Order, order, order!
The defendants will give order.
All right, matey boy,
I'll have a lager and a small sweet sherry for blubface here.
"Great gag, Eddie. " Yes, I rather think it was.
Your Honour, I throw myself on the mercy of the court.
I am only 14 years old.
Make me your ward. Bring me up as your own
and we shall learn to love each other.
I had been cruelly used and am an emaciated waif.
That's right. A 14-stone emaciated waif.
- I've got heavy bones. - Fatso.
Spare me, Your Honour, I am with child.
I'm with Eddie and that's the same thing.
- He made me do it! - Silence in my courtroom!
Oooh-hoo-hoo!
Richard Rich and Edward Catflap,
you stand accused of a sickening and degraded crime
that strikes at the very heart of our society
and mocks all that we hold decent and clean.
You exposed your bottoms on TV-am
and, what is worse, in front of, erm...
Miss Anne Diamond. How do you plead?
We plead like this, Your Majesty...
Please, please, please let us off!
Oh, go on, I'll be your slave for life. We meant no harm.
We thought Anne would appreciate a peek at the tradesman's entrance.
You do yourself no good service with this spineless grovelling.
Desist, I say, or it may be the worse for you.
He's milking it a bit. All the script says is "Shut your face, plop-pants. "
This is the last time we use anyone from RADA.
Far from appreciating your foul display,
Miss, er... Anne Diamond has stressed
that two such raddled and acne-ridden old orifices
have seldom been put before a sickened public
and has requested the severity of the sentence
mirror the ugliness of the, er... flaps.
In the absence of any defence
I therefore sentence you to be... shot.
Take them down.
That's why we got into trouble in the first place.
I wish he'd make his mind up.
Your Honour, I wish to speak on behalf of the defendants.
Oh, that's it, then. Goodbye, cruel world.
Mr Filthy! I have passed sentence.
The case is closed!
Your Hon, darling, sweetheart, please don't shout,
I have a delicate medical condition known as a hangover.
I contend that vital evidence was not put before the jury
and that, hence, there should be a retrial.
And this evidence... is?
Looby... the burden of the Crown's case to date
has stood solely upon the alleged horrifying nature
of my clients' garden gates.
I contend that a split-second of TV-am videotape
is not sufficient evidence
to so damningly brand a man's rear loader.
And hence, I further contend that it is my clients' right
that the jury should view the evidence.
No! No!
The jury will view the evidence.
- Wanna look? - No! No!
Excuse me! We are still here, you know.
Never mind about hurting our feelings.
It seems I have no option
but to offer the defendants a conditional discharge.
Oo-er!
And that condition is that you find gainful employment
outside of show business
in which you are clearly a menace
to clean-living TV presenters like, er...
Miss Anne Diamond. Case dismissed.
As for you, Mr Filthy,
I find you guilty of encouraging indecent exposure
with intent to cause a public affray.
And under the new Criminal Evidence Anti-Terrorist
The Police Can Do What They Bloody Well Like Bill,
I sentence you to be hung by the neck...
until dead.
Oh.
Well, you probably won't be coming down the pub, then.
- See ya. - Thanks, Filth. You're a mate.
Poor old Filthy. Gonna get hanged just for getting us off.
Yeah.
Still, we're all right, so sod 'im.
Yeah.
Mind you, Eddie, are we all right?
We've got to get gainful non-showbiz employment,
otherwise it's back in the jug.
What about stealing?
Of course, what a good idea! It's very romantic, isn't it?
Oh, I can see me now. I am the unblemished soul
cast down amongst criminals,
having to steal to stay alive, like Oliver Twist!
I should've been in Oliver.
Guess what they said at the audition.
"Sod off, ugly"?
That's amazing, were you there?
Ollie Twisto didn't do so badly from his life of crime,
thank you very much.
No siree bob, he certainly did not.
After a spell of pickpocketing, a rich gentleman discovered
that he was his dead daughter's illegitimate child,
and so he saved him.
- Maybe that will happen to us! - Yeah, maybe!
Though the chances are vaguely against it, aren't they?
No, no, no! It's all in the book.
"Why, Doctor," Mr Brownlow will say
in his gruff but kindly voice,
"Know ye not these two little urchins, Eddie and Richie?
"Study on the portrait of my dead daughter.
"Surely you'll vouchsafe that their faces are just like Fanny's?"
- Speak for yourself. - Now...
Ollie started in the workhouse.
We must throw ourselves on the mercy of the state.
But the state has no mercy.
They enjoy watching people starve to death.
- It's called monetarism. - Oh, yes.
Go straight to the pickpocketing.
Of course, yes! I've been entirely miscasting myself.
The Artful Dodger! That's the part for me.
Whipping fine silk hankies out the pockets of fops and beaux
- as they parade about. - Let's practise.
Try and get my wallet out of my back pocket without me noticing.
All right, skip. Shouldn't be difficult.
You got hit by a bus last week and didn't notice.
I had a lot on my mind.
You would do with a bus on your head.
- Brilliant joke, Richie! - Wasn't a bad one, was it?
Could we please just get on with the play?
Who knows who's watching? Mrs Thatcher could be watching.
The damn thing won't budge!
Of course not, it's nailed to my bottom.
There's a lot of pickpockets about.
This is ridiculous, we'll never get a job this way
and we'll be sent back to pris.
I'll phone Filthy, it's his responsibil to get us work.
He's in pris, under sentence of death.
Selfish bastard!
Filthy! Great to see you! Commiserations.
- Here's half a Mars bar. - I ate the rest,
but I wiped your bit down.
Mind you, you should've seen what he wiped it with!
- Now, then, Filthy... - God, I'm ill.
Prison does not agree with me. This morning I coughed so hard
I blew my kidney out my backside.
Stop whingeing, you selfish little toady.
We're in deep troub because of what you did.
Just cos you got us off, the judge said we've got to get gainful employment.
- You want me to help you? - You are my agent.
I'm also under sentence of death.
All right, I'll help you if you do one small thing for me.
- Filthy, anything. - I want you to get me
a short piece of one-inch steel piping.
What for?
If I told you that I'd ruin the plot, Eddie.
I'd hardly call this meaningless stream of bot and knob gags a plot, would you?
It'll all come clear in the end. Get the piping.
- Righty-dokey. - Oh, God.
Here you go, Filthy.
Here's a bit of a gag to lighten the tone.
What's the similarity between this toilet bowl and your head?
I neither know nor care.
When you bang them together they both go "clunk".
If you can't get a laugh without lavatory humour, keep quiet.
There's the pipe. Now do something for us.
- You've got to suggest a job. - Well, daughters, I've been thinking.
It strikes me that, to date,
your career can be summed up in two words.
- Star spangled? - Complete disaster.
So, the first thing we must ask ourselves is
what are your qualities and talents?
Right, that's that out of the way. What's next?
This is no time to mince with words, Eddie.
We must be honest. Richie is a lying, cheating, vicious right-wing bastard
with the sexual sophistication of a retarded donkey.
Which means you are ideally suited to be...
A journalist?
- Yeah. - You mean...
- join the scum? - Become a journo?
Yes.
What shall we do for an encore? Set fire to a hospital?
What you've got to do is go and see Dingo Wucker,
the big Australian publisher.
'The men who wrote that letter of introduction are here, sir. '
Christ, yes, I remember. What are their tits like?
'Er, they're men, sir. '
Dingo Wucker. Billionaire and ordinary bloke, g'day.
Richie Rich, major celeb, amazing bloke, g'day.
Edward Catflap, extraordinary fart impressionist, g'day.
- G'day! - G'day!
Excellent credentials -
a letter of introduction from Mrs Thatcher and Jimmy Tarbuck.
Thatcho and Tarbo, bloody great mates!
Forged, of course.
You wanna be journos so there's nothing wrong with that.
I liked its audacity.
- Take a seat. - Thought you'd never ask.
Take the weight off me plates,
put me bot on a spot. Save my bunions.
Take it easy, boys. "Bunions" is English for horrible feet.
They thought you said "unions".
You didn't say "unions", you slimy English commie?
Maybe you did, maybe you said "unions"...
- I said "bunions", you fat... - He said it again, you bastard!
We hate unions and you saved England by destroying them.
How clever to move to Wapping so that under Thatcher's new laws,
you could sack everyone after many years' service
and when they gathered outside your gates to protest,
how lucky we taxpayers were to pay for thousands of police
to keep them from the cash they earned for you.
- The bar closes in an hour. - Does it? Oh...
I'm thrilled to see you support my anti-communist actions.
I'll get you an assignment immediately from the editor.
He's in the copy room. I know that because I keep him on this string.
It's so I can be sure he has editorial freedom from me, his publisher.
- Yes, Mr Wucker? - The story on the chancellor.
Couldn't you work a bird into it some way?
Oh, come on.
You're a journo for God's sake, take some pride in your work.
- Who is this chancellor anyway? - He's a government minister.
Ah, it's a he, eh?
Oh, that means he's knobbed somebody recently, right?
Find out who, offer her £200 for a topless
and if she won't, rob her house, pinch her photo albums
and find a tits-out sunbathing shot.
Er, I don't think Mrs Lawson's ever been tits-out sunbathing.
Who the hell's Mrs Lawson? How old is she?
- I dunno. 50, 55? - Is she a lovable granny?
I doubt it.
I'm just not interested in women over 25 unless they're lovable grannies.
Don't argue with me about this.
I see our Budget coverage as a six-tit story, maybe even seven.
- Seven tits? - Yeah, profile shot. Very tasteful.
See to it, Bill. I've brought you these two new cub reporters.
Dibby-dibby dob-dob-dob!
- Celebrity experts. - That's us! Sha-zing!
You lucky, you've got something big. Tell 'em, Bill.
Oh, Christ.
We had a call from the PM.
She's worried about all these pop stars doing loads of charity work.
It would be a charity if they all shut up.
James Last and Roger Whittaker are the only decent rockers.
Oh, I don't know. The Wombles can certainly kick ass.
Shut your beer-suckers and listen.
Bob Geldof and Midge Ure alerted people to the starving millions, right?
The PM is worried that somebody's gonna click
that the starvation is actually caused by rich countries screwing the Third World.
So, we're going to smear Sir Bob.
Ah. Sounds saucy. What are we going to smear him with?
Listen, we're going to get this do-gooder.
This is what I want you to do. We hear that Bob Geldof...
No, no. Midge Ure.
- What? - "We hear that Midge Ure... "
- Look 'ere... - What?
We couldn't get Geldof for the show.
- We've only got Midge Ure. - Midge... "Urrrh"?
- "Urrre". - Let me get this straight.
We have booked a man for my show called Midge "Uhhhrr"?
He's all we could get for a bottle of Woodpecker
and a snog with the stage doorman.
- I'm a semiprofessional actor. - Get on with it, you old ham.
Doing this means you'll probably get a panto next year.
We're getting reports that Midge Ure is a Soviet agent
and he's having an affair with Mrs Thatcher.
- I want the pics and the story. - Juicy!
Where did we get this? Squealer in the Ultravox entourage?
Don't be a moron, we made it up. That way we can be sure of all the facts.
- Now, piss off. - Right.
And, hey-let's be careful out there.
Right, Eddie-this is the plan.
I'll keep him talking, you stick Thatch in his bed,
spread the Russian stuff around and take pics.
While we're at it why don't we bung in a goat or an underage chicken?
Please keep the diseased flushings of your mind to yourself.
As British journos, I hope we have some moral code.
Shut up and let's get on with framing Midge "Urhhh".
I'll deal with the butler, or maybe it'll be a maid.
He's bound to be an equal opportunities employer.
- We might be on for a bit of sex. - Yeah, that's bound to happen.
Goodness, my dear, you're attractive. Get a load of this!
Shut up! Shut up!
All right, all right, so it's Midge Ure.
Don't behave like mindless sycophants.
He sells records to a few screaming knicker-wetters
and you think he's God!
I work my guts out and I can't even get on Blankety Blank.
Let's start again, shall we?
I'm a police officer. Here.
This is a library ticket.
Is it? Oh, damn.
"Police. " Right, there you are.
Oh, yes. What can I do for you?
I understand you've been holding all-night sex parties
in that bus shelter down the road.
Ridiculous. I hold my sex parties at Geldof's place.
- Ooh, do you? What's it like? - Well...
No, no, no... Nevertheless, I must ask you
to accompany me down the road.
You're making a big mistake here.
Not as big as you did agreeing to do this.
It is now the next day.
'And tomorrow is a historic day for British justice. '
The first execution under the new Police Act.
A government spokesman said bringing back hanging
was a return to traditional values.
There are plans to restore beheading
and the ritual slaughter of innocents by druids.
The condemned man, Ralph Filthy, a theatrical agent,
spoke out from his cell.
'I should like to thank all my clients
'for their many letters and messages of support. '
Unfortunately there haven't been any.
Also, if the landlord of Biggun's illegal drinking joint and peepo bar is tuned in,
I left an unfinished drink in the snug the other day.
Pop it over, be a looby.
A moving final appeal from a man about to die.
You know...
I've missed old Filthy.
Last December, with the meat cleaver. Missed him.
Point-blank range with my mum's air pistol. Missed him.
It just goes to show, if you want a job doing properly,
it's best not to drink 16 pints of lager beforehand.
Oh, God.
That bitch at Boots.
She insisted I paid for the photos.
I promised her a mensh on my next show.
So I punched her and nicked 'em!
I'm enjoying the moral laxity of being a journo.
- What are the pics like? - I hope they're dirty.
I could do with a look at something dirty.
You're welcome to look at my duvet.
But be careful. It ate the dog last week.
Eddie, these are brilliant!
Perfect sex pics of Mrs Thatcher in Midge Ure's bed.
We're on our way to our first front page! Bill the editor will be so proud.
- Wait, I've just had a thought. - We should bake a cake.
30 years on from his mother's womb, Eddie's first thought.
It's rather a solemn moment.
Richie, there's something unpleasant on your trouser area.
- What? - My head.
Oh, bloody hell, that hurt, Eddie.
Ow, ow, that really hurt.
I must say, it was a lot harder than I was expecting.
It's these photos, they're so sexy.
Maybe we shouldn't take them to the papers,
maybe we should take them to Midge "Urrrgh" himself.
How much do you think he'd pay for them?
Are you suggesting we blackmail the world's greatest rock star?
No, I'm suggesting we blackmail Midge Ure.
- Hello again, Officer. - Ha-ha!
We're not police officers, you dupe! We're journos!
God, the scum!
- Yes, from the Daily Bastard! - That's us! Our cards...
Now then, Mr "Urrghhh".
Look at these and remember - we've got the negatives.
- Yes, right here. - Er, no.
We've got them in a highly secret place.
Not very nice are they? Let me paint a picture for you, Mr Midge.
Imagine a record shop where your new album has just come out.
I shall play a mother, Eddie, my daughter Cynthia.
- Action! - Oh, Mummy,
look at the lovely new Ultravox album. Can I buy it?
He's so talented even though he sings like there's a whippet down his trousers.
No, you may not, Cynthia.
Midge "Urghhh" is a filthy pervy, I read it in the Daily Bastard.
Not a very pretty picture, is it, "Urrrh"?
Not really, no.
Of course, for 200,000 billion pounds...
And the royalties from your great single Shaddap You Face.
What's a-matter you, hey!
Got-a no respect Shaddap you face
Fantastic, the only decent thing you ever did.
- So if you give us all that... - No one need see these pics.
- That would be a shame. - What?
You know the business, Rich, you're a pro.
Things like this don't harm stars like you and I any more.
In fact, a bit of scandal's quite good for the career.
And I've not had much publicity recently, so...
great, go for it. Publish.
- Edward? - Yes, I think I understand.
Cop this, Mr Midge Ure.
God, how embarrassing. Demoted on our first day.
Look at us now. Reduced to covering a common hanging.
What's more, it's only Filthy.
I wouldn't mind if it was somebody interesting.
The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast
consisting of 40 fags and a bottle of Scotch.
Unfortunately we were unable to comply with his last request
due to objections from the RSPCA.
- Bloody do-gooders. - The prisoner will mount the scaffold.
Oo-er!
It is a far, far better thing that I do now
than what I have ever done before.
That can't be very hard. Everything you've done has been crap.
Did you know that it's a scientific fact
that when you get hung...
Yes, I did know that, Eddie, actually.
Ironic, really. First one in 15 years
and I won't be here to enjoy it.
Only joking, Filtho. Actually, we're both very, very, very sad.
No sense in moping, is there?
No.
Perhaps you're right, Eddie.
I mean, after all, as I prepare to die
I have only one regret.
- Which is? - I wish...
- I wasn't being executed. - Sounds reasonable.
Prisoner Filthy, it is time.
No, no, no! Hang on! My flash hasn't warmed up yet.
See you in that great dressing room in the skies, loobies.
Yeah, bye!
- Bravo! Well hung! - Encore!
The government would like us to warn children
that hanging is very dangerous
even though half of them want to bring it back.
That's it, you lot. Plenty more where this one came from.
- Marvellous! - Wasn't it? Rather!
- Oh, God, you're alive! - Of course I am, Richie.
I've got to be in the next series.
That's when you can force your wages up.
But how?
I've got some great lines this week -
"You're alive" and "But how?"
Let's get to a bit with lots of me in it.
That bit of piping you gave me - it's an old Newgate trick.
You stuff it down your throat
and it stops your windpipe collapsing. That's what I did.
But how can you have, Filthy? The pipe is still in the cell.
Is it?
In that case it must have been
this safety harness that saved me, then.
Oh, God, what a rotten day.
Well, let's go home and think about it, shall we?
Yeah.
I knew nothing good would come of joining the scum.
Ohhh, yes.
It's easy to say something clever, isn't it?
Except it isn't really for you, is it?
Cos you're so thick.
Look, look, look, boys, shut up, shut up, I'm trying to think.
Now, it strikes me that what we should do
is take a leaf out of Midge's book and do what he does.
What, wander about with designer stubble,
wiggling our bots like we just sat on a Magimix?
Edward, you seem determined to ruin any chance
of being bought a drink by him in the bar after the show.
He's got pots of money, you know.
Look, look, look, stop it, boys, shut up, shut up.
All I'm saying is that if someone
as experienced in the business as Midgey
says that all publicity is good publicity
then what we should do is write about Richie.
Of course! Get paid to promote my own career!
What are we going to write about your fascinating lifestyle?
"Drunk has-been goes to the pub"?
"Fat failure cricks his neck ogling girl's bottom"?
Well, it's better than you.
"Lobotomised blubber mountain farts occasionally. "
I'm not trying to be scandalous, am I?
Lots of what I do is very fascinating indeed.
The gen pub would be very interested in my outrageous exploits.
That's right, you tell him.
- Like what? - What about my drug problem?
- Which is? - We're right out of aspirin.
And I'm getting very fond of Night Nurse.
Great. I can just see the headlines now -
"Richie Rich pinches a four-ounce cheeseburger.
"'I spent all my cash on Night Nurse,'
"he wailed to anyone prepared to listen, which was no one. "
Can you boys have forgotten so soon the first rule of journalism?
Lie.
Of course, just make it up.
It's got to be spicy and with it.
- Sex, drink, nightclubs. - I've got it!
"Richie has sex and a drink in a nightclub. "
What about, "Richie has sex with a knight while drunk in a club"?
Good. What about "Richie gets put in the club
"by a drunk during the night"?
Don't be ridiculous, that's far too chintzy.
What you need is innuendo.
Of course, and I am the king of innuendo.
What about...
"Richie grasps his whopper in a club,
"oo-er, his drink I mean, madam. "
Fabulous! It's Guardian Journalist Of The Year for you!
I'm beginning to have second thoughts
about this whole "all publicity being good" lark.
I've been in the business a long time.
I can remember when Andrew Gardner blew off on News At Ten.
"Bong. Good evening, this is the news. "
Tense moment. The nation held its breath.
So did Anna Ford, I'm told.
What a nice story, Filthy. Is it relevant?
Of course it's rel, Richie, darling.
Couldn't be reller!
Now, it seems to me,
that, as journos,
you are in a unique position to destroy careers here.
Uh-huh-huh!
And, if you destroyed enough of them...
- there'd only be... ... me left!
Exactly.
Are you suggesting that we systematically smear everyone
in British show business until there's only Richie left
so the BBC have to give him a job?
Why the hell not? I deserve a lucky break as much as anyone.
Finished.
Well, as you know, boys, I rarely get excited
but right now I feel like I've been locked in an off-licence.
This must be the most comprehensive piece of libel
in the history of journalism.
Everyone in show business individually slandered
with you totally exonerated.
There can't have been such a catalogue of lies,
half-truths and self-congratulation
since... Ian MacGregor's account of the miners' strike.
- Have we got everyone? - Yep.
- Ooh, Vera Lynn? - Vera Lynn.
Aha. "Adolf Hitler's lover, rumoured to be a man. "
- Grange Hill kids? - Grange Hill kids...
Yes. The love-children of Jimmy Saville and Nana Mouskouri.
Outrageous! Lofty from EastEnders.
You know why they call him Lofty!
It's incredible, isn't it? We must have the whole of show business there.
- From the very bottom... - Roland Rat.
...to the very top - Benny Hill.
The guv'nor.
Benny Hill.
The Beeb's got Ronnie Barker
but ITV's got the guv'nor, Benny. 150 years in the biz.
And still telling the same joke.
Y'know, I've seen the original seaside postcard he got it off.
A national treasure.
Right, we've got the dirt, let's show Mr Wucker.
This is absolute dynamite! We'll blow every other paper off the street.
So, you're going to publish, then?
Publish? We're gonna publish nothing else.
There are stories on the economy, industrial relations and the NHS
but we can forget all that
cos this is a newspaper and nothing gets in the way of showbiz gossip.
Quite right too.
After this lot I don't know who the TV companies are gonna use.
We'll be on our way then, Mr Wucker.
Yeah, yeah, see ya... Hey.
I suppose there's some microscopic evidence
for all these allegations - we only need the tiniest crumb.
Yes, Mr Wucker, it's all completely and utterly true.
Oh, right.
Er, Mr Wucker, I just want it noted
that Edward Didgeridoo Catflap said we had the proof.
Right. How do you spell "tits"?
Oh, dear, oh, dear. Never worked so hard in me life.
- Get the telly on. - Which channel?
It doesn't matter, he's on all of them.
'In a moment, Richtime,
'sparkling entertainment from Richie Rich.
'Followed at 7:30 by Top Of The Riches,
'and at 8:00, Life On Richie, a fascinating insight
'into the natural evolution of Richie Rich. '
Whoo-hoo-hoo!
'Richtime! '
Hello Mums, Hello Dads
Hello to all the family
God bless Gran, don't forget the kids
God bless the dog!
You're all nice people in this nicest of worlds
But I'm the nicest of all
Because I'm in showbiz
Watch me now Showbiz
I'm in showbiz
Showbiz Showbiz
So drive safely and the best of British
The Best of British to you-ou
From me to everybody
Good old Riiichie Riiich
I think it's rubbish, I'm gonna vomit.
I can think of no higher compliment.
Shut up, I'm in this.
All the family.
Mums, Dads, Gran. And, of course, the kids.
Don't forget the kids. Look after Mum, kids,
and try and stay clear of the Loony Left.
Hello, yes, British Airways? No, I cannot hold.
This is Ralph Filthy. Yes, Richie Rich's agent.
Rio de Janeiro, yes, thank you very much.
Made it!
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