Blandings (2013–2014): Season 1, Episode 4 - The Crimewave at Blandings - full transcript

Freddie is in debt to savage book-maker Nobby,whose sister,dancer Georgia,accompanies him to Blandings for the money. Baxter also reappears as a tutor to Clarence's grandson George,hired by Connie. When Clarence shoots Baxter in the bottom with an air rifle Freddie tries to blackmail his father into paying the debt but Georgia is so besotted with Beach that she agrees to make her brother wipe out what is owing if the butler will dance with her. Baxter finally leaves after most of the family have shot him with the air rifle - including Connie.

Bagged anything... err, George?

Not yet. Drop your shoulder
and swing through.

OK, Big Boy.
And don't call me Big Boy.

Ah, m'grandson. Isn't it? Hmm?

Nothing half so much worth doing
as simply messing about with guns.

Strewth! You certainly know
my size, dear, don't you?

I generally park here. Ha-ha!

Julia has written to me. Our sister.

She asks if I approve
of the decision

she outlined in the previous letter.

Ah, do you? I have no idea.

I have received no previous letter.
She sent it care of you.


It is now God-knows-where in this
demented shambles of a desk of yours.

You'll simply have to find it.

Whose work is this? Is it George,

your grandson?

Is it? It's not an awfully good
likeness. Fellow's in a dress.

Find the letter. For all we know,
Julia could be grievously ill.

If Mr Baxter were here...

I wouldn't give Baxter a poke
in the eye with a burnt stick,

let alone have him
back in the house.

And if you were still in the
room you would appreciate

the vehemence with which I say that.

Ah, Beach! This is
Miss Georgia Sparks.

I say, you've gone puce.

Ah, knew he'd rumble you. He's
a connoisseur of the dancing pages.

Indeed, Mr Frederick, I recognised
the young lady instantly.

Yeah, the sultana of shimmy.

Give over, Freddie,
you're embarrassing the poor man.

Beach has been elevated to
a state where embarrassment

is medically impossible.
He's seen it all. Back in a tick.

Do you dance, Mr B? Not as such,
Miss. We'll soon fix that.

I'll have you wiggling like a jelly
before I'm done with you.

Who is that extraordinary person

and why is she inciting my butler
to wiggle like a jelly?

Not bad. Of course, Aunt Connie's
chin is even pointier.

My room? Show me
anything you like, dear.

Oh... it's perfectly simple.
She's a hoofer at The Pussy.

But Georgia is not the issue.

How does my grandson fit into this?

He doesn't. Do try
to keep up, guv'nor.

That's Georgia out there,

teaching Beach how to
shake his substantial can.

The problem is her brother, Nobby.


He's a charming bloke. Interesting
collection of facial scars.

I met him at The Dogs at Mile End.
I owe him a bit of money,

and he's being a little
standoffish about it. So,

I told him I'd tool
down to Blandings

and tickle up the smackers.

He said, in that case, his little
sister might just tool along too,

in a sightseeing sort of way, she'd
never been west of Shepherd's Bush.

I have to return her, plus loot
in full, on Monday morning.

So... how about it, guv'nor?

If I don't cough the lolly,
I am skewered.

Coughing the lolly?
You lost me on hoofing the pussy.

I'm asking you, man to man -
will you sub me the necessary rhino?

Oh, you certainly don't mind where
you put things, do you, dear!?

Ha! Missed.

Can I've a go now,
Uncle Freddie? No.

Bigger one, please.

You have to allow for the crosswind.

Missed! My turn. No. One more.

And also the curvature
of the earth.

Oh, er, ooh.

Mr Baxter. How may I be of...?
Lady Constance sent for me.

At 11:14 on a Friday,
she will be writing letters

in the drawing room.
I know my way.

Don't forget to swing through.

OK, Big Boy.
And don't call me Big Boy.

We do not machine-gun our elders.

If we are machine-gunned,

we do not limit our disciplinary
remarks to,

"Don't call me Big Boy."

Jeepers. Who is this blister?

I am your tutor, young man.

Tutor? In the summer holidays?
Crikey, that ponks.

Clarence, have you no
authority over this child?

Well, it does ponk!

An end to uncouth slang, I think.

Yes, from now on, things are
going to be rather different.

I believe you are
in possession of a gun.

Bring it to me.

Fellow lays a finger on my desk,
I'll blow his ruddy bonce off.

Julia might be so ill she is
preparing to take her own life.

Dear old Nobby, ha-ha.

The thing about Nobby... is...

well, that he hates my guts
and he wants to kill me. Ha-ha.

Oh, Nobby hates everybody.
It's a sort of a style thing.

But he's never actually
killed a person. Oh, good!

There was that one man who had
to go to hospital to have a

megaphone removed, which can't have
been nice, but he owed Nobby money.

How silly of him.

Hello, sheepy!

That is a sheep, innit?

Cause and effect.

Your father is Lord Emsworth's
eldest son, Lord Bosham.

Where is Lord Bosham? In France.
Doing what?

Having a holiday without a tutor.

He has left you here without
a structured timetable.

His delinquency is the cause.
Your insolence is the effect.

Do you eat lunch, Mr Baxter?

Never. It bloats the bowel
and dulls the mind,

time frittered that could be spent
rigorously card-indexing. Why?

My brother eats lunch. It is
the one time you can be confident

he will not be at his desk.

I know who it is you remind me of.

My first proper boyfriend.

Big-boned, he was.

Lovely mover.

What the deuce?

The sentiment you are groping for
so unattractively, Clarence,

runs as follows,
"How kind of you, Mr Baxter,

"for doing all this
on your own initiative.

"I shall give serious thought to
reinstating you as my secretary."

Clarence, you look like an ostrich
goggling a brass doorknob. Speak.

Dear God!

My brother is delighted.

One has done what one
can in the time available.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's
the appointed hour for geometry.

Ah, ha-ha, yes.


You don't know what
geometry is, do you, Clarence?

Of course I do,
it's a type of camel.

I also know why you're doing this.

You're trying to find that
damned letter of Julia's.

Eh? Have you found it? No.

And unless you intend to invent
a questionable new fashion of

neckwear, I suggest you disembarrass
yourself of the table napery.

I shall not have that secretary
as my blasted Baxter!

Dash it, I mean it! I am on the
point of becoming atrocious.


I have some unfinished
business to attend to

concerning Lord Emsworth's study.

When I return, I expect you
to know your isosceles

from your scalene.

What are you doing, man?

I...just dropped my ledger.

And it fell up the drainpipe?

Fellow's as potty as a parrot.

Ah! Gah!

Insupportable, Beach. I cannot
even find me damned whiffle.

Care Of The Pig is currently
in your hand, my lord.

Oh, good heavens. How the devil
was I expected to find that?

Beach, you're armed.
Are we under threat?

Not presently, my lord.

I used to have one like that.

Quite, quite handy with it,
as a matter of fact.

Oh! Good heavens, why have you given
me this instrument, Beach?

Clarence! Your grandson
has shot Mr Baxter.

Was Baxter on the gravel
or up a drainpipe? What?

Well, the former is not a sporting
shot. Tutors are not ground game.

Oh... Do you remember when we were
children, when Julia shot

that big governess when she was
going up the nursery steps?

What was her name? Beach?

The incident unfortunately occurred
before my arrival, my lord.

There was no incident.

There jolly well was. Fortunately,
she was wearing a bustle.

That's the governess, not Julia.

Beach, that will be all.

Clarence, are you a
complete drooling halfwit?

Or are you on some private crusade

to render this family
utterly ridiculous?

No, no, no, Connie, Julia definitely
bagged the big governess.

She did it because you took a
pot-shot at the woman and missed.

Ruddy great target,
slow-moving, padded.

What was her name?

Right, Clarence, I am sending you
your grandson to be disciplined. Oh!

And until Julia's letter
is unearthed,

this house is under martial law.
Baxter is in command

Well, that's as may be, Connie,

but I'm about to go and consult the
only female in this establishment

that talks sense.

Great, big woman.

Backside the size
of Durham Cathedral.

Curiously, the same sort of shape.

How Connie managed to miss her,
I don't... Hello, Grandpapa.

Hello, my boy.

Great Aunt Connie said
you wanted to see me.

What? Eh? Ah... Oh, yes.
What's all this...

shooting Baxter,
all that sort of thing?

You could've had his eye out.

Unlikely. He was bending over.
Just a minute.

Did you pot Baxter in the seat
of the trousers?

I mean, disgraceful.
I expect he jumped?

Like billy-o. Did he, indeed?

Your Great Aunt Julia once bagged a
governess under similar conditions.

Coo! Did she jump?

Like the dickens!
Yes, and she squealed.

Now, look here, my dear fellow,

all this business of
shooting tutors' back in, you know,

it really just isn't on, you know.

OK, Big Boy. Now, George!

Would you care to give
The Empress a slice of potato?

This place would make
a cracking nightclub.

Just take up all this stuff...
What is it?

Grass. Yeah.

Get rid of that, whack a
decent bit of patio down,

you could dance all night.

Oh, Beachypoo,
I do love a challenge.

Built for comfort and speed.

I'll have you firing
on all cylinders.

What's this?

It's your hand.

Look. I know this cannot help but
complicate the situation. But...

I do think you're rather jolly.
Oh, Freddie, I say!

Baxter, what are you doing,
creeping up like that?

I did not creep.
I manifested silently.

As you ask,
I'm considering my position.

The tendency for larkiness
in this place is deplorable.

But I warn you, Mr Threepwood,
it is a very grave error

to get gay with me.

The other thing is you could do is
move some of them big floppy things.


Barley's Compendium Of Pig
Constipation... Ah, bingo!


Top shooting, guv'nor..

That gun is not in my possession.

It has not been in my possession for
the last half hour, do you follow?

Very well, my lord.

Will you excuse me a second?
Why, what you done?

I just have to blackmail my father.

On the contrary,
I chastised the child thoroughly.

Very disagreeable
it was for him, too.

I said to him,
"Now, look here... George.

"You know how to load that thing
and I don't."

Was that the full extent
of the chastisement?

What does it matter what I said?

Because the infernal child
shot me again.

I expect you imagined it.
Could have been a wasp.

A wasp? You probably sat on it.

Ah! How did you know I was once
again stricken on the buttocks?

Begging your pardon, Lady Constance.

If not a wasp, then a rash.

I am not an authority
on your buttocks, Baxter,

but it is clear that life in the
countryside does not agree with you.

Would you excuse us, Mr Baxter?

It was you.

What was me?

How dare you say, "It was you"
in that sepulchral tone?

Are you accusing me
of shooting Baxter?

The gun was in Pant's beachtry.

I've no idea how to load
the ruddy thing!

Clarence, that doesn't
even qualify as a lie.

That is just noise leaking
out of your face.

You can consider your
study commandeered.

Now get out.

There is a point beyond
which one should not go,

and you've just gone it.

I take my leave of you, Connie, for
fear that I shall become brusque.

What ho, guv'nor.
Frederick. Lovely day.

Yes, excessively lovely. Perfect
visibility. Day like this, you could

pot a medium-size tutor
over a distance of...

ten yards? 15. As you say.

No, I observed you take aim with
a hideous look of low cunning,

plug Baxter in the jacksie
and coolly withdraw.

It was beautiful to watch.

Alas, the popular press may
fail to share my view.

"Barking Toff Mows Down
Hapless Servant"

is more likely to be their line.

"Blazers Emsworth," they'll say.
Frederick, Frederick, no.

Well, I'm sorry. But my doctor
insists I must not have megaphones

inserted into my person. Oh!
And that's what's going to happen

if I don't pay Scarf ace Nobby
first thing Monday morning.

This is despicable.

Despicable's a little rich
from a man who leans

casually from his window and
riddles his staff with hot lead.

No, this is one family shame
I cannot consent to hide.

How much?

600 quid.

If I were still your secretary...

I would wonder how such
a large quantity of cash

should be accounted.

I haven't the faintest idea
what you're talking about.

Absolutely. Which is why I'd have
to ask Lady Constance for her

analysis of the expenditure.

£600 is not an amount
that can simply mislaid.

That would be criminally negligent.


My dear Baxter.

Do, please, consider resuming
your previous position

here as my secretary.

Permanently. For life.

Very well. Once the servant
Beach has brought in my valise

and the money has been returned
to me for safekeeping,

I shall continue purging your study
of disfiguring clutter.


Ruddy cheek.



I rang for you.

Stop acting the giddy goat and
take this message to Lord Emsworth.

I shall not linger in
this nest of vipers!

What the devil is the fellow
trying to say now?

Mr Baxter is tendering
his resignation, my lord.

In what sense?

In the sense that he wishes to
be relieved of employment

at Blandings, in any capacity,
as from your receipt of his note.

Good God, how quickly can I receive
it? It's in your hand, my lord.

Oh. Good God.

And I must add on my behalf, that
I wish to submit my month's notice.

Yes, yes, yes, by all means, Beach.

As I, too, shall be
leaving your employment.

Yes, to be sure, yes,
have a whole bottle.

Very good, my lord.

"Immediate resignation..."


Have you spoken with Beach?

He tendered his resignation,
and you accepted it.

No, no, no. Baxter resigned.
Beach brought me the...

I have been speaking with Beach.

Ah, now, look, look,
look there, you see,

that's where you're mixing this up.
You are you and I am...


Did you say Beach has
handed in his notice?

It's all this terrible business
with Julia's letter,

it has left me demented.

Good God, Connie, what have
you been doing to the man?

I shot him.

I went to speak with Beach in
his pantry and he wasn't there,

but the wretched gun was,
and through the window I saw him

puffing across the lawn, and all
of a sudden... I couldn't resist it.

What sort of range?

What? Good heavens, Clarence,
I have no idea. 20 yards?

What can it possibly matter?

You couldn't hit a moving butler
at 20 yards, don't be absurd.

If you couldn't pot
Doris Mapleton's titanic,

snail-paced rump at... Oh!

Did you see, I just remembered
both her names? Ha-ha!

Clarence, Beach has resigned.

Remain, sir, in that
semi-recumbent posture.

What's all this dashed nonsense?
Leaving me?

Better to tender my resignation,
my lord, than to be dismissed.

Dismissed? You're talking
through your hat, Beach.

I was the cause of Mr Baxter's
precipitate departure.

In a moment of uncontrollable
impulse, my Lord, I shot him.


What? I thought you were leaving
because my sister plugged you.

Her ladyship did not
shoot me, my lord.

The weapon went off in
her hand accidentally,

but the projectile
passed me by, harmlessly.

I thought it correct that
I did not mention the matter.

What distance was her ladyship when
this unfortunate discharge occurred?

Quite adjacent,
about ten feet away.

20 yards...

What sort of range, m'dear fellow,
would you say? Eh?

A good 20 yards.


A very pretty shot, my lord.

Plenty more where that came from,
you... you blister!


That bloke who had to
have the megaphone removed,

how much did he owe your brother?

Oh, tons. At least £50. Oh.

Nobby's just a big pussycat.

He does whatever I say.
Wrapped round this, is our Nobby.

But tit for tat, eh?

I'll get my big brother
to play nice,

you get Beach bunnikins
to dance with me.

Wait, hold the line a minute.

You're saying that if Beach
bunnikins shakes it up with you,

right here, right now,
the threat of violent death

that is making me slightly distrait
will just evaporate?


I hear you've instructed
Beach to serve champagne.

Have I? How sensible of me.

Am I to understand, therefore, that
you have persuaded him to remain?

Was he off somewhere?
Shall we go down together?

Did you ever find that original
letter of Julia's?

Just when I think you have not one
single functioning brain cell,

you surprise me. No, Clarence
I have not yet found it.

Found what? Have you lost something?


Oh, I say...


My lord. Your ladyship.

Forgive me, I am about to have
a modest heart attack.


Oh, bless my soul. I do
believe this is, um...

Julia's letter.

She wants your opinion on
a flower arrangement

that she's doing for
the Women's Institute.

"African violets, yes or no?'"

Not much use asking you now,
though, is it?

Silly woman sent
the letter weeks ago.

African violets,
are they life-threatening?

I say, Connie, it appears we're
having champagne.