Good Neighbors (1975–1978): Season 2, Episode 1 - Just My Bill - full transcript
The Good's financial situation worsens as they begin to realize their first crop can't be sold. They look to various schemes to raise money to pay local council rates. Just as the situation looks to be at its worst, events occur that might just see them through their current crisis
- Right. I've laid the table.
- Thank you.
- How's the chicken doing?
- It's stopped clucking.
Oh, good, good.
That reminds me. Corn.
I must make that cheque out for the feed.
(Whistles cheerily)
(Whistles)
Yes, chicken feed to them,
but it's not to us.
How much have we got left
in the bank now, Tom?
- We're in the black.
- Yes, but how much?
Oh, three... (Mumbles)
Pardon?
Three... (Mumbles)
- Three what?
- £3.28, actually.
Bang goes the yacht.
Oh, I don't know. No.
Just wait for the interest to accrue.
That is Margo in the garden.
What do you think she's doing out there?
Walking up and down.
Yes. But why?
I asked her to dinner.
I didn't say anything about sentry duty.
- Margo!
- Good evening, Tom.
Good evening. What are you doing?
Evening, Barbara. I'm so sorry.
You said 8, which I took to mean 8 for 8.30,
which naturally implies that we should arrive
at 8.15, doesn't it?
It's still only 8.14.
Oh, what the hell, Margo.
We'll overlook it this time. Come in.
Oh, thank you.
Thank you.
Excuse me.
- Where's Jerry?
- Sulking in your front garden.
Oh. Why?
I just happened to point out
that his watch was fast.
I'll go and get him.
Jerry!
Well, Tom...
Well, Margo...
Yes.
Good.
Will you be changing for dinner?
Oh, yes, of course. I'll do it now.
That's better.
Ooh!
Five..four... three..two... one.
Ah. 8.15. Evening, Tom.
Hello, Jerry.
Mm. Smells good.
Sudden-death chicken, that's called.
So you finally found the courage to kill it.
No, no, she committed suicide.
Right, how about a quick snort before dinner?
Margo?
Lovely. Campari and soda, please.
Gin and tonic for me, I think.
Pea-pod or elderberry wine?
Well, just the tiniest pea-pod for me, please.
Ditto, only, er... let me sit down first, eh?
Ahh.
Thank you.
There we are. Now...
Here's to a harvest safely gathered,
and to Jerry and Margo
for helping us to gather it.
Reply, please, Jerry.
What? Oh... er...
Yes, well... here's to pea-pods.
What happened to that mountain of stuff
we picked. I didn't notice any in the garage.
- Too damp.
- Cellar?
- Too much effluence down there.
- Well where is it, then?
- Have we time to show them before dinner?
- Oh, yes, why not? Come on.
Welcome to Shangri-La.
But Barbara, this is a spare bedroom.
Well, they're all asleep, aren't they?
- But how do you Hoover?
- Oh, Margo!
I know it looks a bit odd,
but it's the perfect place.
Perfect temperature. Dry, cool, dark.
If we weren't using it,
I'd let it out as a warehouse.
What's that for? Warding off vampires?
That's onions, you fool.
The garlic's in here.
Over here...
...we have carrots...
...celeriac...
.and...
...apples.
Well, I suppose you know what you're doing.
No, no, no. Not there. There.
They're not like us, Margo.
They mustn't touch or they'll go bad.
Now this is Granny's wardrobe.
Cor!
Still, she liked a nice cabbage.
I suppose you've got watercress in the bath?
No, that's in the bidet.
I'm sorry, Tom and Barbara.
This used to be a lovely, sunny little bedroom.
And you've ruined it.
Well, look at it this way.
We've lost a bedroom,
but we've gained a year's nosh.
Yes, everything on and under the beds is rates.
You'll never get it into a council envelope.
We're selling it first.
- What, just like that?
- Course, easy.
No, Tom. You may be a giant in the garden,
but when it comes to the world of commerce,
you're just a pygmy.
Watch it.
Look, selling a bedful of fresh veg
is the simplest thing in the world.
No, Margo's right, you know.
Life's more complicated than you think.
You've never sold in the big, wicked world.
This isn't Widecombe Fair, it's Surbiton.
It's people like you that make it complicated.
If you had a piece of string,
it would tie itself in knots.
I'm just warning you.
- Oh, pestilence, plague.
- Doom, doom.
Did I hear a dinner gong?
Not unless the chicken jumped out of the oven
and banged one.
No, that's a very good idea. I'm hungry.
Come along.
Margo, let's go and pick some flowers
for the table.
You didn't grow any flowers.
From your garden.
No, Tom, seriously.
It's not as simple as all that, you know.
Just cos you're a seller
doesn't mean you'll find a buyer.
- I've already got one.
- Good Lord!
That restaurant by the war memorial,
with the stupid name.
- Oh, The Runcible Spoon.
- That's it. I'm seeing the manager tomorrow.
- I ate there once. I wouldn't go back.
- And why?
- Chemical veg tasting like cooked blankets.
- No, the food was all right.
They served the Burgundy in Hock glasses.
Disgusting devils.
Very nice, Chef.
But before the menus go to table,
check the dictionary
to see if potage is spelled with one T or two.
And, Chef, do ask Mrs Rosen to stop being silly
with that new Spanish boy.
(Music box plays)
(Music continues)
(Music continues)
- Shut up.
(Music stops)
(Knocks on door)
- Yes?
Morning. Mr Runcible or Mr Spoon?
No. That's the name of the restaurant.
I'm Michelangelo Lombardi.
(Sniggers)
- Are you all right'?
- Er... sorry... l-|-I've got a bit of a cold.
Er... I'm Tom Good.
Oh, yes. Oh, we spoke on the telephone.
- You're the fruit and veg merch.
- Sort of.
Well, come along. I'm a busy man.
Oh, right, well.
Straight to the point, then. Samples.
Smell that.
(Sniffs) Yes?
Look at that. Perfect.
(Music box plays)
- What's that?
(Music stops)
Nothing.
Oh. Right.
How about that for a carrot?
- Parsnip?
- I do know what these things are called.
Oh, yes. Sorry.
And a...
One of those.
Well?
Why did you go like that...
(Sniffs) ..with the carrot?
Oh... (Laughs)
- Well, you're a cigar man.
- Yes, I know, but you only do that with cigars.
You don't do it with carrots.
I know. It was a joke.
Oh. A joke.
I see.
Well...
.If the rest of the stuff is up to this standard,
it's certainly quality veg.
If, as you said on the telephone, you're prepared
to undercut my current supplier...
As a boy scout.
- Pardon?
- I'm prepared.
But why did you say boy scout?
I don't know, really.
Let's say I'm prepared to undercut, slightly,
your current supplier.
Then I think we can do business.
(Music box chord)
(Chuckles)
Why are you laughing?
- I remembering what a pessimistic friend said.
- Is he funny, then?
- I've met funnier.
- Oh.
Look, vis-a-vis the quality OK,
and vis-a-vis the quantity we discussed,
I total it up to be 90 quid.
Yes, yes, I'm your man for 90.
Right, twelve 90$...
Er... why twelve?
12 months in a year.
- No.
- There are.
No, no, no, no.
This quantity we're talking about is all I've got.
It's my surplus. One sale.
Oh? And what am I supposed to do next month?
Well, go back to your original supplier.
I see. And get all the rubbish because
he doesn't like being mucked about.
No, it's not on.
You supply me regularly or not at all.
You obviously didn't think about
the marketing side of it, did you?
- Fool.
- No need to be abusive.
No, me, me!
I was so sure it would all be so simple.
Look, I hate to see a little man humiliated.
Er... you wouldn't settle for a medium-sized man
embarrassed, would you?
- Who's he, then?
- Oh, never mind. You were saying?
For you I'll make an exception.
- I'll take your stuff.
- Mr Lombardi, you're a prince.
There's no reason why business
can't be tempered with a little humanity.
- 70 quid?
- Yea...
- Just a minute. You said 90.
- Then. It's a buyer's market now.
Ho ho. Perhaps Margo was right.
Perhaps I am a pygmy.
No, not with your features.
No, no... Oh, never mind.
I can't afford to sell at that price.
I'll try somewhere else.
Well, life's more complicated than you think.
Not to me. It's other people who complicate it.
But you have to deal with other people.
Well, just because I'm outnumbered
doesn't make me wrong, does it?
There you are. You can smoke it later.
You haven't got a big jar you could put me in,
have you? I need pickling in brine.
Why so ratty? You teething again?
Oh, nothing much, no.
You just married an idiot, that's all. A pygmy.
Well, everybody knows that.
What else is wrong?
I can't sell our surplus.
You...
But... but you said...
...you said that the man at the restaurant...
Don't listen to me. I'm not going to in future.
- What went wrong?
- Me.
- Bulk, that's all they're interested in.
- We've got bulk.
No, bulk bulk. That's what they mean.
Everywhere was the same.
Certainly, Mr Good,
30 tonnes of King Edwards a day. Deal.
You'll be able to get your juggernaut in?
I suppose a trolley on four old pram wheels
doesn't fit the bill.
Nor does our veg. We grew the wrong stuff.
This bloke told me.
- What does he know?
- Quite a lot. He's a greengrocer.
He said if you want to cash in,
you don't grow peasant foods.
- King Edwards aren't peasants.
- Well, you know what I mean.
They buy small amounts of aristocracy.
Royal Sovereigns.
- Who?
- Strawberries, raspberries,
your pound a punnet stuff. Asparagus.
Oh, I see.
Margo tramples over old ladies
to get the first asparagus of the season.
And she's not the only one.
- Remember the artichoke riot of '74?
- Vividly.
Let's face the facts, you chose the wrong crops.
But I forgive you, I forgive you.
Next year it'll be speciality crops.
We'll be quids in.
Hmm.
You couldn't make next year start tomorrow,
could you?
Why?
Final demand for the Rates.
"Dear Sir, threat, threat, threat,
threat, threat, threat, threat..
Your obedient servant."
Hypocrites.
(Sighs)
Tricky, isn't it?
Yes. Especially since we've only got £3.28
in the bank.
Quite.
If I sold my body to science,
do you think they'd give me the money now?
50p is not a lot of good.
No, Tom, it all comes back down
to that surplus.
There must be some way of selling it.
Honestly, love, I tried everywhere.
As a wholesaler,
I just haven't got enough of the stuff.
Of course.
Ge' your spuds an' greens 'ere!
Pardon?
Ge' your spuds an' greens 'ere!
I thought that's what you said.
What do you mean?
Get your spuds and greens here.
We cut out the middle man
and sell direct to the public.
Yes!
- Have an OBE.
- Thank you.
- Have akiss.
- Thank you.
Have a tomato.
Afternoon.
Good afternoon.
- Nice hard heart.
- Thank you.
- I expect those are crunchy, too.
- Mm. Full of flavour.
- Have you got any paint?
- Pardon?
Paint. You know, for painting things?
- No.
- Oh, all right, I think I'll leave it then.
(Tyres screech)
Hello, Margo. Hello, Jerry.
Barbara! What are you doing?
I'm trying to sell the veg.
- But you're sitting where you can be seen.
- Not much point in hiding in the shed.
Jerry, tell her. Tell her this is The Avenue.
Well, she knows that. She lives here.
(Giggles)
(Chuckles)
Please, laugh, go on, laugh.
I hope you're still laughing when the value of
property here plummets to an all-time low.
Why should it?
This is a residential area, Barbara,
not a tradesman's ghetto.
Oh, don't be such a snob.
Well, you know what I mean.
Anyway, I'm not a tradesman.
I don't qualify as a tradesman.
I've been here all morning
and I've only sold 2Ib of carrots.
I thought Tom had that restaurant
grovelling to buy your stuff?
Really? Who gave you that impression?
- Tom.
- Oh.
No, you see, what I need is a bigger sign.
That's the trouble.
A gaudy, neon one, presumably?
Oh, don't be daft. No, what I need is a bigger
sign. Something to get me noticed.
Well, if the police notice you,
you might have some trouble.
- What do you mean?
- You could be fined, quite a lot.
Trading without a licence.
I really ought to talk to Tom about this.
Where is he?
Tom? Oh, he's out. Trading without a licence.
Ge' your spuds an' greens 'ere!
Ge' your spuds an' greens. (Coughs)
(Deeper voice) Get your spuds and greens here.
Please?
(Tyres screech)
All right.
Come on.
That's enough.
- Are you talking to me?
- Yes, lam.
Clear off,
- And just who might you be?
- I'm Ronnie Boxhall, that's who I am.
- Not the bandleader?
- Look, don't try and be funny with me.
I'm a fruiterer and greengrocer.
That's my van and this is one of my roads.
You've done very well for yourself.
I don't own the road,
I didn't say I owned the road.
What I'm saying is, I've worked myself up
in every road around here.
And you're doing it again.
What are you on about?
Private enterprise.
It's taken me ten years to work up this round
and you're not pushing me out of it!
That's not private enterprise, that's the Mafia.
I'll have you know,
my father lost a leg at Gallipoli.
Well, you leave me alone
and go and help him look for it.
Look, you've got competition,
so you'd better get used to the idea.
Look, mate, you'd better get out of here.
I'm warning you.
And who's going to make me?
Eugene?
Oh, my God.
(Panting)
(Coughs)
Hello, love.
Well, I've had no luck at all, I'm afraid.
I've only sold 2Ib of carrots all day.
Then I found I was breaking the law anyway.
(Panting)
Have you been running?
No.
Well, any luck?
No.
Police?
No, no, no..l..1...
.I'just realised that...
selling stuff on the streets like that is unfair.
- To us?
- No, no.
To good, honest street-traders
like good old Ronnie Boxhalll.
After all, he's taken ten years
to build up that round.
It's unfair for somebody to walk in
and take his trade away.
This is not the egomaniac that I love speaking.
Oh..live and let live, Barbara.
(Laughs) Rubbish. What's the real reason?
He had this giant friend,
with huge boots and a bolt through his neck.
(Laughs) Never mind, Killer.
Well, I do mind, that's the trouble.
We're trying to live our own way
and all we get is obstacles.
If it's not the law and red tape,
it's restaurateurs trying to fleece us.
Or it's great big giants
with bolts through their necks.
I don't know how we're going to pay
these Rates.
No, neither do.
I'm sorry, love.
Oh, it's not your fault.
No, it's me. If I'd planted the right crops,
we wouldn't be in this mess.
I'm stupid.
Oh, come on, Tom, we planned it together.
I thought we'd got it right. That makes me stupid.
(Knock on door)
Hello, peasants.
Oh. Has somebody died?
Oh... Hello, Jerry. No, we were just thinking
about something, that's all.
Like a glass of wine?
No.
Look... you two are in a scrape, aren't you?
My God, he's found out
about the transmitter in the attic.
Give us 24 hours, Jerry, before you phone MI6.
Barbara, get us on the first flight to Moscow.
Can't you be serious about anything?
- What will you do about your Rates?
- Pay them when we sell the surplus veg.
But nobody wants it.
There is that.
- How long have you got?
- Oh, months.
- How long?
- Six days.
Oh, lor! Look, how much is that surplus worth?
About ninety quid.
Right.
Look, I know charity begins at home, Jerry,
but you live next door.
This isn't charity,
it's a perfectly common-sense solution.
Margo and I aren't carnivores.
We do eat vegetables.
But we're talking about a hundredweight of
cabbages, not the odd petit chou.
We've got spuds in sacks,
not in little polythene bags.
And you both hate carrots, we know that.
Oh, come on, Jerry, it's very sweet of you,
but it's not quite your style, is it?
Right. The only thing you buy in bulk is gin.
Are you trying to tell me something?
Yes, we haven't got any gin, we've only got veg.
We have pea-pod burgundy,
but we're keeping that,
because we think it's a cure for scrofula.
Well, what are you going to do?
Only one thing to do. Sell the veg.
- Who to? Each other?
- The restaurant. We'll just have to take less.
Oh, yes, of course!
That's the idea. Splendid.
Take a loss. More painful for you that way.
More enjoyable, isn't it? You must tell me
sometime where you get your hair shirts.
- Jerry.
- Yeah?
- We're still in your gang in the playground?
- Fools.
(Sighs)
Oh, Tom, we're not going to have to sell
at a loss, are we?
We've got no choice, love.
Mr Runcible Spoon will give us 70 for it.
But the Rates are 81.20.
Yes.
Doesn't that suggest something obvious?
- No. What?
- We haven't got enough.
Now listen very carefully to me, Mr... erm...
.Mr Squires.
I have itemised the components of my Rates bill
scrupulously.
As every citizen should, Mrs Leadbetter.
I am not a citizen, I am a resident.
Now... road cleaning I shall pay.
Street lighting I shall pay.
Ground rent I shall pay.
But when it comes to the drain
in front of my house, I shall not,
because it is blocked up and overflowing.
Ah, I'll make a note of that.
You will do more than that, Mr Squires.
You will have a plumber on my doorstep
at nine o'clock tomorrow morning
with a plunger in his hand,
or you will not get a penny.
Just who do you think you are,
Mrs Leadbetter?
I am the silent majority.
Now, look sharp.
Right, well, er... I'll get on to Drains
and try to get them to come this week.
Nine o'clock tomorrow morning.
Mrs Leadbetter, you're hardly in a position to
make demands when I've got your cheque.
That cheque is post-dated
and can be cancelled in a trice.
- 9.30?
- Nine.
- Very well, Mrs Leadbetter, I'll get your receipt.
- That's better.
Hello, Margo. Having fun?
Barbara.
I consider it my duty
to remind these would-be commissars
that I'm an Englishwoman and a householder,
not a mere number.
- Morning, Tom.
- Morning, 38.
Your receipt.
Thank you, Mr Squires.
Tom. Barbara.
- Yes, Sir.
- I've come to pay the Rates.
Oh-ho! Red demand.
Nearly had the bailiff in, eh?
You have stamped 'urgent' on my hand.
Well, get on with it, then.
- Cash or cheque?
- Both.
A cheque from our account for £3.28.
A cheque from Michelangelo Lombardi for £70.
The rest is in coin of the realm.
£81.20.
Hm.
It's been a struggle, hasn't it, Barbara?
No, once we found the money
down the back of the chair,
and changed the 500-peseta note,
it was a breeze.
That and the telephone money.
- But you haven't got a telephone any more.
- No, we left all our tuppences in a box.
How can you be so brave
without a penny in the bank?
We can go one better.
We've haven't a penny anywhere.
Oh, come on, Tom, you must have a bit
tucked away somewhere?
No.
It's not possible to have no money at all.
No, it is, because we haven't.
What happens when the next bill turns up?
We'll have something else to sell by then.
Half a pig, goat's horn aphrodisiac.
Not in the Rates office, please, Tom.
What about incidentals? Soap, for instance?
How do you buy soap?
Miss Rochart, the chemist. Six eggs a bar.
- Excuse me. Mr Good?
- Yes?
Even though you stamped 'urgent' on my hand,
I have not strayed from the path of duty.
You have given me too much money here.
Smashing! How much?
One penny.
Thanks.
There you are, Margo. We're solvent again.
- Barbara.
- Hm?
Tell me how you propose
to keep yourself in erm...
...(whispers) knickers for a penny.
A gallon of goats milk
equals two pairs of knickers, Margo.
Get on with your work.
No, no.
No.
No, no, no.
Do you disagree with something, Margo?
It can't work, Tom, it can't.
Excuse me a minute.
You simply cannot exist without money.
- You can.
- You can't.
You see?
I'll have a flag, please.
- Thank you very much.
- Not at all.
Er..er..yes. All right, erm...
I'll have the button, please, erm..
Thank you.
Well, I feel better now. Really better.
That has proved my point.
I haven't got a penny left, literally.
But I still exist, don't 1?
For the moment. There will come a time
when you'll need money again.
There will not.
Tom. Can I have that penny?
- Thank you.
- How's the chicken doing?
- It's stopped clucking.
Oh, good, good.
That reminds me. Corn.
I must make that cheque out for the feed.
(Whistles cheerily)
(Whistles)
Yes, chicken feed to them,
but it's not to us.
How much have we got left
in the bank now, Tom?
- We're in the black.
- Yes, but how much?
Oh, three... (Mumbles)
Pardon?
Three... (Mumbles)
- Three what?
- £3.28, actually.
Bang goes the yacht.
Oh, I don't know. No.
Just wait for the interest to accrue.
That is Margo in the garden.
What do you think she's doing out there?
Walking up and down.
Yes. But why?
I asked her to dinner.
I didn't say anything about sentry duty.
- Margo!
- Good evening, Tom.
Good evening. What are you doing?
Evening, Barbara. I'm so sorry.
You said 8, which I took to mean 8 for 8.30,
which naturally implies that we should arrive
at 8.15, doesn't it?
It's still only 8.14.
Oh, what the hell, Margo.
We'll overlook it this time. Come in.
Oh, thank you.
Thank you.
Excuse me.
- Where's Jerry?
- Sulking in your front garden.
Oh. Why?
I just happened to point out
that his watch was fast.
I'll go and get him.
Jerry!
Well, Tom...
Well, Margo...
Yes.
Good.
Will you be changing for dinner?
Oh, yes, of course. I'll do it now.
That's better.
Ooh!
Five..four... three..two... one.
Ah. 8.15. Evening, Tom.
Hello, Jerry.
Mm. Smells good.
Sudden-death chicken, that's called.
So you finally found the courage to kill it.
No, no, she committed suicide.
Right, how about a quick snort before dinner?
Margo?
Lovely. Campari and soda, please.
Gin and tonic for me, I think.
Pea-pod or elderberry wine?
Well, just the tiniest pea-pod for me, please.
Ditto, only, er... let me sit down first, eh?
Ahh.
Thank you.
There we are. Now...
Here's to a harvest safely gathered,
and to Jerry and Margo
for helping us to gather it.
Reply, please, Jerry.
What? Oh... er...
Yes, well... here's to pea-pods.
What happened to that mountain of stuff
we picked. I didn't notice any in the garage.
- Too damp.
- Cellar?
- Too much effluence down there.
- Well where is it, then?
- Have we time to show them before dinner?
- Oh, yes, why not? Come on.
Welcome to Shangri-La.
But Barbara, this is a spare bedroom.
Well, they're all asleep, aren't they?
- But how do you Hoover?
- Oh, Margo!
I know it looks a bit odd,
but it's the perfect place.
Perfect temperature. Dry, cool, dark.
If we weren't using it,
I'd let it out as a warehouse.
What's that for? Warding off vampires?
That's onions, you fool.
The garlic's in here.
Over here...
...we have carrots...
...celeriac...
.and...
...apples.
Well, I suppose you know what you're doing.
No, no, no. Not there. There.
They're not like us, Margo.
They mustn't touch or they'll go bad.
Now this is Granny's wardrobe.
Cor!
Still, she liked a nice cabbage.
I suppose you've got watercress in the bath?
No, that's in the bidet.
I'm sorry, Tom and Barbara.
This used to be a lovely, sunny little bedroom.
And you've ruined it.
Well, look at it this way.
We've lost a bedroom,
but we've gained a year's nosh.
Yes, everything on and under the beds is rates.
You'll never get it into a council envelope.
We're selling it first.
- What, just like that?
- Course, easy.
No, Tom. You may be a giant in the garden,
but when it comes to the world of commerce,
you're just a pygmy.
Watch it.
Look, selling a bedful of fresh veg
is the simplest thing in the world.
No, Margo's right, you know.
Life's more complicated than you think.
You've never sold in the big, wicked world.
This isn't Widecombe Fair, it's Surbiton.
It's people like you that make it complicated.
If you had a piece of string,
it would tie itself in knots.
I'm just warning you.
- Oh, pestilence, plague.
- Doom, doom.
Did I hear a dinner gong?
Not unless the chicken jumped out of the oven
and banged one.
No, that's a very good idea. I'm hungry.
Come along.
Margo, let's go and pick some flowers
for the table.
You didn't grow any flowers.
From your garden.
No, Tom, seriously.
It's not as simple as all that, you know.
Just cos you're a seller
doesn't mean you'll find a buyer.
- I've already got one.
- Good Lord!
That restaurant by the war memorial,
with the stupid name.
- Oh, The Runcible Spoon.
- That's it. I'm seeing the manager tomorrow.
- I ate there once. I wouldn't go back.
- And why?
- Chemical veg tasting like cooked blankets.
- No, the food was all right.
They served the Burgundy in Hock glasses.
Disgusting devils.
Very nice, Chef.
But before the menus go to table,
check the dictionary
to see if potage is spelled with one T or two.
And, Chef, do ask Mrs Rosen to stop being silly
with that new Spanish boy.
(Music box plays)
(Music continues)
(Music continues)
- Shut up.
(Music stops)
(Knocks on door)
- Yes?
Morning. Mr Runcible or Mr Spoon?
No. That's the name of the restaurant.
I'm Michelangelo Lombardi.
(Sniggers)
- Are you all right'?
- Er... sorry... l-|-I've got a bit of a cold.
Er... I'm Tom Good.
Oh, yes. Oh, we spoke on the telephone.
- You're the fruit and veg merch.
- Sort of.
Well, come along. I'm a busy man.
Oh, right, well.
Straight to the point, then. Samples.
Smell that.
(Sniffs) Yes?
Look at that. Perfect.
(Music box plays)
- What's that?
(Music stops)
Nothing.
Oh. Right.
How about that for a carrot?
- Parsnip?
- I do know what these things are called.
Oh, yes. Sorry.
And a...
One of those.
Well?
Why did you go like that...
(Sniffs) ..with the carrot?
Oh... (Laughs)
- Well, you're a cigar man.
- Yes, I know, but you only do that with cigars.
You don't do it with carrots.
I know. It was a joke.
Oh. A joke.
I see.
Well...
.If the rest of the stuff is up to this standard,
it's certainly quality veg.
If, as you said on the telephone, you're prepared
to undercut my current supplier...
As a boy scout.
- Pardon?
- I'm prepared.
But why did you say boy scout?
I don't know, really.
Let's say I'm prepared to undercut, slightly,
your current supplier.
Then I think we can do business.
(Music box chord)
(Chuckles)
Why are you laughing?
- I remembering what a pessimistic friend said.
- Is he funny, then?
- I've met funnier.
- Oh.
Look, vis-a-vis the quality OK,
and vis-a-vis the quantity we discussed,
I total it up to be 90 quid.
Yes, yes, I'm your man for 90.
Right, twelve 90$...
Er... why twelve?
12 months in a year.
- No.
- There are.
No, no, no, no.
This quantity we're talking about is all I've got.
It's my surplus. One sale.
Oh? And what am I supposed to do next month?
Well, go back to your original supplier.
I see. And get all the rubbish because
he doesn't like being mucked about.
No, it's not on.
You supply me regularly or not at all.
You obviously didn't think about
the marketing side of it, did you?
- Fool.
- No need to be abusive.
No, me, me!
I was so sure it would all be so simple.
Look, I hate to see a little man humiliated.
Er... you wouldn't settle for a medium-sized man
embarrassed, would you?
- Who's he, then?
- Oh, never mind. You were saying?
For you I'll make an exception.
- I'll take your stuff.
- Mr Lombardi, you're a prince.
There's no reason why business
can't be tempered with a little humanity.
- 70 quid?
- Yea...
- Just a minute. You said 90.
- Then. It's a buyer's market now.
Ho ho. Perhaps Margo was right.
Perhaps I am a pygmy.
No, not with your features.
No, no... Oh, never mind.
I can't afford to sell at that price.
I'll try somewhere else.
Well, life's more complicated than you think.
Not to me. It's other people who complicate it.
But you have to deal with other people.
Well, just because I'm outnumbered
doesn't make me wrong, does it?
There you are. You can smoke it later.
You haven't got a big jar you could put me in,
have you? I need pickling in brine.
Why so ratty? You teething again?
Oh, nothing much, no.
You just married an idiot, that's all. A pygmy.
Well, everybody knows that.
What else is wrong?
I can't sell our surplus.
You...
But... but you said...
...you said that the man at the restaurant...
Don't listen to me. I'm not going to in future.
- What went wrong?
- Me.
- Bulk, that's all they're interested in.
- We've got bulk.
No, bulk bulk. That's what they mean.
Everywhere was the same.
Certainly, Mr Good,
30 tonnes of King Edwards a day. Deal.
You'll be able to get your juggernaut in?
I suppose a trolley on four old pram wheels
doesn't fit the bill.
Nor does our veg. We grew the wrong stuff.
This bloke told me.
- What does he know?
- Quite a lot. He's a greengrocer.
He said if you want to cash in,
you don't grow peasant foods.
- King Edwards aren't peasants.
- Well, you know what I mean.
They buy small amounts of aristocracy.
Royal Sovereigns.
- Who?
- Strawberries, raspberries,
your pound a punnet stuff. Asparagus.
Oh, I see.
Margo tramples over old ladies
to get the first asparagus of the season.
And she's not the only one.
- Remember the artichoke riot of '74?
- Vividly.
Let's face the facts, you chose the wrong crops.
But I forgive you, I forgive you.
Next year it'll be speciality crops.
We'll be quids in.
Hmm.
You couldn't make next year start tomorrow,
could you?
Why?
Final demand for the Rates.
"Dear Sir, threat, threat, threat,
threat, threat, threat, threat..
Your obedient servant."
Hypocrites.
(Sighs)
Tricky, isn't it?
Yes. Especially since we've only got £3.28
in the bank.
Quite.
If I sold my body to science,
do you think they'd give me the money now?
50p is not a lot of good.
No, Tom, it all comes back down
to that surplus.
There must be some way of selling it.
Honestly, love, I tried everywhere.
As a wholesaler,
I just haven't got enough of the stuff.
Of course.
Ge' your spuds an' greens 'ere!
Pardon?
Ge' your spuds an' greens 'ere!
I thought that's what you said.
What do you mean?
Get your spuds and greens here.
We cut out the middle man
and sell direct to the public.
Yes!
- Have an OBE.
- Thank you.
- Have akiss.
- Thank you.
Have a tomato.
Afternoon.
Good afternoon.
- Nice hard heart.
- Thank you.
- I expect those are crunchy, too.
- Mm. Full of flavour.
- Have you got any paint?
- Pardon?
Paint. You know, for painting things?
- No.
- Oh, all right, I think I'll leave it then.
(Tyres screech)
Hello, Margo. Hello, Jerry.
Barbara! What are you doing?
I'm trying to sell the veg.
- But you're sitting where you can be seen.
- Not much point in hiding in the shed.
Jerry, tell her. Tell her this is The Avenue.
Well, she knows that. She lives here.
(Giggles)
(Chuckles)
Please, laugh, go on, laugh.
I hope you're still laughing when the value of
property here plummets to an all-time low.
Why should it?
This is a residential area, Barbara,
not a tradesman's ghetto.
Oh, don't be such a snob.
Well, you know what I mean.
Anyway, I'm not a tradesman.
I don't qualify as a tradesman.
I've been here all morning
and I've only sold 2Ib of carrots.
I thought Tom had that restaurant
grovelling to buy your stuff?
Really? Who gave you that impression?
- Tom.
- Oh.
No, you see, what I need is a bigger sign.
That's the trouble.
A gaudy, neon one, presumably?
Oh, don't be daft. No, what I need is a bigger
sign. Something to get me noticed.
Well, if the police notice you,
you might have some trouble.
- What do you mean?
- You could be fined, quite a lot.
Trading without a licence.
I really ought to talk to Tom about this.
Where is he?
Tom? Oh, he's out. Trading without a licence.
Ge' your spuds an' greens 'ere!
Ge' your spuds an' greens. (Coughs)
(Deeper voice) Get your spuds and greens here.
Please?
(Tyres screech)
All right.
Come on.
That's enough.
- Are you talking to me?
- Yes, lam.
Clear off,
- And just who might you be?
- I'm Ronnie Boxhall, that's who I am.
- Not the bandleader?
- Look, don't try and be funny with me.
I'm a fruiterer and greengrocer.
That's my van and this is one of my roads.
You've done very well for yourself.
I don't own the road,
I didn't say I owned the road.
What I'm saying is, I've worked myself up
in every road around here.
And you're doing it again.
What are you on about?
Private enterprise.
It's taken me ten years to work up this round
and you're not pushing me out of it!
That's not private enterprise, that's the Mafia.
I'll have you know,
my father lost a leg at Gallipoli.
Well, you leave me alone
and go and help him look for it.
Look, you've got competition,
so you'd better get used to the idea.
Look, mate, you'd better get out of here.
I'm warning you.
And who's going to make me?
Eugene?
Oh, my God.
(Panting)
(Coughs)
Hello, love.
Well, I've had no luck at all, I'm afraid.
I've only sold 2Ib of carrots all day.
Then I found I was breaking the law anyway.
(Panting)
Have you been running?
No.
Well, any luck?
No.
Police?
No, no, no..l..1...
.I'just realised that...
selling stuff on the streets like that is unfair.
- To us?
- No, no.
To good, honest street-traders
like good old Ronnie Boxhalll.
After all, he's taken ten years
to build up that round.
It's unfair for somebody to walk in
and take his trade away.
This is not the egomaniac that I love speaking.
Oh..live and let live, Barbara.
(Laughs) Rubbish. What's the real reason?
He had this giant friend,
with huge boots and a bolt through his neck.
(Laughs) Never mind, Killer.
Well, I do mind, that's the trouble.
We're trying to live our own way
and all we get is obstacles.
If it's not the law and red tape,
it's restaurateurs trying to fleece us.
Or it's great big giants
with bolts through their necks.
I don't know how we're going to pay
these Rates.
No, neither do.
I'm sorry, love.
Oh, it's not your fault.
No, it's me. If I'd planted the right crops,
we wouldn't be in this mess.
I'm stupid.
Oh, come on, Tom, we planned it together.
I thought we'd got it right. That makes me stupid.
(Knock on door)
Hello, peasants.
Oh. Has somebody died?
Oh... Hello, Jerry. No, we were just thinking
about something, that's all.
Like a glass of wine?
No.
Look... you two are in a scrape, aren't you?
My God, he's found out
about the transmitter in the attic.
Give us 24 hours, Jerry, before you phone MI6.
Barbara, get us on the first flight to Moscow.
Can't you be serious about anything?
- What will you do about your Rates?
- Pay them when we sell the surplus veg.
But nobody wants it.
There is that.
- How long have you got?
- Oh, months.
- How long?
- Six days.
Oh, lor! Look, how much is that surplus worth?
About ninety quid.
Right.
Look, I know charity begins at home, Jerry,
but you live next door.
This isn't charity,
it's a perfectly common-sense solution.
Margo and I aren't carnivores.
We do eat vegetables.
But we're talking about a hundredweight of
cabbages, not the odd petit chou.
We've got spuds in sacks,
not in little polythene bags.
And you both hate carrots, we know that.
Oh, come on, Jerry, it's very sweet of you,
but it's not quite your style, is it?
Right. The only thing you buy in bulk is gin.
Are you trying to tell me something?
Yes, we haven't got any gin, we've only got veg.
We have pea-pod burgundy,
but we're keeping that,
because we think it's a cure for scrofula.
Well, what are you going to do?
Only one thing to do. Sell the veg.
- Who to? Each other?
- The restaurant. We'll just have to take less.
Oh, yes, of course!
That's the idea. Splendid.
Take a loss. More painful for you that way.
More enjoyable, isn't it? You must tell me
sometime where you get your hair shirts.
- Jerry.
- Yeah?
- We're still in your gang in the playground?
- Fools.
(Sighs)
Oh, Tom, we're not going to have to sell
at a loss, are we?
We've got no choice, love.
Mr Runcible Spoon will give us 70 for it.
But the Rates are 81.20.
Yes.
Doesn't that suggest something obvious?
- No. What?
- We haven't got enough.
Now listen very carefully to me, Mr... erm...
.Mr Squires.
I have itemised the components of my Rates bill
scrupulously.
As every citizen should, Mrs Leadbetter.
I am not a citizen, I am a resident.
Now... road cleaning I shall pay.
Street lighting I shall pay.
Ground rent I shall pay.
But when it comes to the drain
in front of my house, I shall not,
because it is blocked up and overflowing.
Ah, I'll make a note of that.
You will do more than that, Mr Squires.
You will have a plumber on my doorstep
at nine o'clock tomorrow morning
with a plunger in his hand,
or you will not get a penny.
Just who do you think you are,
Mrs Leadbetter?
I am the silent majority.
Now, look sharp.
Right, well, er... I'll get on to Drains
and try to get them to come this week.
Nine o'clock tomorrow morning.
Mrs Leadbetter, you're hardly in a position to
make demands when I've got your cheque.
That cheque is post-dated
and can be cancelled in a trice.
- 9.30?
- Nine.
- Very well, Mrs Leadbetter, I'll get your receipt.
- That's better.
Hello, Margo. Having fun?
Barbara.
I consider it my duty
to remind these would-be commissars
that I'm an Englishwoman and a householder,
not a mere number.
- Morning, Tom.
- Morning, 38.
Your receipt.
Thank you, Mr Squires.
Tom. Barbara.
- Yes, Sir.
- I've come to pay the Rates.
Oh-ho! Red demand.
Nearly had the bailiff in, eh?
You have stamped 'urgent' on my hand.
Well, get on with it, then.
- Cash or cheque?
- Both.
A cheque from our account for £3.28.
A cheque from Michelangelo Lombardi for £70.
The rest is in coin of the realm.
£81.20.
Hm.
It's been a struggle, hasn't it, Barbara?
No, once we found the money
down the back of the chair,
and changed the 500-peseta note,
it was a breeze.
That and the telephone money.
- But you haven't got a telephone any more.
- No, we left all our tuppences in a box.
How can you be so brave
without a penny in the bank?
We can go one better.
We've haven't a penny anywhere.
Oh, come on, Tom, you must have a bit
tucked away somewhere?
No.
It's not possible to have no money at all.
No, it is, because we haven't.
What happens when the next bill turns up?
We'll have something else to sell by then.
Half a pig, goat's horn aphrodisiac.
Not in the Rates office, please, Tom.
What about incidentals? Soap, for instance?
How do you buy soap?
Miss Rochart, the chemist. Six eggs a bar.
- Excuse me. Mr Good?
- Yes?
Even though you stamped 'urgent' on my hand,
I have not strayed from the path of duty.
You have given me too much money here.
Smashing! How much?
One penny.
Thanks.
There you are, Margo. We're solvent again.
- Barbara.
- Hm?
Tell me how you propose
to keep yourself in erm...
...(whispers) knickers for a penny.
A gallon of goats milk
equals two pairs of knickers, Margo.
Get on with your work.
No, no.
No.
No, no, no.
Do you disagree with something, Margo?
It can't work, Tom, it can't.
Excuse me a minute.
You simply cannot exist without money.
- You can.
- You can't.
You see?
I'll have a flag, please.
- Thank you very much.
- Not at all.
Er..er..yes. All right, erm...
I'll have the button, please, erm..
Thank you.
Well, I feel better now. Really better.
That has proved my point.
I haven't got a penny left, literally.
But I still exist, don't 1?
For the moment. There will come a time
when you'll need money again.
There will not.
Tom. Can I have that penny?