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.
It's all over!
It's all over, finished!
Rotting away, finished, the sands of time dribbling onto the floor!
Decaying flesh, mortality, nothing!
No sound, just a brief pinprick of light
extinguished into a darkness for eternity!
Maggots crawling through the eye sockets of maggots, crawling through eye sockets.
Nothing but… Nothing but dried blood, and just a faint smell.
It's the end. It's over!
Yes. What my colleague is trying to say, is that this is the last in the current series
of A Bit of Fry and Laurie,
and that he's sorry it's over, and he's very grateful to you for allowing him into his home.
That's right. It's a very nice home. Thank you very much.
I love what you've done with it. I think you're right to leave the coffee table where it is.
If it is a coffee table, some of you prefer a tea table, I know. Whatever.
Whatever. This is, as I say, the last in the current series of Fry and Laurie.
And last shows, traditionally at the BBC, are allowed two bottles of champagne-style fluid,
to be distributed unequally amongst the audience.
-My colleague, would you care to do the honours? -Certainly will.
There's a… There's a mean streak inside you, isn't there?
-There is, actually, quite a mean streak, yes. -Yes, a very wide one.
Yes, hardly room for my body either side of it.
However, that's enough verbal rimming for the moment.
Time now to introduce our most very honoured,
guest-style units onto the show.
And, you know, first out of the guest box is a woman of great distinction.
She served 12 years in the rank of Lieutenant Colonel
in Iraq's elite Republican Guard,
before pitching her tent in the Vale of Tharkston,
where she makes some of the most revolting marmalade I've ever seen.
Ladies and gentlemen, will you please make a clapping-style noise for Janine Duvitski.
Janine, Janine, Janine.
Janine, you look old, tired, badly dressed and in a hell of a state, generally.
-How do you feel? -Fine, thank you, Stephen.
-Oh, well, that's good to hear. -Janine, Janine, I…
There's something I've been absolutely dying to ask you
ever since I heard you were coming on the show. What's Tommy Steele really like?
Tommy Steele?
I believe that's what I said.
I don't know. I've never met him.
I'm sorry?
I've never met Tommy Steele.
-Yes, well, never mind that… -No, no, no. Hold on. Hold on.
I want to get this straight. You're saying you've never met Tommy Steele?
No.
Unbelievable.
Well, no time for recriminations, Hugh. Got to look to the future.
Oh! Is there one?
Get on with it.
Right. Okay. Well, it now falls to me
to pull open the drawer marked “Socks, Underpants and International Superstars,”
and pull out our next guest. He's a man of distinction,
three-times winner of the Benson & Hedges smoking competition.
He's got three convictions for shoplifting, and 17 for aggravated assault,
as well as a huge collection of skin.
It is of course, Robert Daws.
Oh, fantastic!
Welcome.
Robert, Robert. It's lovely to have you with us.
Now, tell me, tell me. Have you met Tommy Steele?
-No. -Why not?
Well, I don't know, I just never have.
“I don't know, I just never have.”
Yes, well, never mind…
Jesus!
Right. Well, with the time fast approaching Crewe Junction, the driver dead,
the brake hoses rotted through by years of government neglect,
it's time to pack our comedy tote bags, bung a couple of condoms into the hip pocket,
and head for sketch land.
Tony Radcliffe is headmaster of Lanark Primary School in Thurloe.
The school has 84 pupils of mixed race, religion, gender and shoe size.
Mickey, don't do that. Cheers, mate.
So, how does he deal with religious instruction at the school's morning assembly?
♫ We worship you, O god of gods
♫ Whoever you may be
♫ We realise that you operate
♫ Supernaturally
♫ We thank you for the birds and bees
♫ For creatures live or dead
♫ But if you actually don't exist
♫ Then ignore what we've just said
♫ Ah ♫
Well, what I've tried to do, or, well, what we've tried to do, I should say,
is to develop a religious agenda
that serves the needs of the kids in a very real sense.
You must understand that we've got here, um… We've got Jewish kids,
we've got Buddhist kids, Hindu kids, Muslim kids, Christian kids,
atheistic kids, agnostic kids. What they've all got in common,
-is that they're all… -Kids?
Exactly. Exactly. Now that's very important.
So, obviously, any religious package that we offer
must take account of all those differences under a basic overarching umbrella.
Sorry. I don't know what happened there.
So, how do you manage this, in fact?
How do you accommodate all these differences?
Okay.
What we've done is to sweep away all the old divisions,
and basically invent an entirely new religion.
A new religion?
That's right. It's a kind of religious Esperanto, if you like.
Nope. I don't think I do.
Right. Well, we've called this religion Lip Whip Whip Whip.
“Lip Whip Whip Whip”?
And that's the name of your god, is it?
Uh, no, no. There is no one single god in Lip Whip Whip Whip.
So, it's a pantheon, is it?
I prefer to call it a committee.
It's a committee of gods. There are eight voting members,
and a non-executive chair who rotates every four years.
Mmm-hmm. And what do you worship in Lip Whip Whip Whip?
Okay. We worship air.
We worship flexible work-share schemes,
and we worship rounded corners on things.
Why rounded corners?
Well, they're a very important symbol
in Lip Whip… Lip Whip Whip…
Luke, probably not a good idea. Cheers, mate.
They're a very important symbol.
The kids here worship the one on the activity table in the art room.
Om. Om. Om.
Would you say, then, that Lip Whip Whip Whip has been a success?
I'll be as frank as I can. We've had some problems, I'm afraid.
Oh?
Yeah. Um…
Just yesterday, there was a kid in Mrs Tremlow's 2APCVXBW class.
Tristram. Funny kid.
He decided to form a sect that worshipped oblong surfaces.
Oh, dear.
Now, come on then, Tris. I'm very disappointed. What are you?
Hmm?
-I'm a heretic. -You're a heretic.
Okay. Now, everybody, what do we think about this? What shall we do with Tris?
Burn him! Burn him!
Burn him?
Yes! Yes!
Okay, okay. All right, then. That's settled. Tris, we're going to burn you
in the playground during morning break.
Now then, Anna, what's all this about you being a witch?
See these? Plant one of these, in about, oh, mid-July,
a bit of water, bit of compost, bit of love.
And about six months later,
you've got a nine-lane motorway running through your back garden.
Yes, I always remember this spot because it was right here…
This was the very first time that I saw my wife.
I was standing absolutely here.
And I remember thinking what an incredibly tiny woman she was.
Absolutely tiny. She was…
about that size. Tiny little thing.
It was only weeks later, as I got to know her, that I realised that that was, of course,
because she was a long way away.
The things they say, eh? The things they say.
My youngest, she said to me the other day, she said, “Daddy, why are there wars?
“Why do people kill each other and fight?”
I said, “Rebecca, darling,
“shut your face and watch the video, or I'll belt you one.”
Basically, I go around schools. You know, I sit in with the kids,
'cause I'm trying to learn French.
-Are you gonna start then, Richard? -Probably better if I start, Nick, yes.
That way we can thrash out the position in broad terms,
-and then we'll know where we stand. -That'll be the best way.
-I think so, Nick. I really do. -Go you on, then.
Well, the position is that my client wishes, in broad terms…
-“Broad terms”? -Broad terms at this stage, Nick, yes.
I think we can thrash out specifics later.
My client wishes to engage in a bout of protracted sexual intercourse with your client.
-Yeah. Can I just chip in here, Richard? -Chip away, chip away.
Probably gonna save a bit of time if I tell you that my client is keen
to proceed along the lines of the standard pre-coital agreement,
with just one or two riders and emendations.
Ah, well, then, in that case, my client is very anxious to expedite matters
-as swiftly as possible. -Yeah. How swiftly would that be, Richard?
Well, my client was thinking in terms of along the next half hour.
Yes. My client would like it clearly understood that she's not easy.
Yes, my client is fully aware that your client is not easy, Nick.
In fact, he wishes me to stress that he has enormous respect for your client
as a woman, in a variety of personal, non-sexual ways.
My client is reassured by your client's position.
And I'd like to know how your client intends to proceed.
Well, my client was thinking in general terms
of dinner at the Bombay Brasserie, after which, at some mutually agreeable time,
he would like to put his tongue inside your client's mouth, and move it around slightly.
That is more than acceptable to my client.
My client then suggests putting a hand up your client's skirt and having…
a bit of an old feel.
Mmm.
Which hand would that be, Richard?
My client has not yet decided on the hand.
Okay. Well, that's fine. If you could just fax us with that, when you get…
No problem, no problem. “Fax Nick which hand up skirt.”
I should say that after your client has put his hand up my client's skirt,
my client reserves the right to moan slightly.
I don't see a problem there. No, that's fine.
Well, at this point, my client will suggest that your client drives my client
back to your client's flat, where your client will play some James Taylor.
Ah. My client doesn't have any James Taylor at this stage,
but he wonders if Art Garfunkel might be an acceptable compromise.
My client has indicated that Art Garfunkel is definitely not acceptable,
but would be prepared to consider Tom Waits.
Excellent. Excellent.
Moving on, my client would now like to insert…
He would now like to insert a clause
allowing him to spill wine on your client's blouse,
which he's then able to mop off gently with a handkerchief,
allowing him to brush your client's breasts lightly as he does so.
Yes. We feel that in the interests of both parties, a white wine spritzer should be specified.
So, white wine spritzer, it is.
My client wonders whether your client is able to accommodate…
Yes?
…able to accommodate a gentle, circular licking motion around the upper body.
Perfectly acceptable, if my client would be
permitted to gaze at the ceiling, and say the words,
-“Oh, God” and “Yes”. -“Oh, God” and “Yes”.
-Or “Yeah”. -Or “Yeah”, yeah.
Fine. Well, I think a move to the bedroom seems to be indicated.
Indeed. I should point out, however, that my client is keen that this engagement should run along
orthodox lines from hereon in.
Ah. Would that preclude the use of salad items?
I'm afraid so.
Well, in that case, my client feels
that matters can be brought to a satisfactory conclusion in three minutes.
Ah. Well, now my client feels that that would be premature.
We feel 10 minutes is more acceptable.
What say we compromise with six?
Six? Six. All right, six minutes, then.
I think, hereafter, we're back on standard contract territory.
I assume your client will then roll over and turn his back on my client.
Oh, my client will most certainly do so, yes. Your client will then attempt to hold him,
and he will behave coldly towards her.
Quite so. My client will feel spurned and shamed, as your client refuses to share the afterglow.
Yes. My client will sneak into his clothes at 5:00 in the morning, go to work early,
leaving no note for your client.
My client will feel immensely rejected and angry at this.
Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm.
My client will pick up the phone once during the afternoon,
but fail to go through with the call, after which he'll never be in touch again.
Mmm-hmm. My client will, from hereafter, refer to your client as “that bastard”.
Absolutely. If my client meets your client at a party, he will blush, look away.
Mmm-hmm. Precisely. So I think that's all satisfactory.
Yes, indeed. If your client would like to sign the bottom, here.
Yes, and your client will sign here. You got a pen?
Here you go.
Could you initial the Tom Waits clause?
Excellent.
Thank you.
Thank you so much.
Good.
-Nice people. -Very nice people.
-Nice people. -Yes.
-Fancy a steamy sex romp? -Yes, please.
♫ I wear sophisticated clothes
♫ I say sophisticated things
♫ Everything about me says I'm a sophistication king
♫ But when I'm with you
♫ Can't seem to find my cool
♫ Yeah, when I'm with you
♫ I just sit there and drool
♫ I got sophisticated hands
♫ I got sophisticated feet
♫ A sophisticated car Parked on Sophistication Street
♫ But when I'm with you
♫ Can't seem to find my cool
♫ Yeah, when I'm with you
♫ I'm just a dribbling fool
♫ When you look at me and you start to flirt
♫ I have to wipe the dribble Off the front of my shirt
♫ When you ask me what's on my mind
♫ All I can think to answer is:
♫ I eat sophisticated food
♫ I breathe sophisticated air
♫ Run a sophisticated comb Through my sophisticated hair
♫ But when I'm with you
♫ Can't seem to find my cool
♫ Yeah, when I'm with you
♫ I'm just a dribbling fool ♫
When I was 17, I'd already tried 14 different jobs,
married twice, fathered many, many, many, many children,
eaten a perfectly enormous quantity of food, over a long-time period,
been weaned off six types of class A dangerous drug,
given up smoking, taken it up again, given it up again, taken it up again,
given taking it up, and taken giving it up again and again and again and again.
By the time I was 20, alcohol had never passed my lips,
yet I was a reckless and predatory alcoholic.
My life was in pieces, my marriages were shattered, my children lay in ruins.
I was paying alimony along the sinuses, behind the dark interior passages of the skull,
and through the nose.
But at 30, at 30 came the chance to redeem a bin liner of broken promises.
If I didn't take that chance, what would I be? What would I become?
Just another friendless acid spot on the back buttock of a weeping society.
So I took it. Took the chance. Picked up the ball and ran. Went for it!
Threw caution to the teeth of the gale.
Never looked back. Just keep running. I did it! Forget the past, there's nothing there,
not even memories, just a road you never travelled, unwinding backwards
to a place you never came from, where fruit grows on trees you never climbed,
in an orchard where you lost your virginity to a boy called Timothy,
who died of Horlicks poisoning before you were born.
-No answers there… -Stephen, Stephen, Stephen, Stephen.
Yes?
Go and have a lie down.
Oh. Okay.
I belong to the wine society. I enjoy fine wines very much.
Also their malt whiskies. I like a nice malt whisky.
Great pleasure to me.
It's one of the great benefits of being an alcoholic, really, I suppose.
Well, I'm aroused every morning by a very insistent cock.
In the morning? Yes, I used to use
one of those automatic things that makes you a cup of tea,
and does this horrible screeching noise in your ear.
But then I divorced her and bought a Teasmade.
What, alarm? In the morning?
Well, I have an old tape of Carlo Maria Giulini conducting the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra,
in a perfectly transcendent version of Schubert's 7th Symphony.
And I've rigged it up so that, at exactly 7:30 every morning,
it falls from the ceiling onto my face.
No, I haven't got an alarm clock. I've got three children instead.
It was a difficult choice, but I thought the children would go better with the wallpaper.
Well, you know, he tried to palm me off with margarine.
I said, you know, if you're gonna palm me off, at least use butter or olive oil.
People can be horribly inconsiderate, can't they?
Especially when they're out of breath.
Mmm.
You know, I can remember my mother used to drive me, absolutely, to school
-every morning in an old Wolseley. -Ah.
-You know, the kind with wheels? -Yeah.
Good old thing.
All soft leather and walnut and chrome.
And she usually wore a hat, as well.
Yeah. Interesting.
Oh, excuse me. Sorry, sorry.
Hello.
Hello?
It's so annoying, isn't it? It's always happening.
Was that our phone, or was it yours?
That's right,
because with the advances in NICAM digital stereo sound,
and the disbanding of the old mechanical ringing of the telephone,
20th-century Britain has plunged itself into a bit of a wet nightmare.
When the phone rings on the TV, many Britons are horribly confused.
Is it fiction, or is it real?
That's right. Well, you know, we've got plenty of phones here.
Let's, for goodness sake, use them. Robert, why don't you dial my number,
and it will come out on our viewers' left-hand speaker on their television at home
if they're watching in stereo.
That's right, and, Janine, you ring me, and we'll output through the right channel.
-Mmm. -You see?
-Absolutely terrifying, isn't it? -It's a nightmare.
Yeah, yeah.
Well, now, as part of our ongoing, continuing attempt
to provide a better public service, and earn lots of charter marks,
we at Fry and Laurie,
have decided to institute a small flashing symbol here.
To indicate whether the phone you hear ringing is yours…
Or ours.
No. Now, that one is definitely yours.
Or is it? Because, as part of our ongoing commitment
to earn no charter marks at all this term,
and to be put into detention by the Prime Minister,
we have decided that, from now on, your life is gonna be made a living hell of telephones.
-No, that's yours. -No, that… Yeah, definitely.
Answer it. It's probably your mother from Australia!
-Come on. -The third one is theirs, definitely.
Vince, over to you.
Terry, can I have a…
Terry, got a moment?
What?
Have you got a window in your packed schedule?
In which case, can you open a curtain and let me peak through, just for a moment?
-Yeah. -Good. Now, Terry. School.
Now, I've just had Mr Stroke on the phone.
He tells me that you didn't turn up today.
-So? -So, why not?
It's boring.
Well, how would you know that, Terry?
According to Mr Stroke, you haven't been to school for four years.
-So? -So, where have you been all this time?
What have you been doing for the last four years?
Got to level nine.
Level nine? What do you mean, level nine?
Level nine, top level.
Yes, but school, Terry, learning, growth, development.
-What's the point? -What?
Well, I don't want to go to school 'cause it's boring. There's no point.
You “don't want”? You “don't want”?
And who, pray, be good enough to tell me,
is supposed to give an electrically-operated shag about what you want?
Hmm? Hmm?
No, just… Just leave me alone, can't you?
Leave you alone? Why the hell should I leave you alone?
What are you doing? Are you making a cheese sauce?
Working on a cure for cancer?
Is an oboe concerto forming in your mind? What?
I'm on level nine.
Bugger level nine! Bugger up the arse of level nine with an Anglepoise lamp!
-I'm talking about your life, Terry. -What about it?
“What about it?” Never mind “what about it”, what is it? What is your life, Terry?
Tell me what your life is.
-Well, what's yours? -What do you mean?
-Well, what's your life? -What, my life? My life? My life?
My life is energy, work, dedication!
Thirty-three bloody years at Russell & Bromley, that's what my life is!
My life is having you. I had you, didn't I? That was supposed to be a good thing.
I didn't ask to be born.
You didn't ask… Judas Priest on a two-stroke moped!
What is that supposed to mean, huh?
You didn't ask to be born. I… You'd be better off dead, would you?
-Maybe. -“Maybe”? “Maybe”? “Maybe”? “Maybe”?
What do you mean, “maybe”?
Well, I've thought about it.
-Thought? What, about killing yourself? -Yeah, when I finish this game.
Oh, great. Well, I'll order the headstone, shall I?
“Here lies Terry Gardiner. He got to level bloody nine.”
What? Do you want singing cherubim around it, or do you want it plain?
Bingo! Done it!
Right. Well, you gonna choose a knife in the gut or bullet in the head? What?
Knife, I think.
About bloody time.
I only know one, I'm afraid.
How many cabinet ministers does it take to change a light bulb?
Three.
Seems rather a lot to me, but there you are.
Where is this country headed?
That's the 64p question.
…'cause in our village, there's a marvellous old game
we play every Lammas Eve.
Tradition has it that everyone living in the village, of pensionable age,
has to dress up as a bale of straw. And then the rest of us,
we split up into packs of six, in four-wheel-drive vehicles,
and we have to hunt them down and beat them to death with fence posts.
I'm not absolutely sure of its origins.
It's something to do with the Conservative Party, I believe.
Well, my colleague, my colleague, what a melancholy occasion is this.
-It is at that. It is at that. And yet… -And yet…
And yet, for millions of people it's a time for simple rejoicing
and quiet explosions of merriment.
I hate you.
I know what he's trying to say, I do.
How, my colleague? How to find fit words
with which to bid farewell to our viewing several?
Let go, Luke. Feel the force. Be in touch with your feelings.
Yes. Yes. Oh, viewing several. Time…
Time, like a thief in the night, has smashed our near-side window,
and stolen thence the stereo from our dashboard therein.
For the last time,
I turn, wiping a sad, soft, salt tear from my crimsoning cheek,
as I request and require our disastrously lovely guest units
to tell me what is, and will be, their choice of farewell cocktail this evening.
Well, I like the sound of a London Felch.
What about a Golden Shower?
Hmm!
Good idea. We should be concentrating on choosing a cocktail first, though.
Oh, yes. Well, there's the Martini Navratilova.
What's a Sodding Mary?
Um, a Sodding Mary… A Sodding Mary, it's like a Bloody Mary,
but it's a little bit ruder.
-All right, have to hurry you. -Yep.
-Yes, yes, I think you're right. -That's the one.
We'd like a Modern Britain.
A Modern Britain. Ha!
My colleague, my colleague, what did you say to me only this morning?
What indeed.
Well, they've chosen a Modern Britain.
A Modern Britain is really like an old-fashioned,
but with a new twist.
For a Modern Britain, you'll need finely made, English hand-blown crystal glasses,
the very best Islay malt whisky, lovingly blended by craftsmen who care.
You'll need freshly-squeezed apple juice from pleasant Somerset orchards.
You'll need a quarter gill of best dry London gin,
a pint of rich Jersey cream and, of course,
a half-quart of soft, still Welsh mountain water.
And to garnish, you'll need a shamrock,
a daffodil, a thistle and a rose.
There's a difference with a Modern Britain, however, because a Modern Britain
goes like this…
We add to this kindly, noble, honourable and civilised mixture…
…a centilitre of flat, cola-style syrup,
a hectare of low-calorie brand sweetener,
a pot of non-dairy whitener, a sachet of instant heritage,
a two-parent-family-size pack of diluted good values,
free market vegetables, a greedy helping of self-governing trusts
and a plastic ice cube for cosmetic purposes only.
The product should be half-baked at an immoderate temperature
of the lowest common denominator,
in an atmosphere of greasy cant and corrupt sleaze,
until richly dishonoured and seared with shame.
Your Modern Britain will ideally, by now, have lost all colour, flavour and fizz,
and should be then divided against itself, and left in shoddy disrepair for a number of years,
until it rots, before being sold off to the highest bidder.
The whole botched cocktail should be served with a raft of unappetizing sound bites,
and a package of feeble initiatives, stuffed with tasteless media slime.
But perhaps, somewhere, you might be inspired
to add one small, tender, caring, cherry of hope.
I wonder.
While you decide, I will entreat for the very finalist of last, last times,
this entreaty of my colleague, Britain's very own melody man,
as I say to him, please, please, oh, please, Mr Music,
please, Mr Music, will you play?
It's ruined.
Britain is ruined.
There's nothing there!
It's rotten!
Oh, God, it's all gone.
Soupy, soupy, soupy, soupy twist.