Eurgh.
Let me see, let me see.
Ah, the groaning board, the teeming table,
the endless variety of God's bounty.
Cheffing is a truly perfect art,
far above mere painting or sculpture.
You can't eat a sheet of canvas or a lump of rock.
I don't know. You could if you were drunk and had enough ketchup.
- Morning, Richie. - Do my senses deceive me?
Has Eddie Catflap emerged from the arms of Morpheus
or perhaps an elephant has blown off?
No. Right first time. It is I, smelly Eddie.
To whiff him is to love him.
Ready for anything, as long as it's alcoholic.
- Morning, Richie. - Where's my shopping list?
Gas mask.
Now then, shall we have seven courses or eight?
Don't want do look ostentatious.
But don't want to look like a bloody pauper.
Better make it 12.
We could be like the Romans and throw up between courses.
Why should they get the credit for that idea?
I've been doing it for years.
Morning, Richie.
Twelve gas masks,
clothes peg for nose, smelling salts
and a ticket to Australia to get away from Eddie's whiff.
- I said, morning, Richie! - Ah!
I got you, then, didn't I? I got you.
Morning, Eddie. I trust you slept well?
Fantastic. A truly great sleep.
On the scale of one to five -
5,429,562.
Sleeping face down in the toilet is conducive to restful slumber?
And why shouldn't I sleep in the lavatory? You wet the bed.
Once. I had a nightmare that I was ordinary and untalented
and there was a momentary aberration.
It's a sign of an extra-vivid subconscious.
It's a sign of an extra-drippy tiddler.
Eddie, I was having a nightmare that I was a pleb.
It was a horrifying experience.
I remember the night so well.
I awoke to hear Richie screaming into the middle of the night.
"Ah. " His heart-rending sobs echoing round the house.
Why, you wept like a soul in torment.
I rushed in to find poor, frightened Richie
shivering, terrified, white, sitting in a puddle.
- Yes, and what did you do? - I don't remember.
You switched on my electric blanket.
Only to take your mind off the nightmare.
You completely electrocuted my love truncheon.
Love truncheon?
Love pencil, more like. Well, love pin, actually.
Eddie, what's this?
- I don't know. - It's one of my scary looks.
Is it really?
My intimidating frown. So you just watch out.
Has the hair grown back yet?
Your love blobs looked like Yul Brynner snogging Kojak.
I'm not prepared to rise to it. Your spite and venom offends me not.
- Baldy blobs. - Right, that's it.
That is it. I hope you've got a good lawyer,
because I am suing and you're going to prison forever.
Hello, Filthy? Yeah, it's Richie here. I wanna sue Eddie.
Richie Rich. Your client.
I'm five foot ten, brown hair... Look, it's not important.
My minder, Edward, says that I've got bald love blobs and I want to sue.
Have I? Well, they're not so much bald as receding.
I'd put a wig on them for the trial.
Bloodsucker, what do I pay you for?
I know I don't, it was a rhetorical question. Goodbye forever!
He was furious.
But I persuaded him to give you a chance.
Shut up and tell me why you are wearing a hat
that makes you look like you've got a toilet roll on your head.
Because, Eddie, I have taken up the skillet and the frying pan.
I've been studying cookery all morning and I am now a master chef.
- That's why I'm wearing this great hat. - You look like a chicken drumstick.
Ha ha! Wrong again because, actually, I look great.
- We are having a dinner party. - Oh-hoo.
Eight for 8:30.
The food, the fine wine, the...
the little chocolatey, minty thingies.
- Who's coming? - Some close personal friends.
Oh, dear. The man from the dirty mag shop and wino Bill. Again.
You really are insanely jealous, aren't you, Edward?
I keep forgetting you're not in the biz, are you?
The huge galaxy of showbiz stars are all brothers and sisters to me.
Tarby, for instance, is bound to accept.
Especially after the brilliant invitations I sent out.
"The years and the tears.
"Celebrate Richie Rich's ten fabulous years of success. "
How sad.
From third dummy on Are You Being Served?
To his very own carpet ad.
I am not sitting at the same table as Tarby and that's that.
No, Eddie, no, no. We're talking about Jimmy Tarbuck.
The cheeky chap from the 'pool.
Everybody's pal. The gap-toothed Scouser
with a twinkle and a smile for every Englishman.
Look, if there's one thing I hate in British entertainment more than you,
it's that vast army of ex-stand-up comics
who did one half-funny gag on Sunday Night At The London Palladium
and have made a fortune doing game shows ever since.
"Oh, good evening, and your name is Cynthia
"and you'd like me to patronise and humiliate you
"on the off chance of winning a teasmade. "
Cheeky chappies? Complete and utter bastards, if you ask me.
Well, I don't think anyone will be asking you, will they?
Tarby is just a simple jester.
An honest broker from the bank of smiles.
I was only saying so to Marti Caine, before her last trip to South Africa.
So keep your embittered, communistic treason to yourself
during tonight's intercourse with Tarby and friends.
I am not having intercourse with Tarby and that's final.
What a surprise! Four minutes into the episode
and he delivers the most tortuous double entendre ever.
It was a great gag.
- Social intercourse, Eddie, social. - Oh, phew.
We shall talk about subjects far above your head.
Poetry,
fine art,
golf.
That reminds me, I must bone up on Tarby's book of golfing anecdotes.
They are the greatest work of Eng lit since Dick.
- Oo-er. - Dick-ens, Eddie. Dick-ens.
Oo-er.
There's only one thing I hate more than golfing anecdotes and it's this.
It's a close run thing, though.
Ha ha ha ha ha!
This is brilliant stuff, it's classic, classic, classic.
Well done, Tarby. Oh.
Oh, listen to this one.
Listen, listen, listen. Shut up.
"Lynchy and I had taken time off and flown to Spain
"with Greavsie and Parky and Tom O'Connory
- "to play golf with Lesie. " - Lesie?
- Yeah. - Playing golf with lesbians.
Fantastic. Do you think Tarbuck's a feminist, then?
Lesie Crowthery, Eddie, Lesie Crowthery.
Just another one of the great guys
that make up my showbiz gang that I belong to and you don't.
Now, shut up, I'm telling you the great anecdote.
- "Lynchy lined up to tee off. " - I wish you'd tee off
and let me smoke my fags in peace.
"Lynchy lined up to tee off and said to me,
"'Gosh, Tarbo, we swigged so much pop last night,
"'being great guys together and such great big showbiz mates,
"'that I bet I miss this next shot. '
"And blow me down but he did. He missed it. "
Oh, oh, oh. Ha ha ha ha.
Oh, ha ha!
Oh, touché, Tarby. Oh, that was brilliant.
No, the same thing has happened to me fumfty times.
We-hell. I can see it's gonna be a scintillating evening
with everyone cracking brillo gags like that one.
Yeah. Hey.
Maybe there's a series in it.
Dinner At Richie's. An ultra-sophis chat show.
Good evening. This is the BBC.
Tonight, Sir Richie Rich will be talking to the Queen, the Pope
and, of course, the Tarby.
It'd be a disaster. You'd get drunk
and make a pass at the Pope for wearing a dress.
Bloody good telly though.
So, what incredible 12 courses will you cook
for your fantastically amiable showbiz chums?
Well, we must play to our strengths, must not overreach ourselves.
- Right. - Er...
How does 12 boiled eggs sound?
Er, usually like this...
Nice gag, Eddie, and totally unexpected.
Perhaps a little sophisticated for BBC2, though.
I can just see it now. "How's the golf going, Tarbs?"
"Oh, really?"
"Do you wanna hear a stupid joke about an Irishman being stupid?"
- Can't wait. - What do you suggest, then?
You're supposed to be my friend, you freeloading parasite.
Smelly Eddie to the rescue.
When I was watching TV-am in the lav this morning,
I saw this fantast ad for a new mag called Poncy Cooking.
And when you buy part one, you get part two completely free.
That sounds like a marvellous offer and one not to be missed.
Actually, it's a clumsy setup for a gag later on.
- Oh, what a shame. - Yes.
- Let's go to the newsagent's. - Okey-dokey, diddly squat. Over we go.
Don't ever say I'm not there when I'm not needed.
You're not there when you're not needed.
Thank you.
- Ready, Eddie? - Ready-weddy.
- Let's go. - Right, then.
Blimey, the newsagent's is closer now we're in a smaller studio.
Shut up. You're spoiling the magic for everyone.
Oh. Oh, look, the newsagent.
Hello, me old darling. Yep, it's me, Richie Rich.
Don't faint. Treasure the moment.
Here's a pic. Put it in your box of precious things.
I don't understand what you're talking about.
Oh, yes. Oh, yes, I'm sure.
One of the cool type, are we?
Gonna boast to your friends?
"I met Richie Rich and pretended not to recognise him. Hee hee. "
What a sad little life you must lead.
Are you mad?
- Perhaps a little zany, yes. - Excuse me.
Do you have part one of Poncy Cooking with part two free?
- Certainly. One pound, please. - Aha.
I'm afraid I have no money
so I'll just take part two for nothing, shall I?
- You stupid slag! Come on, Richie. - One pound, please.
Er, hurr... I'll give you a mensh on me next programme.
- I shall call the police. - No, cos your part's over.
The end of your scene. Back to the dole for you.
Five lines, thank you and good night.
Well, I must say, this looks very interesting.
She's crying, you know.
That, Eddie, is the biz. It's a tough life.
It's a tough life, dearie.
I mean, look at Arthur Mullard. She used to be quite attractive.
- I still quite fancy her. - Yeah, hur-uhh.
Well, I must say. This is very interesting.
Must learn to read sometime.
Right. Sod all this health food.
When I eat, I like to dice with a heart attack.
Let's have a good English roast and a coronary thrombosis.
- Right. Let's make a shopping list. - Yeah.
Four hundred pounds of oven chips.
Right, that seems simple enough.
Better check the larder. Waste not, want not.
- Remember the poor children. - Oh, the little poor children.
Yes. With their cosy little terrace dwellings.
- A roaring fire. - Bread, cheese.
- Dripping. - Add a little love, makes a...
...meal fit for a king.
I think they're happier being poor.
Yes, or perhaps not.
Oh, well, who gives a toss anyway?
Let's check what's in the larder. Any food?
Erm, only a couple of dirty mags.
Huh? Oh, yeah.
I'm sure there's a reason why we shouldn't be doing this
but I can't put my finger on it.
Don't overtax your tiny mind. It's concentrating on breathing.
Shut up, the cheque's in the post.
Yeah, whose show is this anyway?
I'm the famous one, love. Come, let us go to the supermarket.
Right.
What a rotten shop. There's never anything you want to buy.
For example...
"Cruizos. Bite-sized cruise-missile shaped lumps of potato flavoured snack.
"Warning-will give you cancer. "
Everything gives you cancer these days.
You can't blow off without being told it's carcinogenic.
- In my case, it probably is. - Probably.
- Careful, you'll get grabbed by the dick. - Oo-er.
We mean get arrested by the store detective. It was just a pun.
We have every intention of paying for this item.
Ooh, Eddie, it'd be funny if somebody knocked that lot down.
Not particularly, no.
I'm disappointed myself.
Come, Eddie, for fruit.
It is the absolute sophis thing to offer fruit after the meal.
So refreshing and it comes in handy for the sex games.
No, not this.
Look, ridiculous.
Oh, this is disgusting. All this fruit is crushed and bruised.
I shall write to Esther Rantzen.
- Ah, the meat, Eddie. - Ha.
Load up the trolley. They'll have been playing golf
- so they'll be ready for hearty vitals. - Look at this little lamb chop.
It was probably once a pig, gambolling in the mountains.
Yeah. Doingy, doingy, doing. I could quite fancy myself as a farmer.
Well, it's a good job you do fancy yourself
cos I can't see that anyone else is going to do it.
Eddie, do you see this frozen chicken?
Er, yes.
Oh, urh.
Frozen tackle might teach you not to cheek me.
Richie Rich, do you see this frozen chicken?
- No. - I think you do.
Ha ha. Touché, Eddie.
Come on, let's go and pay for the stuff.
I've remembered why we shouldn't be here.
- We have no cash. - Eddie, I am a celebrity.
Celebrities don't need money.
- Next. - Ha ha ha. Boo!
Hello, love. It's me, Richie Rich. A-ha!
It's just cancer crunch and a trolley of meat.
I'll give you a mensh on my next prog.
£200, please.
My dear girl, you don't seem to understand.
I, Richie Rich, am offering you, nobody, a mensh on my next prog.
- Right. This requires subtle handling. - £200, please.
How does it feel to be a checkout girl
who's reached the peak of your potential?
How does it feel to know that you're a talentless git
who never even had any potential?
- I see. - £200, please.
Uh.
Stitch that.
I think you're on there. I know a come-on when I see it.
This is ridiculous.
Somebody here tell donkey face who I am.
We don't know. Who are you?
You jest. You jape. I am one of Britain's top comic talents.
- Say something funny, then. - Yeah.
If you're so funny, why don't you say something funny?
Go on, say something funny.
All right, then, I will, I will.
Erm...
Plop.
- Oh, dear. - Damn. Mistimed it.
I'll have to get the manager. Mr Forsyth!
Listen, bitch, I was once continuity link man on TVS.
I don't see why I should have to pay for my food.
Listen, dickhead-no money, no food.
Ah. Ooh.
You're the sort of girl I could fall in love with.
However, no time, because Richie?
- Yes? - Run!
- I meant through the door. - Oh, sorry.
I thought they'd never give up. Mr Forsyth had some stamina.
Safe and sound now and time to get on with my wonderful dinner party.
That's what you think. But I have been thinking.
Well, well, well, wonders will never cease.
Eddie Catflap's been thinking.
Put out some bunting. Organise a street party.
Let off some fireworks. Telephone the Queen.
Give everyone a week's holiday.
The man with no brain's been thinking.
Everybody go to the lavatory in amazement.
You don't know how you wound, Richie, you really don't.
However, no matter, because you will soon be in pris.
- Pris? - Pris-on.
You have aided and abetted a robbery
in front of Mr Forsyth and 50 mad checkout girls.
I am all right. I was just the mysteriously handsome bloke
in the huge trousers who vanished without a trace.
But you're Richie Rich.
And you'll be going to pris.
You're not all right, darling, cos I shall squeal.
Yeah, I shall sing and... and blab...
Then I might even spill a little bit.
And I shall buy a lighter sentence
with the names of my accomplices - to wit, Edward Catflap.
Then I'll have a face-lift so you can't exact your revenge.
You'd need a fork-lift truck to lift your face, matey.
At least I've got a face, not a collage of bogeys and sick.
Just cos you never get any girlfriends, you think you can take it out on me.
Me, never get any girlfriends? That's rich, you never get any girlfriends.
I was out with a girl last Wednesday.
Eddie, that was your mother.
I still got a snog.
- Snog? - More of a fight. She beat me senseless.
That must have taken at least ten seconds.
15 seconds, actually.
We're about to be sent to Devil's Island,
Tarby's coming for an important dinner party
and you're babbling on about your insane mother.
We're up plop creek with no loo brush.
- I'll telephone my agent. - Good idea, let's blame him.
Yeah. Hey, what if he won't take the rap?
Say we'll go to the papes about his "children's catalogue".
Nice thinking.
Hello, Filthy? God bless, look after Mum, drive safely.
Listen, you filthy, evil porno merchant, me and Eddie are in trouble.
Unless you take the blame,
we'll tell the world the truth about your "stage school".
Please, daughter, please. Please.
Listen, I am not a well man.
This morning, I coughed so hard I sucked my trousers up my backside.
Now, listen, Richie. Nobody needs to take the rap for this.
What you have got to get yourself is an alibi.
Don't shout, daughter. There's only so much an agent can take
after only one bottle of aspirin.
Now, look, alibis are easy.
You're a comic, right?
Well, loosely speaking, of course.
Yeah. You were doing a show.
No, no, that's easy.
All we have to do is to get you a real show tonight,
then Eddie can crawl around surreptitiously,
change the audience's watches back to the time you blagged the store.
Yes, yes, I know just the venue.
'Très chic. Très bona.
'Yeah, only the nicest young ladies need apply. '
A peepshow, Filthy? What if Tarby finds out?
I'll be thrown out of the Royal Order
of the Charitable Self-Publicising Showbiz Bog Otters.
Don't worry about the Bog Otters.
They were in here themselves half an hour ago.
They had to leave cos they run out of 50p's.
How's my boy Richie doing?
That audience are getting a bit restive at the moment,
trying to see if bouncers really do bounce.
Don't mither the act.
He's got enough to concern him, what with being crap.
You were supposed to be changing the audience's watches
while they ogled the girlies.
I was trying to but the hands are moving too quickly.
Get on with it.
Right, that's it. Richie, you're on.
God, I'm not ready. How do I look, darling?
Not good, daughter. Très, très bollocks.
- He's absolutely bloody right. - Philistines.
I'd better do my superstitions.
What are you doing?
Titch "Oo-er, madam, don't start me off" Juicy always did this before a show.
- But he was notoriously awful. - God, you're right.
Boys and girls, lads and lasses,
please welcome to the stage a very funny man indeed,
the world famous Mr, er... Richie Rich.
Ooh-hoo-hoo!
- Here we go. Break a leg. - OK.
Get off, you maniac.
Hello, hello. Shut up.
Hi, God bless and if you can't be good, be careful. Ho ho ho.
Right. It's full up in here, as the vicar said with his hand up Sam Fox's blouse.
Show us your tits.
But seriously, folks. The Good Lord gave us the gift of laughter.
- Get off! - Ha ha ha.
Thank God the likes of Tony Benn can't take that away from us,
although he'd like to.
Tell us a joke, then, you fat bastard.
I hear Arthur Scargill's blind stick lost his hairdresser.
- You have to laugh, don't you? - Not at you.
Two, three, four...
Happiness
Happiness...
Thank you. God bless you, one and all.
- Get off! - The greatest thing
That I possess...
The smile of a child, a beautiful woman,
just simply being... British.
Crap!
I thank the Lord that I've been blessed...
Let's thank the mums. Hello, mums.
Here to keep an eye on Dad, are you?
Richie, it's not going very well, is it?
...than my share of ha... ppiness
Ha ha ha.
Thank you, one and all. Happy hunting and if you can't be good, be careful.
I've done that one. Er... And if you're in a car, please drive safely.
Thank you and good night, one and all.
I love you all.
Well, tough crowd but I think I got the measure of 'em. Ooh.
They probably couldn't afford flowers.
This will do for our dinner party.
Richie, I've got some rather bad news for you.
- You're under arrest. - That's the bad news.
I wasn't that bad. I stumbled on a couple of punch lines.
It was our alibi-it collapsed. Mr Forsyth, he followed us here.
It's pris for us.
- Are you coming quietly, sir? - No, it's just the way I walk.
Note that down. I want all to know I was still cracking woofers.
Woofers or ancient double entendre
that everybody else gave up in the playground?
Oh, what a clever thing to say. How brainy you are.
Got a degree? Just cos you earn four times as much as a nurse,
you think you can cheek Richie Rich, do you?
Now, that's what I like to see.
A good, old-fashioned bobby.
Don't worry, Richie. These days, prison food is quite acceptable.
Mind you, it's not so nice when they nail you to the table
and shove it up your backside.
Well, Eddie, the long and winding road is over.
The great god, public, claims another weary showbiz victim.
Huh. Oscar Wilde, playwright, arrested for his beliefs.
Lenny Bruce, comedian, arrested for his beliefs.
Richie Rich, celebrity, arrested...
For going nicking down the local shop.
Huh! Lt'll be the trial of the century.
I shall be tried in majestic splendour by a jury of my peers.
Parky, Tarby, Lynchy, Sue Lawley.
- Annie Diamondy. - Debbie Greenwoody.
Selina Scotty, Maggie Philbiny.
Bloody hell, what a fantastic jury.
We might be on for a sex sesh after the trial.
Too right except you won't be there, cos you'll be in pris.
I'll be all right. I'm gonna plead insanity.
Damn. Let's face it. You've got the evidence.
Let me out! I need a lawyer! I want my lawyer!
- Oh. - Don't shout, Richie.
It oscillates the atmos and rattles my phlegm.
- I've found you a lawyer. - Oh.
Met him outside. Known him for years.
Spurty.
- Pervy Sir Peter Spurty, QC. - Mm.
Bit of luck him being here, really.
He'll get anyone off if you buy him a dirty mag.
Remember when the Tory cabinet were found
in that brothel discussing declining moral values?
Clear as a bell.
Pervy Sir Peter Spurty got them off.
Right. He's the man for us.
Bring us our lawyer! We demand Pervy Sir Pete.
- In there, Spurty. - Blimey, that was quick.
Well done the police, say I.
Why do left-wingers keep sniping at them?
If you don't wanna get beaten up, you shouldn't be poor.
Richie, shut up. Watcha, Spurty.
Me and my mate are in a bit of a fix
and are gonna do five to ten in the slammer
unless you can stitch the jury, rig the judge
and buy off the pigs with a kickback.
Eddie. Please, please, please.
This is England, Eddie. England.
Not Birmingham.
The British bobby cannot be bought.
- You, shut your face. - Sorry.
- What are you offering? - Nothing. You must speak to my lawyer.
What, old pervy Spurty? Ho-ho-ho! Ha-ha-ha!
Right now, everything seems to be in order here.
I would stand by you, Richie, but lost causes depress me.
Toodly-woodly.
Right, Spurty, do your stuff.
Your Honour, I wandered into a garden,
under the impression it was my garden.
On seeing items of women's laundry hanged on the line,
I naturally assumed that my wife had done some washing
and I began to get it in for her.
The fact that I live in a high-rise flat and am not married
is circumstantial evidence and, hence, inadmissible.
Right. Well, we'd better escape.
Against Leon Brittan's law and order initiative? Never!
No choice. The meat is in my trousers, Tarby is coming round
to hear his golfing anecdote and you're banged up in the slammer.
Don't be disgusting. I've never been banged up the slammer.
You're right. We've gotta escape.
I have a plan. What we have to do is set up a complicated system of stooges
to find out exactly what the guards are up to.
Then, we dig three tunnels and hide the dirt in our trousers.
We forge some German documents
and make the clothes of French peasant workers out of these blankets.
It's a great night for dying!
Then we wheel the wooden horse into the exercise yard,
we build a glider and we pole vault over the fence.
- What do you think? - Pathetic.
- Let's do it, then. - Yeah.
I'm sorry I doubted you. Your plan worked brilliantly.
Yes. Shame about old Spurty getting shot by the Gestapo.
No, the SPG, Eddie, the SPG. Not the Gestapo.
They're completely different things. The Gestapo, er...
- speak German. - Ah, yes.
We're all right. That's what matters.
Of course, Eddie. Safe and sound at home.
Perhaps now I can prepare for my fantastic dinner party.
Empty the big trousers.
Okey-dokey, me old spunky cock sparrow.
Now then, I've invited Tarby, Lynchy, Parky, Brucie,
Tommy O'Connory and you and me. Have we sufficient comestibles?
Oo-er! I don't know about that but here's the grub.
Good Lord, how did you get so much meat in your trousers?
That's what all the girls say.
Smut is the last recourse of the emotional cripple, Eddie.
It's a psychological truism - people talk about what they can't do.
Is that why you always talk about acting, plop pants?
Perhaps there is a land beyond the oblivion of brain death
where your observations would be understood,
but to us earthlings, they are mashed potatoes.
So keep them to yourself!
Richie, it's your choice.
I can either stuff the meat into the oven,
you into the oven or the oven into you. Which is to be?
The former.
Which one was that?
- That was where the oven... - Meat...
It doesn't matter. Tarby'll be here in ten minutes
and we haven't cooked a thing. Get this stuff in the oven.
- I'll never get it all in. - Oo-er, sounds a bit rude.
Gonna need something to lever it in with.
Oo-er, sounds a bit ruder.
No matter how much I stuff in, there's more to be pushed in.
Oo-er. It sounds even ruder than it was before.
Thank you for these observations.
Every culinary exchange should be accompanied
by the rantings of a braindead vegetable.
There we are, it's alight.
Ooh, it's Tarby. Oh, God, Tarby's here.
Oh, God, it's Parky, it's Tarby, it's Lynchy.
The whole gang's here. For God's sake, don't do anything rude.
Hope I'm not late, loobies. I bought you a bottle of wine
but I drunk it in the taxi.
Oh, God, I'd forgotten I'd invited you, Filthy.
You won't impress my showbiz friends.
I'd be impressed if you had any friends.
Right, that's it. Your invitation's withdrawn. Go away.
Oh, go on, daughter, do me a favour.
Where's your sense of humour?
- Only a bijou jokette. - Oh, joke, oh.
Of course I'll impress your friends.
We'll make a bona little team.
The financial artiste.
The theatrical artiste.
And the piss artist.
It's going to be a truly magical evening.
Blimey, those candles burned down fast.
Oh, keep it to yourself, Eddie. Much time has passed.
I'm swathed in melancholic pathos.
- Oo-er. - Shut up, Eddie.
I think you've been stood up, Richie.
Oo-er.
Oh, shut up, Eddie.
After all I've done. A show in a peepshow,
robbed a supermarket, been to prison and the rotters haven't even turned up.
Fate deals me blow after blow.
Oo-er.
What time did you put on the invites, love?
Eight o'clock. Look, I've got 'em here.
Tarby's, Brucie's, Lynchy's and...
I forgot to post the invites.
Dinner is served.
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