A Bit of Fry and Laurie (1987–1995): Season 4, Episode 5 - Episode #4.5 - full transcript
In a parody of the Oprah Winfrey show a woman confesses her problems with low self-esteem and receives a pointless round of applause. Guests Stephen Moore and Phyllida Law join in some of the sketches including a dilemma with a wasps nest.
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.
Strangest thing, really, isn't
it? Tony's off to lunch again.
I swear that man gets earlier
and earlier every time.
He's gonna meet himself
having breakfast one day.
You all right, old fellow?
Oh, I'm... Yes, yes,
sorry, I'm just...
No, come on, come on.
Whatever it is, out with
it. It can't be that bad.
I... I just can't
help feeling that,
you know, my life is
grey and hopeless.
Grey and hopeless? Grey and
hopeless? Whatever do you mean?
Well, you know, I look into
the future, and what do I see?
I don't know. What do you see?
Just the blank rolling of the
years, one after another, like...
Like grey, hopeless waves
beating against my brain
until the blood
runs out of my ears.
Oh, come on now.
Look at you, you've got a lovely
wife. Well, you've got a wife.
You've got a very pleasant
house, three loving goldfish...
Oh, I know, I know. But...
Well, I mean, what does it mean?
You know, we live
in a doomed world.
Oh, nonsense, what do
you mean, "doomed"?
Nobody likes anybody any more. Nobody
cares about anybody or anything.
People go around hitting and
stealing and stabbing and insulting.
Cities are unbreathable, the
countryside's a poisonous mess.
You can get beaten up by a 12-year-old,
and ripped off by your neighbour.
Well, I grant you, things
aren't perfect, but I mean...
There are no certainties any
more, it's just battle lines.
There's no pleasure in anything,
except in getting drunk,
or high on dangerous drugs supplied
by maniacs with machine guns.
Well, it's a grim old world, all right,
but surely it's always been like...
I mean, films and music
are crap, books are crap.
Streets are so full, you can't walk in a
town without getting pushed off the pavement.
Roads are unusable,
trains are a bloody joke.
The politicians are so feeble-minded
and gutless, you can't even hate them.
Even sport isn't that
much fun any more, is it?
You smile at someone in the street,
you're either knifed in the kidneys,
or up in court for rape.
Looking at a newspaper is like
opening a fold of used lavatory paper.
You turn on the television,
you're sprayed in coloured vomit.
It's frigging useless, isn't it?
We're done for.
We're shagged. We're
absolutely shagged.
It's grey and hopeless.
No pleasure, no prospect,
no future, nothing.
Just grey, hopeless hell.
- Jesus.
- Oh, Christ Jesus.
We're dead, we're dead,
we're dead, we're dead.
Well, first of all,
my colleague and I would like
to welcome you to a
brand-spanking-new series
of A Bit of Fry and Laurie,
the show that tries
to put a bit of jolliness
back into the darker
corners of modern Britain,
- but doesn't.
- Mmm.
Yes, I'd...
I'd like to add my own individual
welcome, on a more personal note,
separate and distinct from
my colleague's joint welcome,
which I always think is
a bit stiff, bit formal.
Uh, you know, my welcome's really
just a bit of an old "Hi."
Sort of, just... Just, "Hi."
Jesus.
So, the choice of welcomes
on BBC television,
it's either, "Good evening,
ladies and gentlemen," or it's...
Hi.
Good evening, ladies and
gentlemen. Oh, you're very kind.
How very sweet.
Thank you so much.
Thank you. Thank you.
Well, now my colleague and I would
like to introduce some guests
onto the A Bit of Fry
and Laurie programme.
That's right.
They're going to be
popping in and out over
the next half-an-hour or so,
fetching, carrying, handing round bowls of
nuts and raisins during the quiet portions.
And the first of those guests is,
well, will you please welcome,
cook, father of nine,
cook and amateur chef,
yes, it's John Bird.
- John, welcome.
- Thank you, great to be here.
It is, isn't it? We
were just saying that.
- So much better than being over there.
- Yeah.
John, tell the ladies and gentlemen what
you've been up to for the past 30 years,
and what plans you've come up with for
the restructuring of modern Britain.
- Well...
- You're a Sagittarian, is that right?
- Yes.
- Mmm-hmm. And your favourite colour is?
Aquamarine with a streak of mottled
purple where it joins the edge.
They like you already,
John. I can tell.
I know this crowd. They're a crazy
crowd, and they like you. Hugh.
Well, our next, last and final
guest, last, next and final guest,
is the chef, writer, author, chef,
cook and amateur professional,
yes, it's Jane Booker.
- No, it isn't.
- It is.
Jane, hello.
Jane, you worked, um...
You worked with Norman Lamont. What
was he like as a man, as a human being?
Well, I remember once
driving back from Bristol...
Bristol. That's an absolutely
marvellous story, and that's...
That story is now available on CD,
am I right?
Yes.
Now, one of the things we hope to be doing
on this series of A Bit of Fry and Laurie
is to be building up a
collection of guest movements.
And to that end, I've
asked Jane, here, and John
if they would come along
with some movements for us.
John, can we have
your movement first?
What a lovely movement.
A great way to start
our collection. Yeah.
Jane, can we have your
movement now, please?
Two fabulous movements.
Two fabulous movements.
Now, perhaps, John, you wouldn't mind
taking the Twiglets up that side.
And, Jane, can you dish out
the condoms up that side?
I think these guests have
been really a great success.
- We have been very lucky.
- Very lucky.
Well, we have one final
guest for you to meet,
who hopefully is going to be
with us throughout the show,
and his name is Dodger.
Oh, bless him.
Dodger is half-retriever,
half-retriever,
and he's going to be,
well, hopefully, growing up
with us as the show goes on.
That's right. Well, I think that's
more than enough introducing
to satisfy even the most
introduction-hungry viewer.
So, meantime, it's on with the
ruthless subversion of family values.
Tonight's theme is "Themes:
"what good are they?"
No, I don't think
they're any good at all.
Useless. I sold
all mine years ago.
Themes? Well, themes are what
you make of them, you know.
I mean, a good theme, like, say,
"Sex between people of vastly different heights:
Can Britain take it?"
Can be a wonderful thing, in
the right hands, of course.
Uh...
Yeah, sex is a good theme. Yeah.
Sex is thematically strong.
Makes me want to throw
up, makes me want to keck,
makes me want to vomit. "Hearts
of gold." Arse of gold, more like.
I don't pay my licence
fee every year.
But if I did...
It was the strangest thing, you
know. I dreamt the other night
that I was in bed
with Andrew Neil.
And, you know, I woke
up, and I was thinking,
"Why Andrew Neil?" you know.
And then I realised that the
cat had been sick on the duvet.
So...
People are often mistaking
me for Luther Vandross.
Oh, my God. What's
happened, Leonard?
I am bloody furious,
Jennifer, I tell you.
Oh, the blood! What's happened?
What's happened? Well, I've killed your
parents. Basically, that's what's happened.
- What?
- Stabbed them both to death.
- What?
- I could not be more furious.
- Stabbed, but why?
- Exactly. Why?
It was so unnecessary. That's
why I'm so bloody annoyed.
What?
Well, you know, your father was being a bit
ratty, complained that the tonic water was flat,
and all of a sudden, there I was,
stabbing him in the neck with a knife.
I mean, what is going on here?
God, you killed him!
Yeah, all right. Don't go on
about it. How do you think I feel?
I don't know, Leonard.
Bloody annoyed, that's how.
- Annoyed?
- Well, somebody should have stopped this.
I had to go out.
No, no, no, I'm not
blaming you, darling.
But somebody should have seen that
this was a tragedy waiting to happen
and done something about
it. I really am livid.
Oh, God, and Mummy, too!
Yeah, well, she got in the
way, tried to defend him, so...
There she was, lying dead, another
victim of bureaucratic inefficiency.
I mean, it just won't do.
Have you called the police?
No, no, I thought I'd write, actually.
I thought that would carry more weight.
I mean, have you told
them what you've done?
- What I've done?
- Yes!
What I've done? Oh, that's
nice. That's charming, isn't it?
I stab your parents to death with a bread
knife, and all of a sudden it's my fault.
Leonard, darling, I mean, you
did it. You said so yourself.
No. No, no, no, no,
my hand did it, Jennifer,
my hand and the knife did it,
yes.
But what is making my
hand do these things, hmm?
That's what you should
be asking yourself.
Well, you.
No! No, no, no, no, absolutely
not. It's the system.
I loved your parents,
Jennifer. You know that.
You father could be a bit gassy at
times, but they were lovely people.
And now they're dead, all
because the system failed again.
You're right. It's all my fault. I
shouldn't have gone out shopping.
Well, that was my first reaction,
I must admit. Bloody Jennifer.
God, she's left me in a right pickle
here. But it's not you, darling.
You know, there are people paid to make
sure this kind of thing doesn't happen,
and those people simply
didn't do their job.
Yes, but if I had
been here, I could...
Yeah, but you weren't,
my angel. You weren't.
You know, the system failed
you, just like it failed me.
Oh, God. What are
we going to do now?
Well, I've got a bloody good
mind to kill you, to be honest.
Yeah, well, that would teach the
social services a lesson, wouldn't it?
I'd like to see them talk their
way out of three dead bodies.
- Well, I'd rather you didn't.
- Well, I'd rather I didn't,
Jennifer, but what about my hand? What
is making my hand do these things, hmm?
- The system.
- The system, exactly.
You know, these people with
their cosy little offices,
and their fat bloody
salaries, sitting there
while your parents, Jennifer,
you know, good people, kind
people, are being slaughtered.
I mean, what is this
country coming to?
- Mr Hammond?
- Yes.
Derek Broom, social services.
Oh, well, hurrah for the bloody
cavalry. I hope you're satisfied.
- I'm sorry.
- Leonard's killed my parents.
He's stabbed them with a knife.
Oh, damn.
Yes, well, quite
funny, but only quite.
Oh, thanks very much.
But what can you do about it?
Well, until recently, nothing.
But, ladies, and, in a
broader sense, gentlemen,
my colleague and I, concerned as ever with
providing a higher and higher comic service
here at A Bit of Fry and Laurie
have decided to institute a charter.
The charter, or "charter,"
that we're proposing contains
a raft of key points,
and a key basket of top proposals
to ensure that you, the viewer...
The man on the Clapham omnibus,
if you like.
Yes.
Yes, well, the man who would've
been on the Clapham omnibus,
but discovered, after waiting for
two hours, that it's been cancelled
and replaced by a bright
yellow Transit van
called a Shopper
Hopper flopper...
that only runs at peak times...
Whatever the bleeding
hell they are.
...to ensure that
you have the right,
the muscle, the arse-widening
power, to make a difference.
Now, there are two main prongs.
By which we mean two main
sticky-out bits at the end.
- There is delivery.
- And there is quality.
Any joke which fails to come up
to the standard that you'd expect
from A Bit of Fry and Laurie
can be reported to the
charter commission,
where it will be inspected
by a key team of top experts,
who will then pass it on to
a top team of key experts.
And they will award, in a very
grown-up way, charter marks.
And if the joke and your
complaint about it is upheld,
then that joke will
be humanely destroyed.
Which brings us to our other
sticky-out bit, delivery.
Prong Two: Delivery.
In a modern society, jokes
must be delivered on time.
If you experience any delivery
where the timing is too...
Slow?
- Or if the timing should be...
- Quick.
Or if the joke never even...
Then the commission will be
only too happy to look into it.
- The comedy charter, peace of mind.
- Audience power.
Your guarantee of
satisfaction and delivery.
Without dripping.
Oh, now, how did
that poem go? Um...
"They bring you up,
your mum and dad"
"Crate, a normal nighman
Hane a freethy stipe
"You veen where musse is Simon
Critch Botty trees a wipe"
I first wrote the poem, from
which that verse was an extract,
when my grandfather
was murdered.
I wrote it again in 1978,
after hearing of the
death of rock music.
I'd like, with your kind
indulgence, to write it once more.
Thank you.
We see things, we hear things,
we touch things,
we taste things.
But never forget
that we also smell.
John, my spies tell me...
I should point out here that
when I say spies, of course,
I don't mean spies in the sense of people
with hidden cameras or false bottoms.
I'm talking about spies in the
sense of people who tell me things.
My spies, in that sense, tell
me that in your spare time,
you are Vice Professor of Smell
at De Montfort University.
Reserve your seat
of learning now.
John, do you think
we've forgotten smell?
Do I think we've
forgotten smell?
I think we neglect smell.
I think that smell is the one
sense that got left behind
in the mad rush for
profit and cheap housing.
- Can you give me any examples?
- Of what?
Well, um, examples of the things you say...
When I say that, I stress the word "you."
The things you say that
we're missing out on.
Yes, and have a go at this
and tell me what you think.
Oh, God, what is that?
That's revolting. What is it?
Now, that is Michael Portillo
getting out of a Rover 200
after quite a long journey.
How on earth did you
get hold of that?
Everybody asks me that.
- Let's try this one.
- Oh, that.
Oh, actually, I know this.
- Well, you ought to.
- Oh, ah, what is it?
Well, you... You have a guess.
- Ah... No, no, tell me.
- Go on, go on. Go on.
Is... Ah! Is it, um...
Is it the lavatories at Earl's Court
during the Royal Tournament?
No, but I can see the way
your mind's working. No.
In fact, that's your right knee.
Is it?
Good Lord, so it is.
- There you are, you see?
- And you say, you say
that a lot of people
are missing out on this.
I say that. I say that.
And I think that's a shame.
So do I, and so does Dodger.
Dodger's grown up a little
now, as you can see.
He's had his jabs and he's
become very much a friend
of all the staff here at
A Bit of Fry and Laurie.
Gordon.
♪ When the poor keep
getting hungrier
♪ And the rich keep getting fat
♪ Politicians change but
they're never gonna change that
♪ But you and me girl
♪ We got the answer
right in our hands
♪ All we got to do is
♪ When the winds
of war are blowing
♪ And the tide is coming in
♪ Don't you be hoping
for the good times
♪ Because the good
times have already been
♪ But girl we got the answer
♪ So easy you won't believe
♪ All we got to do is
♪ It's so easy to see
♪ If only they'd
listen to you and me
♪ We got to
♪ Since we can
♪ We got to
♪ Woman every man
♪ We got to
♪ Time after time
♪ We got to
♪ Caroline ♪
Can't find that channel changer?
Where did I put it last?
Is this always happening to you? Sometimes,
actually, you have to get up to find it?
All those channels available
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plus laser discs, CDI, Game Gear,
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As an introductory offer
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we're offering two more items
designed to enhance viewer comfort.
You know that feeling.
You're settled into your favourite
American wrestling programme,
and suddenly,
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Well, now you can say
goodbye to old milk bottles,
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Introducing Comfipee.
Plumbed into your home, Comfipee
allows you to expel those wastes
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Comfipoo to the rescue.
Comfipoo's built-in wiper,
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From cradle to grave, a world
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It's over. It's all
over, just end it.
The whole bloody thing's
gone and finished with.
Let's face it, the world will
be a better place without me.
Oh, I wish I'd never been born.
Oh, Jesus.
Don't do it, son.
Oh, my.
Who, what, which, where,
how many? Did I ever? What?
There, there, take it easy.
I should be dead.
How the hell did I...
Who are you?
Me? Oh, Clarence Cosy,
angel, second class.
- You are Rupert.
- How did you know that?
Well, I've granted your wish.
You've never been born.
Jigs, that's all I need.
- Well, shag me twice.
- What's that?
Water must have healed my cut.
What cut? There was never any
cut, because you were never born.
Look, angel, just fly away
for Christ's sake, will you?
Oh, I can't do that. I
haven't got my wings yet.
I'm getting out of here.
Oh, jigs. That's all I need. Some
cock-wit's stolen my sodding car.
You don't have a car, Rupert.
You haven't been born.
Look, I don't know who you are,
or under what law you've been
released into the community,
but just frig off, will you?
Angels don't frig, Rupert.
We don't have the training.
Listen, Tiny Tim, get this. I
own the largest conglomerate
of newspaper and satellite
television companies in the world.
I've got slightly better
things to be doing than
standing here talking to
a chocolate cake like you.
Don't you understand, Rupert?
I'm your guardian angel.
I'm gonna show you what this town would've
been like if you'd never been born.
That way you'll realise your
life is worth living after all,
the countless differences you've made to
people's lives, the joy you've spread.
I'm going home. Where's
a bloody minicab?
- Where to, Governor?
- Wapping. Wait a second.
See the difference you've made?
Wait a second. Where the arse
are all the satellite dishes?
- There aren't any satellite dishes.
- What do you mean?
I keep telling you, you
haven't been born yet.
Mind how you go, gents.
Thank you.
People don't have satellite TV.
They don't have the chance to watch
World Wrestling and Wheel of Fortune
and Video Bloopers
24 hours a day.
They're still forced to
watch the old BBC and ITV,
with all that drama and
sports and news programmes.
- You did away with all that.
- I did?
Mmm-hmm, swept it all away.
You pretended it was to
give people more choice,
but actually it was just to
make you fabulously rich.
Come on, let's go inside.
Whoa, wait a minute.
Not my kind of place.
Well, why not?
Well, you know, a
lot of minorities.
Don't you like minorities?
Well, I don't mind them but, you know,
they're not gonna like me very much.
No, no, no, I keep telling you,
because you haven't been born,
the newspapers you would have owned
haven't been able to teach everybody
to sneer at their neighbours because
they're foreign or different or left-wing.
People have ended up liking each
other, and liking this country.
Heck, they might even like you.
Now, two very nice
drinks, please.
Jesus, mothering arse. Where
the hell are all the tits?
They're right in front
of women's chests.
I guess the editor didn't think
that was much of a news story.
- Gotta have tits to sell a paper.
- Well, apparently not.
Without your newspapers debasing
people's view of the world
with every sentence
they produce,
people have turned out to be interested
in all kinds of other things.
Strange, isn't it?
- Here, I'll get these.
- Thank you.
Well, suck my arse.
Who the hell is that?
That's the Queen. They
still have one, you see.
♪ Silent night
♪ Holy night ♪
Get me the cock out of here.
- Well?
- It's brilliant. Totally bloody brilliant.
Big red buses, free hospitals,
an amusing royal family,
proper taxis, decent newspapers,
best television in the world,
people actually getting
on with each other.
- You like it? You really like it?
- It's fantastic, it's paradise.
Oh, help me, Clarence.
I wanna live again.
Well, this is
marvellous news, Rupert.
Just think of the money I could
make in a world like this.
I could introduce big tits, break
up the broadcasting monopolies,
destroy The Times, the
BBC, the royal family.
I could make an
absolute bloody fortune.
Twat.
Well, once more, old Father
Time has raised his sickle,
and mown us ruthlessly
down without stopping.
We've come now to the end of this
edition of A Bit of Fry and Laurie.
My colleague, thoughts, views,
visions, a summary, if you please.
- Well, Stephen, it's been a...
- Oh, no, no, no. Not out loud.
- Right. I'm so very...
- I know.
I know, I know.
My guests, have you... Have you chosen
tonight's cocktail? What's it to be?
- Oh, a golden meteorite, I think, Stephen.
- Yes, please. A golden meteorite.
A golden meteorite.
Well, now, for a golden
meteorite you will need
one shot gin, one shot vodka,
one shot of this highball
tumbler, close up,
one shot of straight Kentucky
sour mash sipping whisky,
a zeal of ice,
a priest of lemon,
a slug of milk,
two-and-a-half litres of air,
and a finger of slug shot.
We will also need some warm, warm,
warm, warm, warm, warmest music,
which is achieved by
my saying these words,
please, Mr Music, will you play?
Soupy twist.
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.
Strangest thing, really, isn't
it? Tony's off to lunch again.
I swear that man gets earlier
and earlier every time.
He's gonna meet himself
having breakfast one day.
You all right, old fellow?
Oh, I'm... Yes, yes,
sorry, I'm just...
No, come on, come on.
Whatever it is, out with
it. It can't be that bad.
I... I just can't
help feeling that,
you know, my life is
grey and hopeless.
Grey and hopeless? Grey and
hopeless? Whatever do you mean?
Well, you know, I look into
the future, and what do I see?
I don't know. What do you see?
Just the blank rolling of the
years, one after another, like...
Like grey, hopeless waves
beating against my brain
until the blood
runs out of my ears.
Oh, come on now.
Look at you, you've got a lovely
wife. Well, you've got a wife.
You've got a very pleasant
house, three loving goldfish...
Oh, I know, I know. But...
Well, I mean, what does it mean?
You know, we live
in a doomed world.
Oh, nonsense, what do
you mean, "doomed"?
Nobody likes anybody any more. Nobody
cares about anybody or anything.
People go around hitting and
stealing and stabbing and insulting.
Cities are unbreathable, the
countryside's a poisonous mess.
You can get beaten up by a 12-year-old,
and ripped off by your neighbour.
Well, I grant you, things
aren't perfect, but I mean...
There are no certainties any
more, it's just battle lines.
There's no pleasure in anything,
except in getting drunk,
or high on dangerous drugs supplied
by maniacs with machine guns.
Well, it's a grim old world, all right,
but surely it's always been like...
I mean, films and music
are crap, books are crap.
Streets are so full, you can't walk in a
town without getting pushed off the pavement.
Roads are unusable,
trains are a bloody joke.
The politicians are so feeble-minded
and gutless, you can't even hate them.
Even sport isn't that
much fun any more, is it?
You smile at someone in the street,
you're either knifed in the kidneys,
or up in court for rape.
Looking at a newspaper is like
opening a fold of used lavatory paper.
You turn on the television,
you're sprayed in coloured vomit.
It's frigging useless, isn't it?
We're done for.
We're shagged. We're
absolutely shagged.
It's grey and hopeless.
No pleasure, no prospect,
no future, nothing.
Just grey, hopeless hell.
- Jesus.
- Oh, Christ Jesus.
We're dead, we're dead,
we're dead, we're dead.
Well, first of all,
my colleague and I would like
to welcome you to a
brand-spanking-new series
of A Bit of Fry and Laurie,
the show that tries
to put a bit of jolliness
back into the darker
corners of modern Britain,
- but doesn't.
- Mmm.
Yes, I'd...
I'd like to add my own individual
welcome, on a more personal note,
separate and distinct from
my colleague's joint welcome,
which I always think is
a bit stiff, bit formal.
Uh, you know, my welcome's really
just a bit of an old "Hi."
Sort of, just... Just, "Hi."
Jesus.
So, the choice of welcomes
on BBC television,
it's either, "Good evening,
ladies and gentlemen," or it's...
Hi.
Good evening, ladies and
gentlemen. Oh, you're very kind.
How very sweet.
Thank you so much.
Thank you. Thank you.
Well, now my colleague and I would
like to introduce some guests
onto the A Bit of Fry
and Laurie programme.
That's right.
They're going to be
popping in and out over
the next half-an-hour or so,
fetching, carrying, handing round bowls of
nuts and raisins during the quiet portions.
And the first of those guests is,
well, will you please welcome,
cook, father of nine,
cook and amateur chef,
yes, it's John Bird.
- John, welcome.
- Thank you, great to be here.
It is, isn't it? We
were just saying that.
- So much better than being over there.
- Yeah.
John, tell the ladies and gentlemen what
you've been up to for the past 30 years,
and what plans you've come up with for
the restructuring of modern Britain.
- Well...
- You're a Sagittarian, is that right?
- Yes.
- Mmm-hmm. And your favourite colour is?
Aquamarine with a streak of mottled
purple where it joins the edge.
They like you already,
John. I can tell.
I know this crowd. They're a crazy
crowd, and they like you. Hugh.
Well, our next, last and final
guest, last, next and final guest,
is the chef, writer, author, chef,
cook and amateur professional,
yes, it's Jane Booker.
- No, it isn't.
- It is.
Jane, hello.
Jane, you worked, um...
You worked with Norman Lamont. What
was he like as a man, as a human being?
Well, I remember once
driving back from Bristol...
Bristol. That's an absolutely
marvellous story, and that's...
That story is now available on CD,
am I right?
Yes.
Now, one of the things we hope to be doing
on this series of A Bit of Fry and Laurie
is to be building up a
collection of guest movements.
And to that end, I've
asked Jane, here, and John
if they would come along
with some movements for us.
John, can we have
your movement first?
What a lovely movement.
A great way to start
our collection. Yeah.
Jane, can we have your
movement now, please?
Two fabulous movements.
Two fabulous movements.
Now, perhaps, John, you wouldn't mind
taking the Twiglets up that side.
And, Jane, can you dish out
the condoms up that side?
I think these guests have
been really a great success.
- We have been very lucky.
- Very lucky.
Well, we have one final
guest for you to meet,
who hopefully is going to be
with us throughout the show,
and his name is Dodger.
Oh, bless him.
Dodger is half-retriever,
half-retriever,
and he's going to be,
well, hopefully, growing up
with us as the show goes on.
That's right. Well, I think that's
more than enough introducing
to satisfy even the most
introduction-hungry viewer.
So, meantime, it's on with the
ruthless subversion of family values.
Tonight's theme is "Themes:
"what good are they?"
No, I don't think
they're any good at all.
Useless. I sold
all mine years ago.
Themes? Well, themes are what
you make of them, you know.
I mean, a good theme, like, say,
"Sex between people of vastly different heights:
Can Britain take it?"
Can be a wonderful thing, in
the right hands, of course.
Uh...
Yeah, sex is a good theme. Yeah.
Sex is thematically strong.
Makes me want to throw
up, makes me want to keck,
makes me want to vomit. "Hearts
of gold." Arse of gold, more like.
I don't pay my licence
fee every year.
But if I did...
It was the strangest thing, you
know. I dreamt the other night
that I was in bed
with Andrew Neil.
And, you know, I woke
up, and I was thinking,
"Why Andrew Neil?" you know.
And then I realised that the
cat had been sick on the duvet.
So...
People are often mistaking
me for Luther Vandross.
Oh, my God. What's
happened, Leonard?
I am bloody furious,
Jennifer, I tell you.
Oh, the blood! What's happened?
What's happened? Well, I've killed your
parents. Basically, that's what's happened.
- What?
- Stabbed them both to death.
- What?
- I could not be more furious.
- Stabbed, but why?
- Exactly. Why?
It was so unnecessary. That's
why I'm so bloody annoyed.
What?
Well, you know, your father was being a bit
ratty, complained that the tonic water was flat,
and all of a sudden, there I was,
stabbing him in the neck with a knife.
I mean, what is going on here?
God, you killed him!
Yeah, all right. Don't go on
about it. How do you think I feel?
I don't know, Leonard.
Bloody annoyed, that's how.
- Annoyed?
- Well, somebody should have stopped this.
I had to go out.
No, no, no, I'm not
blaming you, darling.
But somebody should have seen that
this was a tragedy waiting to happen
and done something about
it. I really am livid.
Oh, God, and Mummy, too!
Yeah, well, she got in the
way, tried to defend him, so...
There she was, lying dead, another
victim of bureaucratic inefficiency.
I mean, it just won't do.
Have you called the police?
No, no, I thought I'd write, actually.
I thought that would carry more weight.
I mean, have you told
them what you've done?
- What I've done?
- Yes!
What I've done? Oh, that's
nice. That's charming, isn't it?
I stab your parents to death with a bread
knife, and all of a sudden it's my fault.
Leonard, darling, I mean, you
did it. You said so yourself.
No. No, no, no, no,
my hand did it, Jennifer,
my hand and the knife did it,
yes.
But what is making my
hand do these things, hmm?
That's what you should
be asking yourself.
Well, you.
No! No, no, no, no, absolutely
not. It's the system.
I loved your parents,
Jennifer. You know that.
You father could be a bit gassy at
times, but they were lovely people.
And now they're dead, all
because the system failed again.
You're right. It's all my fault. I
shouldn't have gone out shopping.
Well, that was my first reaction,
I must admit. Bloody Jennifer.
God, she's left me in a right pickle
here. But it's not you, darling.
You know, there are people paid to make
sure this kind of thing doesn't happen,
and those people simply
didn't do their job.
Yes, but if I had
been here, I could...
Yeah, but you weren't,
my angel. You weren't.
You know, the system failed
you, just like it failed me.
Oh, God. What are
we going to do now?
Well, I've got a bloody good
mind to kill you, to be honest.
Yeah, well, that would teach the
social services a lesson, wouldn't it?
I'd like to see them talk their
way out of three dead bodies.
- Well, I'd rather you didn't.
- Well, I'd rather I didn't,
Jennifer, but what about my hand? What
is making my hand do these things, hmm?
- The system.
- The system, exactly.
You know, these people with
their cosy little offices,
and their fat bloody
salaries, sitting there
while your parents, Jennifer,
you know, good people, kind
people, are being slaughtered.
I mean, what is this
country coming to?
- Mr Hammond?
- Yes.
Derek Broom, social services.
Oh, well, hurrah for the bloody
cavalry. I hope you're satisfied.
- I'm sorry.
- Leonard's killed my parents.
He's stabbed them with a knife.
Oh, damn.
Yes, well, quite
funny, but only quite.
Oh, thanks very much.
But what can you do about it?
Well, until recently, nothing.
But, ladies, and, in a
broader sense, gentlemen,
my colleague and I, concerned as ever with
providing a higher and higher comic service
here at A Bit of Fry and Laurie
have decided to institute a charter.
The charter, or "charter,"
that we're proposing contains
a raft of key points,
and a key basket of top proposals
to ensure that you, the viewer...
The man on the Clapham omnibus,
if you like.
Yes.
Yes, well, the man who would've
been on the Clapham omnibus,
but discovered, after waiting for
two hours, that it's been cancelled
and replaced by a bright
yellow Transit van
called a Shopper
Hopper flopper...
that only runs at peak times...
Whatever the bleeding
hell they are.
...to ensure that
you have the right,
the muscle, the arse-widening
power, to make a difference.
Now, there are two main prongs.
By which we mean two main
sticky-out bits at the end.
- There is delivery.
- And there is quality.
Any joke which fails to come up
to the standard that you'd expect
from A Bit of Fry and Laurie
can be reported to the
charter commission,
where it will be inspected
by a key team of top experts,
who will then pass it on to
a top team of key experts.
And they will award, in a very
grown-up way, charter marks.
And if the joke and your
complaint about it is upheld,
then that joke will
be humanely destroyed.
Which brings us to our other
sticky-out bit, delivery.
Prong Two: Delivery.
In a modern society, jokes
must be delivered on time.
If you experience any delivery
where the timing is too...
Slow?
- Or if the timing should be...
- Quick.
Or if the joke never even...
Then the commission will be
only too happy to look into it.
- The comedy charter, peace of mind.
- Audience power.
Your guarantee of
satisfaction and delivery.
Without dripping.
Oh, now, how did
that poem go? Um...
"They bring you up,
your mum and dad"
"Crate, a normal nighman
Hane a freethy stipe
"You veen where musse is Simon
Critch Botty trees a wipe"
I first wrote the poem, from
which that verse was an extract,
when my grandfather
was murdered.
I wrote it again in 1978,
after hearing of the
death of rock music.
I'd like, with your kind
indulgence, to write it once more.
Thank you.
We see things, we hear things,
we touch things,
we taste things.
But never forget
that we also smell.
John, my spies tell me...
I should point out here that
when I say spies, of course,
I don't mean spies in the sense of people
with hidden cameras or false bottoms.
I'm talking about spies in the
sense of people who tell me things.
My spies, in that sense, tell
me that in your spare time,
you are Vice Professor of Smell
at De Montfort University.
Reserve your seat
of learning now.
John, do you think
we've forgotten smell?
Do I think we've
forgotten smell?
I think we neglect smell.
I think that smell is the one
sense that got left behind
in the mad rush for
profit and cheap housing.
- Can you give me any examples?
- Of what?
Well, um, examples of the things you say...
When I say that, I stress the word "you."
The things you say that
we're missing out on.
Yes, and have a go at this
and tell me what you think.
Oh, God, what is that?
That's revolting. What is it?
Now, that is Michael Portillo
getting out of a Rover 200
after quite a long journey.
How on earth did you
get hold of that?
Everybody asks me that.
- Let's try this one.
- Oh, that.
Oh, actually, I know this.
- Well, you ought to.
- Oh, ah, what is it?
Well, you... You have a guess.
- Ah... No, no, tell me.
- Go on, go on. Go on.
Is... Ah! Is it, um...
Is it the lavatories at Earl's Court
during the Royal Tournament?
No, but I can see the way
your mind's working. No.
In fact, that's your right knee.
Is it?
Good Lord, so it is.
- There you are, you see?
- And you say, you say
that a lot of people
are missing out on this.
I say that. I say that.
And I think that's a shame.
So do I, and so does Dodger.
Dodger's grown up a little
now, as you can see.
He's had his jabs and he's
become very much a friend
of all the staff here at
A Bit of Fry and Laurie.
Gordon.
♪ When the poor keep
getting hungrier
♪ And the rich keep getting fat
♪ Politicians change but
they're never gonna change that
♪ But you and me girl
♪ We got the answer
right in our hands
♪ All we got to do is
♪ When the winds
of war are blowing
♪ And the tide is coming in
♪ Don't you be hoping
for the good times
♪ Because the good
times have already been
♪ But girl we got the answer
♪ So easy you won't believe
♪ All we got to do is
♪ It's so easy to see
♪ If only they'd
listen to you and me
♪ We got to
♪ Since we can
♪ We got to
♪ Woman every man
♪ We got to
♪ Time after time
♪ We got to
♪ Caroline ♪
Can't find that channel changer?
Where did I put it last?
Is this always happening to you? Sometimes,
actually, you have to get up to find it?
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From cradle to grave, a world
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It's over. It's all
over, just end it.
The whole bloody thing's
gone and finished with.
Let's face it, the world will
be a better place without me.
Oh, I wish I'd never been born.
Oh, Jesus.
Don't do it, son.
Oh, my.
Who, what, which, where,
how many? Did I ever? What?
There, there, take it easy.
I should be dead.
How the hell did I...
Who are you?
Me? Oh, Clarence Cosy,
angel, second class.
- You are Rupert.
- How did you know that?
Well, I've granted your wish.
You've never been born.
Jigs, that's all I need.
- Well, shag me twice.
- What's that?
Water must have healed my cut.
What cut? There was never any
cut, because you were never born.
Look, angel, just fly away
for Christ's sake, will you?
Oh, I can't do that. I
haven't got my wings yet.
I'm getting out of here.
Oh, jigs. That's all I need. Some
cock-wit's stolen my sodding car.
You don't have a car, Rupert.
You haven't been born.
Look, I don't know who you are,
or under what law you've been
released into the community,
but just frig off, will you?
Angels don't frig, Rupert.
We don't have the training.
Listen, Tiny Tim, get this. I
own the largest conglomerate
of newspaper and satellite
television companies in the world.
I've got slightly better
things to be doing than
standing here talking to
a chocolate cake like you.
Don't you understand, Rupert?
I'm your guardian angel.
I'm gonna show you what this town would've
been like if you'd never been born.
That way you'll realise your
life is worth living after all,
the countless differences you've made to
people's lives, the joy you've spread.
I'm going home. Where's
a bloody minicab?
- Where to, Governor?
- Wapping. Wait a second.
See the difference you've made?
Wait a second. Where the arse
are all the satellite dishes?
- There aren't any satellite dishes.
- What do you mean?
I keep telling you, you
haven't been born yet.
Mind how you go, gents.
Thank you.
People don't have satellite TV.
They don't have the chance to watch
World Wrestling and Wheel of Fortune
and Video Bloopers
24 hours a day.
They're still forced to
watch the old BBC and ITV,
with all that drama and
sports and news programmes.
- You did away with all that.
- I did?
Mmm-hmm, swept it all away.
You pretended it was to
give people more choice,
but actually it was just to
make you fabulously rich.
Come on, let's go inside.
Whoa, wait a minute.
Not my kind of place.
Well, why not?
Well, you know, a
lot of minorities.
Don't you like minorities?
Well, I don't mind them but, you know,
they're not gonna like me very much.
No, no, no, I keep telling you,
because you haven't been born,
the newspapers you would have owned
haven't been able to teach everybody
to sneer at their neighbours because
they're foreign or different or left-wing.
People have ended up liking each
other, and liking this country.
Heck, they might even like you.
Now, two very nice
drinks, please.
Jesus, mothering arse. Where
the hell are all the tits?
They're right in front
of women's chests.
I guess the editor didn't think
that was much of a news story.
- Gotta have tits to sell a paper.
- Well, apparently not.
Without your newspapers debasing
people's view of the world
with every sentence
they produce,
people have turned out to be interested
in all kinds of other things.
Strange, isn't it?
- Here, I'll get these.
- Thank you.
Well, suck my arse.
Who the hell is that?
That's the Queen. They
still have one, you see.
♪ Silent night
♪ Holy night ♪
Get me the cock out of here.
- Well?
- It's brilliant. Totally bloody brilliant.
Big red buses, free hospitals,
an amusing royal family,
proper taxis, decent newspapers,
best television in the world,
people actually getting
on with each other.
- You like it? You really like it?
- It's fantastic, it's paradise.
Oh, help me, Clarence.
I wanna live again.
Well, this is
marvellous news, Rupert.
Just think of the money I could
make in a world like this.
I could introduce big tits, break
up the broadcasting monopolies,
destroy The Times, the
BBC, the royal family.
I could make an
absolute bloody fortune.
Twat.
Well, once more, old Father
Time has raised his sickle,
and mown us ruthlessly
down without stopping.
We've come now to the end of this
edition of A Bit of Fry and Laurie.
My colleague, thoughts, views,
visions, a summary, if you please.
- Well, Stephen, it's been a...
- Oh, no, no, no. Not out loud.
- Right. I'm so very...
- I know.
I know, I know.
My guests, have you... Have you chosen
tonight's cocktail? What's it to be?
- Oh, a golden meteorite, I think, Stephen.
- Yes, please. A golden meteorite.
A golden meteorite.
Well, now, for a golden
meteorite you will need
one shot gin, one shot vodka,
one shot of this highball
tumbler, close up,
one shot of straight Kentucky
sour mash sipping whisky,
a zeal of ice,
a priest of lemon,
a slug of milk,
two-and-a-half litres of air,
and a finger of slug shot.
We will also need some warm, warm,
warm, warm, warm, warmest music,
which is achieved by
my saying these words,
please, Mr Music, will you play?
Soupy twist.