Blandings (2013–2014): Season 1, Episode 6 - Problems with Drink - full transcript

Glamorous Monica Simmons arrives at Blandings as the new 'pig man' and Freddie,despite a vow to forswear women for drink,is smitten. Connie has also invited Lady Daphne Littlewood,whom she believes is a rich widow,hoping she will be a suitable match for Clarence. Lady Daphne and her obnoxious son Huxley show an unusual interest in the Empress,which endears her to Clarence. But Monica discovers she is a penniless fortune hunter out to marry Clarence for his money and that,after the wedding, Beach,Connie,Freddie and the Empress will all be thrown out. Drastic action is required.

Curious, Beach. The Empress appears
to be breakfasting on blancmange.

It was Cook's idea, my lord.

In order to entice the Empress
to return here from the kitchen.

It appears Wellbeloved left the
gate open when he was refreshed.

We can't have the Empress wandering
the streets, cadging blancmange.

Where IS Wellbeloved?

He was last seen in the small hours,
my lord,

declaring he was
"going home to Tewkesbury"

to stay with his mother,
the old rat bag,

"God bless her,
never drew a sober breath".

Y'see? Wellbeloved goes missing,
it puts her bowels in an uproar.

Her ladyship would like to see you,
my lord.


It's practically in Belgium.

That tree.

Altogether too loud.

Connie! The most appalling thing.

Wellbeloved's done a bunk!

Will you stop gibbering, Clarence.
Lady Littlewood arrives any moment.

You must bathe, shave -
BURN those clothes -

put on a suit and hat
and then go somewhere else

where you can't possibly be seen.

Now, her husband was
the Marquis of Littlewood,

one of the oldest
marquisates in the country.

Was? Did he, er,
give up being the marquis?

Well, in the sense that he died,

It behoves us to assist his widow.

She seeks comfort amongst
people who know her.

Do we know her? No.

But there again,
you entirely miss the point.

People like us know each
other on principle.

Ah, Frederick.

Let's hope your arrival causes
the intellectual portion

of this conversation
to leap joyously.


Three syllables. Hurrah.

No more women. Never.

Now you're being garrulous.

Now, Daphne Littlewood
is by all accounts

a delightful and intelligent woman.

How old is she?

The Dowager Marchioness
is a woman of a certain age.

Not a threat. Good.

Mumsy, you're hurting me!

Sorry, darling. Mumsy's
excited about meeting new friends.

I didn't tell you to stop.

You didn't give me no money
for petrol, neither.

Gin, sherry, port, brandy,
pudding wine

and a substantial dash of bitters.

It's called
Death Comes For The Archbishop.

It insulates the drinker against the
amorous attentions of the female.

I should think it does, sir.

I've been crossed in love
for the last time, Beach.

I met a girl at the Pink Pussy.
Daisy Warner.

Slip of a thing.

We cut a rug,
heard the chimes at midnight.

I asked her to marry me
in the usual way. She accepted.

Arranged to meet at the church
the next morning.

I show up, can't see her.

Bloke taps me on the shoulder.
Guess who it is?

Lady's husband, sir? No,

it was Daisy, sans make-up.

Turns out she's a merchant seaman
named Derek.

Bit of a shock.

I mean, Derek.

On the whole, I thought it best not
to go through with the arrangement.

Crikey, sir.

Women have made me
lose my powers of reason.

I hereby forswear 'em.

My heart shall never skip another
beat on account of a floozy,

popsy, goddess,

nymph or any other manifestation of
the laughably mislabelled gentle

Fiver on it.

Very well, sir.

Good man. You'll regret it.


Her husband's death is not recent

although I think it's a subject
to be avoided. Stay off it.

I say... Right, that's it!

My dear Lady Littlewood! Welcome!

Oh, Daphne, j'insiste.
But this is just too splendid!

Oh, my brother and I rattle
about the place. You know.

Oh, but I thought this handsome man
was your husband!


Oh no! My husband is no longer
with us.

My brother has never been... with us

but his physical presence somehow
endures. Clarence? What?

Don't mention the dead husband. Oh.

Oh, not hers. Oh, that's all right.

Good, good. My dear Lady Tittlewood.

Welcome to, as it were... um...

Blandings. Quite.

Yes, so kind of this young girl.
This car's broken.

Screamingly dull.

And all the baggages and maids
and clutter, all arrive tomorrow.

Huxley, greet Lord Emsworth.

Are you an earl? Yes.

That's one down from the marquis.

I'm a marquis,
so I'm better than you.

Isn't he divine! He's such a wit!

So, where's the pig?
God. There's so much of her. Hello.

Who's that person?
She's your new pig man.

I'm sorry about my brother.
He's a trifle deaf.

He has sustained a terrible injury
to the side of his head.

Oh, dear. When did that occur?

Later this afternoon. Do come in.

Erm... Miss, are you local...?
Miss, er?

Yeah, I'm often down this way.

I come and help my uncle out with
his pig. He calls her the Queen.


The most dreadful blaggard imaginable
lives round the corner here.

Calls his pig the Queen.
Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe?

Stinker Parsloe, I call him.
He's my uncle. Oh.

But you're right.
He IS a stinker.

Miss Simmons,
you're not a secret agent,

working for the Stinker are you?

No, Lord Emsworth. I'm just me.

Absolutely not, get a grip!

Her feet must be size 16...

I mean, think of her legs...

Now Connie, dear, do tell.
Your brother.

What are his interests?
Is there a lady in his life?

There is!

Describe her to me.

Well! Her face is dished
and bristled.

She is stupendously malodorous,
she presently weighs -

and I know because Clarence gives me
adoring reports, every morning -

46 stone.

But she has surprisingly
delicate feet.

If God and the law allowed it,

Clarence's PIG would probably
be Countess of Emsworth.

No female human would take the job.

I was looking for tea,
but I'll settle for a drinky.

No, no. Actually, they're both for
me. Careful! That's not for girls.

What about you? You for girls?

No. No, I'm not.

Do you bash the shuttlecock
from the feathered end?

What? No, I do not! I have forsworn
the company of women.

I now dedicate myself to alcohol.

You call THAT alcohol?

Tonight I'll give you something we
used to mix up at my convent school.

It's called Stations Of The Cross.
One sip,

you're crawling on your knees.

No. Tonight you will give me

I absolutely refuse to discuss
your knees.

This conversation is at an end.

Funny little thing, aren't you?

Be still my beating heart.

Goodness gracious,
I'm so sorry, my lord.

I tried to divert
the course of the falling sack...

There was no falling sack!

Let us shut the gate,
my lord, shall we?

We don't want the Empress
loose in the grounds.

Now, Clarence. You have to make
an effort with Daphne.

Of course. Daphne?

Oh, yes, to be sure, yes.
Lady Littlewick, yes, yes.

You wander off while she is talking.

Whatever must she think?

Just now she expressed a great
personal interest in you,

which must have
cost her considerable effort!

Just make her feel welcome,

That her company is valued.
Yes, to be sure.

Oh look, who's that?

That's Daphne, you imbecile!
Daphne! Do come and sit.

Might I have a little tete-a-tete
with your brother?

Of course.

Clarence will regale you with...

hilarious anecdotes
of his schooldays.

Oh! Ha-ha!

Yes. I went to school. Erm.

I had many pleasant friends. Yes.

They called me Fathead.
Did your friends call you Fathead?

Not especially...

But I do find all this...
incredibly... diverting.

What a... FASCINATING man you are.

My dear Lady... Piddlefoot.

I should like you to know that your

visit to Blandings is very welcome.

Why, thank you, Lord Emsworth.

It's valuable.

Oh, you are sweet.

As a child I was teased
for my particular passion.


Would you care to see my wiffle?

Do I have the honour of addressing a
Mr Ruddock,

the Butler to the Littlewoods?

Oh, I do beg your pardon, Madam.

I wonder if I might enquire

about certain domestic arrangements
at your end?

If you distress this
pig... or drive her from her home...

I will rub your noxious little
face in that pile of dung.

Have a think about it.

Where am I going, Beach,
and what am I doing?

You are fetching the book of pigs
for Lady Littlewood, my lord.

Am I? What a capital idea.

Y'know, she's a damned clever woman,
don't you think?

Very sporting of her to be
so interested in pigs.

Indeed, my lord.
The young marquis was advising me

that when at leisure, his mother
likes to muck out the pigsties.

She finds it... soothing.

Well, well, that is extraordinary!

D'you know, Beach,
for a minute there

I thought you said
she like to muck out the pigsties!

I read in Variety Spice, my lord,

that manual labour in the farmyard
is intensely fashionable

for ladies of a discerning

Good heavens!

Erm, do you suppose our guest might
wish to slip down to the sty now?

Quick once-round? Mop and brush?

I shall assemble the requisite
instruments, my lord.

Get some buckets, Beach, yes
and a stout shovel.

The Empress has still got
a bit of a runny tummy.

Give Lady Littlespade the wood.

Don't be shy.

Get stuck in.

So, how does one...?

One bends the knees, your ladyship,
and gets right underneath it.

She's got a bit of a runny tummy,

Erm, it was the blancmange.

There you go. Tickety-boo!

Clarence! Under what
demented pretext

have you got the Marchioness of
Littlewood mucking out the pigsty?

Oh, she loves it!
Can't get enough of it!

Apparently at home you can't keep
the shovel out of her hands!

Charming woman. Awfully modern.

Muck-shovelling party? Excellent.
Soon have the place shipshape.

Connie? There is a spare bucket.

Your ladyship. Might I have a...?

This is the stuff for the troops,

Beach! What've you got there?

Emergency measures, sir.

Now look, I want you to know that
I am agitated by this Miss Simmons.

I'd be liar to say I wasn't,
but I have backbone, damn it,

and a bet's a bet.
What emergency?

It's not my place to say so!

But I believe that Lady Littlewood
has an ulterior motive.

Does she? By God! An ulterior
motive. Hah! Erm.

What is that?
She's not what she seems.

She's not another bloke in drag?
No, sir.

But I have reason to believe that
the Littlewood estate is bankrupt,

their domestic servants
have not been paid for months.

And the Marchioness tours
the country

looking for a solution
to her embarrassment.

That is why she is here
at Blandings.

To cast her net around his lordship.

You speak in nautical riddles.

She wishes to entrap your father
in marriage.

Oh, phooey! What? Beach,
you're tighter than I am!

Who could possibly want to
marry my father? Eh? Utter rot.

Oh, my God. What are we to do?

No, no, no, no. NO!

I've just been assaulting
the Marquis of Littlewood.

Oh. Was that... pleasurable?


Hot work.

Get me a towel, would you?

I cannot touch a woman.

I didn't ask you to dry me.

I don't have a towel big enough.

I don't quite know what I'm saying.
Miss Simmons, you confuse me.

I haven't done this
since I was a nip nob!

Aha! A nine!

Now, look here, Connie, I want you
to be the first to know.

I do believe I'm going to ask
Lady Tickleputt a certain question.

Erm, Giddyfruit. Oh, dash it!
What is her name?

Emsworth, by the sound of it.

Emsworth, I like that, I like that!

Two, four, six. A ten! Aha!


Daphne dear, I cannot permit
this charade to continue.

We shall soon discover what can
and cannot be permitted.

You have a brain, he doesn't.

He would be cataclysmically
unhappy with you

and unable to work out why.
It would be cruel.

Yes, certainly he will lose
the benefit of your advice,

for you will not be here,
Connie, dear.

Poor fellow dotes on me.
I win, you see.

You lose.


I have for-slorn love.
And yet the stuff is all around me.

There's the Guv'nor, look,
about to be netted in Daphne's cap.

And then there's me.

Well, that's easy for you to say.
But I tell you this.

If Monica Simmons was here
right now,

I should not be able
to restrain myself.

I should say...

your thundering good health..

What should you say?

I should say, "Look here,
Monica Simmons.

"You Olympian pile
of sizzling womanhood.

"You titanic, fabulous,
double-breasted Amazon.

"I love you."

Olympian pile of sizzling womanhood?

She is. I'd say, "Monica Simmons.

"You walk into a room, it
makes me want to shin up a ladder

"and kiss your big...

"red... lips."

Go on, then.


All right.
Let's just get one thing straight.

You're not going to turn out to be a
man, are you? No.

Are you? Oh...


You win.

When Lady Littlewood marries
Lord Emsworth...

I expect to be banished.

I fear that you may also be removed.

I know it, your ladyship.
I will take it on the chin.


I think I shall go to my room.

Very good, my lady.

Incidentally. Is Daffers getting
anywhere with your old man?

Last week she tried
it on with Uncle Gregory,

and he told her to sling her hook.

Digger Daphne,
he called her. So she came here.

Full marks for perseverance.

Where's the Empress?

Just hang on a minute.

Erm, erm, Miss Simmons.

You will observe, Lady Fiddleprune...

the fine prospect. There is a sun...

some water. Yes.

Lady, erm... Giddyfruit, I...

oh! Ah!

Would you do me the honour,
I wonder of erm...?

It bit my fingy...

Hold on, darling! Mumsy's coming.


Beach! What is a fingy?

My FINGER, you stupid old goat!

Oh, right you are.
It's his finger. What bit you?

Your ruddy pig! Ow!
Darling, darling. Did he say pig?

Now look here, Cruxley,
did you or did you not say pig?

Pig! Pig! PIG, PIG, PIG!

He said pig. THAT PIG!

My dear fellow, that is
The Empress. She does not bite.

It ruddy well bit me. Look!

You! Pig girl!

The pig has become carnivorous.
Despatch it.

Give over, you ghastly old trout!

She's after you, Guv'nor.

Her husband blew the family
fortune on booze -

medal for him, by the way -
and now she wants to be

Mrs The Earl of Emsworth.
Don'cha, Daph?

Excuse me. Moreover.

As soon as Pinkbeard's
got you in the bag,

she'll make Beach walk the plank.
And me.

And me. And her. I mean it, Guv'nor.

Beach will become a tramp,

Aunt C will fall among
the Shabby Women,

you'll come down to breakfast
to find the Hideous Huxley

sitting in MY chair,

scoffing the tragic sausages that
are all that remains of The Empress.

But my dear Lady Littlehope.
This can never be.

Constance, Frederick.

Beach. The Empress.
This is my family.

If I may be permitted to clarify.

You may have decided
to marry my brother,

but in fact he would like you
to leave.

Would that be a fair precis?

You have no idea the contempt

the name of Emsworth shall inspire
in the drawing rooms of Mayfair,

when I speak of my treatment here.

Well, be sure to take off all
your clothes before doing so.

There is an aroma
of fat old sow about you

that is frankly overpowering.

Better to be naked in Mayfair,
Lady Earwig,

than a bad smell.

Earwig will do for you.

Ha! You're drunk!

I am as tight as an owl.

But in the morning,
I shall have a headache,

and you'll still have
a bum like a moose.

Ha! Cheerio!

Oh, hurry up, mother!

Oh, is Lady Pifflewit leaving?

She is, Clarence. Oh. I do hope
nobody said anything untoward

about her dead husband?

Mumsy, my fingy! Move your hand,
you stupid child!

Beach. Your ladyship.

Champagne on the terrace, I think.

I want us all to enjoy the view.