just go home,
have a nice hot meal, watch a bit of television, go to bed,
get up in the morning, brush our teeth, come down, have breakfast…
-Yeah, I think, I think… -Well, I'm just painting the picture.
-Fair enough. -Right, that's option one.
-Option two is we can get rid of them. -Oh, I think we should get rid of them. Don't you?
Oh, yeah. Get rid of them.
-The wasps? -The wasps.
-The wasps! -The wasps.
Option two.
Yeah. Well, I should point out that option two does carry with it a portion of risk.
You see, wasps…
Well, you know, wasps are tricky things.
Boy, ain't that the truth.
You know, a wasp isn't a thing you can just get rid of.
There you spoke a mouthful.
Yeah, you know, you can't just wave a magic wand over a wasp
-and hope that it'll just go away. -How much easier our lives would be if you could.
Yeah, no, what you got to do is, you gotta get inside the wasp's mind,
learn what makes him happy, what makes him sad.
What are his wants, what are his fears? Learn to think how a wasp thinks.
And how do wasps think?
Oh, I don't suppose we'll ever really know the answer to that.
Nah, no, no. We can guess.
Oh, we could guess, yeah, but understand them,
really understand a wasp, not in our lifetime.
No, we're just poking around in the dark, to be honest.
Whistling in the wind.
-Yeah. We don't even know how little we know. -Mmm-hmm.
But you can get rid of them?
-Oh, we can get rid of them! -Oh, yeah, that's no problem.
-Yeah, yeah. If that's what you want. -If that's what you want.
-Yes. -If you wanna just turn away and carry on
-with your cosy, comfortable lives… -Cut off one more link with the natural world…
Nail up the gate into the secret garden.
Watch another star wink its final wink and fade into the inky blackness.
-What do you reckon? -Oh, well, they can't do any harm, can they?
-They can sting you. They will sting you. -Oh, they will sting you, yes.
Oh, all right then, leave them be.
-You sure? -If you are.
-Oh, I'm sure. -That'll be £87.50, please.
My associate, I do believe we have done a beautiful thing here.
I do believe we have, and it's got nothing to do with wasps.
Well, welcome to the back end of the pantomime camel
that has been tonight's edition of A Bit of Fry and Laurie.
Little hand is already pointing at “good”, and the big hand will soon be pointing at “bye”.
We know what that means, don't we?
-Hugh. -What?
One more squeak out of you, I'm going to tear your guts out and stamp on your colon.
I do ask for it sometimes.
But there is just enough time, you'll be horrified to know,
for me to turn to our oh-so-welcome hospitality customers
and to ask them to gaze down at the cocktail menu and tell me what is
and will be their choice of farewell cocktail.
-Hmm. Well… -Oh.
-Ooh, I think… -Yeah, no, but have you seen that one? I mean…
Do please let us know, Mr Music and I are very much on the edge of our tempers,
-isn't that right? -That's as right as you know,
and then just a little bit righter than that.
So can we have your votes, Zurich, please.
I think we'd like to go for the Swinging Ball Sack, please.
You have chosen the Swinging Ball Sack.
Well, for a properly prepared Swinging Ball Sack,
you'll need four shots of tequila,
an item of gin,
one shot of pure-grain heroin cut lengthways,
two measures of self-raising sugar and one of carbonated,
some freshly-milled tungsten
and to garnish,
six nipple hairs plucked from a cabinet minister,
it doesn't matter which, but in this instance I'm using Virginia Bottomley's.
And as I prepare your Swinging Ball Sacks, I ask this question,
in accordance with known principles,
please, Mr Music, will you play?
Soupy twist.