Monty Python's Flying Circus (1969–1974): Season 2, Episode 5 - Live from the Grill-o-Mat - full transcript
Contestants vie for incriminating photos in "The Blackmail Game"; a boxer spars with schoolgirls.
Monty Python's Flying Circus
tonight comes to you live
from the Grillomat Snack Bar, Paignton.
Hello to you live from the
Grillomat Snack Bar, Paignton.
And so, without any more ado,
let's have the titles.
It's...
Well, those were the titles.
And now for the first item this evening
on the Menu - ha ha -
the team have chosen
as a little hors d'oeuvres an item
and I think we can be sure
it won't be an ordinary item
in fact the team told me just
before the show that anything could happen,
and probably would
so let's have ... the item.
Hello, good evening,
and welcome to 'Blackmail'!
And to start tonight's programme, we go
North to Preston in Lancashire,
and Mrs Betty Teal!
Hello, Mrs Teal!
Now this is for ?15
and it's to stop us revealing
the name of your lover in Bolton.
So Mrs Teal...if you send us ?15
by return of post, please,
and your husband Trevor, and your
lovely children, Diane, Janice and Juliet
need never know the name
of your lover in Bolton.
And now...a letter...
a hotel registration book...
and a series of photographs...
which could add up to divorce,
premature retirement,
and possible criminal proceedings
for a company director in Bromsgrove.
He's a freemason, and prospective Tory MP.
That's Mr S. of Bromsgrove... ?3000...
... to stop us from revealing your name,
the name of the three other people involved,
the youth organization to which they belong,
and the shop where you bought the equipment.
We'll be showing you more of that photograph
later in the programme...
unless we hear from Charles or Michael.
And now it's time
for our 'Stop the Film' spot!
The rules are very simple. We have taken
a film which contains compromising scenes
and unpleasant details,
which could wreck a man's career.
But, the victim may phone me
at any point and stop the film.
But remember the money increases
as the film goes on.
So the longer you leave it...
the more you have to pay!
So now, with the clock at ?300
this week 'Stop the Film'
visited Thames Ditton...
He's being very brave here...
Hello, sir, hello, yes.
No sir, no, I'm sure you didn't.
No, it's all right, sir, we don't
morally censure, we just want the money.
Yes, here's the address to send it to:
Not at all, sir...thank you.
Sorry chaps, it was my mother.
Gentlemen, pray silence
for the President of the Royal Society
for Putting Things on Top of Other Things.
I thank you, gentlemen.
The year has been a good one for the Society
(hear, hear)
This year our members have put
more things on top of other things
than ever before.
But, I should warn you,
this is no time for complacency.
No, there are still many things,
and I cannot emphasize this too strongly,
not on top of other things.
I myself, on my way here this evening,
saw a thing that was not on top
of another thing in any way.
(shame!)
Shame indeed but we must not allow
ourselves to become too despondent.
For, we must never forget that
if there was not one thing that was not
on top of another thing
our society would be nothing more
than a meaningless body
of men that had gathered together
for no good purpose.
But we flourish.
This year our Australasian members
and the various organizations affiliated
to our Australasian branches
put no fewer than twenty-two things
on top of other things.
Well done all of you.
But there is one cloud on the horizon.
In this last year our Staffordshire branch
has not succeeded in putting
one thing on top of another!
(shame!)
Therefore I call upon
our Staffordshire delegate
to explain this weird behaviour.
Er, Cutler, Staffordshire.
Um ... well, Mr Chairman, it's just
that most of the members in Staffordshire
feel... the whole thing's a bit silly.
Silly! SILLY!!
Silly! I suppose it is, a bit.
What have we been doing wasting our lives
with all this nonsense?
Right, okay, meeting adjourned for ever.
Good Lord. I'm on film.
How did that happen?
It's film again. What's going on?
Gentlemen! I have bad news.
This room is surrounded by film.
We're trapped!
Don't panic, we'll get out of this.
We'll tunnel our way out.
Good thinking, sir. I'll get the horse.
Okay Captain, you detail three men,
start digging and load them up with cutlery,
and then we'll have a rota, we'll have
two hours digging, two hours vaulting
and then two hours sleeping, okay?
All right, Medwin, let's see you get over
that horse. Pick your feet up, Medwin.
Come on, boy!
Ze stupid English. Zey are prisoners
and all they do is the sport.
- One thing worries me, Fritz.
- Ja?
Where's the traditional cheeky
and lovable Cockney sergeant?
Cheer up, Fritz, it may never happen.
Good. Everything seems to be in order.
- Colonel! I've found another exit, sir.
- Okay, quickly, run this way.
If we could run that way...
Sorry.
Oh, I'm terribly sorry, excuse me.
Ah, hello. Well they certainly
seem to be in a tight spot,
and I spot... our next item
so let's get straight on with the fun
and go over to the next item
or dish! Ha ha!
Hello. 'Ow are you?
I'm fine.
Welcome to a new half-hour chat show
in which me, viz the man what's talking
to you now, and Brooky
- to wit my flat mate -
and nothing else, I'd like to emphasize that,
discuss current affairs issues
of burning import.
- Have you heard the one about
the 3 nuns in the nudist colony?
- Shut up. Tonight, the population explosion.
- Apparently there were these 3 nuns...
- Shut up.
Come the year 1991, given the present rate
of increase in the world's population,
the Chinese will be three deep.
Another thing...
Sorry, loves, sorry, the show is too long
this week and this scene's been cut.
Lord Hill's at the bottom of this.
But if you can find a piano stool
you can appear later on in the show on film.
- 'Ow much?
- Oh, about ten bob each?
- I wouldn't wipe me nose on it.
- 'Ave you 'eard the one about these 3 nuns...
Shh. I can hear something.
'Ang about, we may still get
in this show as a link.
- That's clever. How do they do that?
- Colour separation, you cotton head.
No, that's not right.
Oh, what's this?
- 'lo British pig, we meet again!
- What?
That bitch! He spilled the entire
bottle of Chateau la Tour.
- Everything?
- It's a disaster!
- Over here, Sir William.
- Sir William, over here.
Now, stay there!
How do we get out of this?
No idea.
- Don't jump!
- What?
- Don't jump!
- The firemen are coming!
- What?
- The firemen, don't jump!
- What?
- Don't jump!
My god, he's coming back!
Well, they seem to be in another tight spot.
Could you...could you, could you
keep it down a little, please?
Thank you so much.
Could you keep it down please...
Thank you.
Well and now we move on to our, main course.
Prawn salad...
Prawn salad?
Well, if you'll just wait in here, sir,
I'm sure Mr Thompson
won't keep you waiting long.
Fine. Thanks very much.
The mirror fell off the wall.
Sir?
The mirror fell off...
off the wall... it fell.
I see. You'd better wait here.
I'll get a cloth.
- Ah, it ... it came off the wall.
- Yes, sir?
- It just came right off the wall.
- Really, sir.
Yes, I ... I didn't touch it.
Of course not. It just fell off the wall.
Yes. It just fell off the wall.
Don't move. I'll get help.
Yes - er, fell off the wall.
Oh my God, what a mess.
- 'Ere, did you do this?
- No, no. I didn't do all this.
It... it did it all.
Oh? Well...
'ere, hold this. I'll get started.
Oh, it's jolly nice. What is it?
It's a Brazilian dagger. Ooops!
Er, she just fell on... on to the dagger.
- Yes, of course she did, sir.
- Yes,
just gave me the dagger and tripped,
and went, 'Oops'.
- Yes sir, I understand.
- I mean, I didn't er...
Oh no, no, of course not, sir, I understand.
- I mean she ... she just, er...
- Fell?
I'm terribly sorry.
- That's him.
- Right, sir.
Hello, officer.
There seems to have been an accident.
Well, several accidents actually.
That's right, sir.
Would you come this way, please.
Ahh! It's me ... me heart, sir.
You swine. I'll get you for that.
Er, I won't wait.
I'll phone.
Sorry.
I think we're really out this time.
Yes. Jolly good.
Now where's the school hall?
- I think it's over there.
- Come on. Sorry. Jolly good.
'Oh, Mr Belpit.
Your legs are so swollen.'
Excuse me, is that the school hall?
Um, I'm sorry, I don't know.
I'm not in this one,
I'm in next week's, I think.
Oh, come on.
'Oh, Mr Belpit! ...'
Oh, here we are.
Ah well, they seem to have
linked that themselves,
so there's no need for me
to interrupt at all.
So, ah, back to the school hall.
'Seven Brides for Seven Brothers'.
'Tis time the seven Smith brothers
had brides.
Fetch me Smith Major.
Sir.
'Tis time you and your six brothers
were married.
Thank you, Headmaster.
Fetch me your six brothers,
that the seven brothers may be together.
Behold, the seven brothers.
Right, I'll see Watson, Wilkins, and Spratt
in my study afterwards.
But...
where shall we find seven brides
for seven brothers?
The Sabine School for Girls.
Yes, and it's the Annual Dance.
Fetch hither the seven brides
for seven brothers.
Behold the seven brides.
Fetch hither the padre
that the seven brides
may marry the seven brothers.
Fetch hither the master on duty
that the seven brides
may marry the seven brothers.
Sorry, I'm late, Headmaster
- I've been wrestling with Plato.
What you do in your own time, Padre,
is written on the wall in the vestry.
Right, do you 4 boys...
take these 2 girls to be your 7 brides?
- Yes, sir.
- Right, go and do your prep.
- I say, Teddy.
- You said something, Neddy?
- That's right, I did, Teddy.
- Well what is it, Neddy?
Piggybanks, Teddy.
Piggybanks, Neddy?
Yes, I want to hunt piggybanks, Teddy.
- You want to hunt piggybanks, Neddy?
- That's right, Teddy.
- I got him, Teddy.
- Time to bring home the bacon, Neddy.
That's not bacon,
that's sirloin, Teddy.
Can't be sirloin!
Not from a piggy, Neddy.
- But that's sirloin, Teddy.
- No it isn't, Neddy.
- Is, Teddy.
- Isn't, Neddy.
- Is, Teddy.
- Hmm... Looks like I've been
playing the fool, Neddy.
- That's all right, Teddy.
- Thanks, Neddy.
Doesn't matter at all...
Good morning,
I'd care to purchase a chicken, please.
Don't come here with that posh talk
you nasty, stuck-up twit.
- I beg your pardon?
- A chicken, sir. Certainly.
Thank you. And how much does that
work out to per pound, my good fellow?
Per pound, you slimy trollop,
what kind of a ponce are you?
- I'm sorry?
- 4/6 a pound, sir, nice and ready for roasting.
I see, and I'd care to purchase
some stuffing in addition, please.
Use your own, you great poofy poonagger!
- What?
- Ah, certainly sir, some stuffing.
- Oh, thank you.
- 'Oh, thank you' says the great queen
like a la-di-dah poofta.
- I beg your pardon?
- That's all right, sir, call again.
- Excuse me.
- What is it now, you great pillock?
Well, I can't help noticing that
you insult me and then you're polite
to me alternately.
I'm terribly sorry to hear that, sir.
- That's all right. It doesn't really matter.
- Tough titty if it did,
you nasty spotted prancer.
Sorry, I asked for tea.
Thank you very much.
Well we've had the dessert and then,
and so the first item,
the last item on our menu of fun
is the coffee.
- Now I did ask for tea.
- But you just said coffee.
No, no, that was just my announcement,
just a metaphor.
We come... look would you mind
keeping it down, please...
we come as - as I said just now, to the coffee.
- Here, he said it again!
- Shut up!
This is Ken Clean-Air Systems, the great
white hope of the British boxing world.
After three fights, and only two convictions,
his manager believes that Ken is now ready
to face the giant American, Satellite Five.
The great thing about Ken is that
he's almost totally stupid.
Every morning, he jogs the 47 miles from
his 2-bedroomed, 8-bathroom, 6-up-2-down,
3-to-go-house in Reigate,
to the Government's Pesticide Research Centre
at Shoreham.
Nobody knows why.
Basically Ken is a very gentle,
home-loving person.
I remember when one of his stick insects
had a knee infection.
He stayed up all night rubbing it with
germoline and banging its head on the table.
Oh he was such a pretty baby,
always so kind and gentle.
He was really considerate to his mother,
and not at all the kind of person
you'd expect to pulverize their opponent
into a bloody mass of flesh and raw bone,
spitting teeth and fragments of gum
into a ring which had become
one man's hell and Ken's glory.
Every morning at his little 3-room semi
near Reading, Ken gets up at three o'dock
and goes back to bed again
because it's far too early.
At seven o'clock Ken gets up,
he has a quick shower, a rub-down,
gets into his track-suit,
and goes back to bed again.
At 7.50 every morning Ken's trainer
runs the 13,000 miles from his 2-room
lean-to in Bangkok
and gets him up.
I used to wake Ken up with a crowbar
on the back of the head.
But I recently found that this was
too far from his brain
and I wasn't getting through to him anymore.
So I now wake him up with a steel peg
driven into his skull with a mallet.
For breakfast every day,
Ken places a plate of liver and bacon
under his chair,
and locks himself in the cupboard.
Well, he's having a lot of mental
difficulties with his breakfasts,
but this is temperament,
caused by a small particle
of brain in his skull,
and once we've removed that
he'll be perfectly all right.
At 8.30 the real training begins.
Ken goes back to bed
and his trainer gets him up.
At 10.30 every morning Ken arrives
at what he thinks is the gym.
Sometimes it's a sweetshop, sometimes it's
a private house. Today it's a hospital.
Urn, straight down there.
Straight down there.
Straight down there.
For lunch, Ken crouches down
beside the road
and rubs gravel into his hair.
But lunch doesn't take long.
Ken's soon up on his feet and back to bed.
And his trainer has to run the 49,000 miles
from his 2-bedroom, 6-living-room tree-house
in Kyoto to wake him up.
Hello. When Ken is in
a really deep sleep like this one,
the only way to wake him up
is to saw his head off.
What is he like in the ring, this human dynamo,
this 18-stone bantam weight battering-ram?
We asked his sparring partner
and one-time childhood sweetheart,
Maureen Spencer.
Well, I think that if Ken keeps his right up,
gets in with the left jab
and takes the fight to his man,
well, he should go for a cut eye in the 3rd
and put Wilcox on the canvas by 6th.
Ken's opponent in Tuesday's fight
is Petula Wilcox,
the Birmingham girl who was a shorthand typist
before turning pro in 1968.
She's keen on knitting
and likes Cliff Richard records.
How does she rate her chances against Ken?
Well, I'm a southpaw and I think
this will confuse him,
particularly with his brain problem.
My lords, ladies and gedderbong!
On my right, from the town of Reigate
in the county of Kent, the heavyweight...
Mr Ken Clean-Air Systems!...
and on my left, Miss Petula Wilcox.
I think boxing's a splendid sport -
teaches you self-defense.
Obviously boxing must have its limits,
but providing they're both perfectly fit
I can see nothing wrong with one healthy man
beating the living daylights out of a
little schoolgirl; it's quick and it's fun.
Oh, no, he's gone. But he left a message.
Jack! Where's that note that fellow left?
Oh, here you are.
It says...
'Sorry, had to catch the last bus.
Am on the 49b to Babbacombe.'
Oh, er, there you are. Hello.
You got the note, jolly good.
Well, um, that's all the items
that we have for you this week
and er, what a jolly nice
lot of items too, eh?
Um...well, the same team will be back
with you again next week with another menu
full of items.
Um...I don't know if I shall
be introducing the show next week
as I understand that my bits in this show
have not been received quite as well
as they might
but er, never mind, the damage is done
- no use in crying over spilt milk.
I've had my chance and I've muffed it.
Anyway, there we are.
I'm not really awfully good with words.
You see, I'm more of a visual performer.
I have a very funny - though I say so myself
- very funny funny walk.
I wish I'd been in that show.
I'd have done rather well.
But anyway, there we are - the show's over.
And...we'll all be - they'll all be back
with you again next week...
Sorry.
I do beg your pardon.
I don't like these... displays of emotion.
... I wish it would say the end.
tonight comes to you live
from the Grillomat Snack Bar, Paignton.
Hello to you live from the
Grillomat Snack Bar, Paignton.
And so, without any more ado,
let's have the titles.
It's...
Well, those were the titles.
And now for the first item this evening
on the Menu - ha ha -
the team have chosen
as a little hors d'oeuvres an item
and I think we can be sure
it won't be an ordinary item
in fact the team told me just
before the show that anything could happen,
and probably would
so let's have ... the item.
Hello, good evening,
and welcome to 'Blackmail'!
And to start tonight's programme, we go
North to Preston in Lancashire,
and Mrs Betty Teal!
Hello, Mrs Teal!
Now this is for ?15
and it's to stop us revealing
the name of your lover in Bolton.
So Mrs Teal...if you send us ?15
by return of post, please,
and your husband Trevor, and your
lovely children, Diane, Janice and Juliet
need never know the name
of your lover in Bolton.
And now...a letter...
a hotel registration book...
and a series of photographs...
which could add up to divorce,
premature retirement,
and possible criminal proceedings
for a company director in Bromsgrove.
He's a freemason, and prospective Tory MP.
That's Mr S. of Bromsgrove... ?3000...
... to stop us from revealing your name,
the name of the three other people involved,
the youth organization to which they belong,
and the shop where you bought the equipment.
We'll be showing you more of that photograph
later in the programme...
unless we hear from Charles or Michael.
And now it's time
for our 'Stop the Film' spot!
The rules are very simple. We have taken
a film which contains compromising scenes
and unpleasant details,
which could wreck a man's career.
But, the victim may phone me
at any point and stop the film.
But remember the money increases
as the film goes on.
So the longer you leave it...
the more you have to pay!
So now, with the clock at ?300
this week 'Stop the Film'
visited Thames Ditton...
He's being very brave here...
Hello, sir, hello, yes.
No sir, no, I'm sure you didn't.
No, it's all right, sir, we don't
morally censure, we just want the money.
Yes, here's the address to send it to:
Not at all, sir...thank you.
Sorry chaps, it was my mother.
Gentlemen, pray silence
for the President of the Royal Society
for Putting Things on Top of Other Things.
I thank you, gentlemen.
The year has been a good one for the Society
(hear, hear)
This year our members have put
more things on top of other things
than ever before.
But, I should warn you,
this is no time for complacency.
No, there are still many things,
and I cannot emphasize this too strongly,
not on top of other things.
I myself, on my way here this evening,
saw a thing that was not on top
of another thing in any way.
(shame!)
Shame indeed but we must not allow
ourselves to become too despondent.
For, we must never forget that
if there was not one thing that was not
on top of another thing
our society would be nothing more
than a meaningless body
of men that had gathered together
for no good purpose.
But we flourish.
This year our Australasian members
and the various organizations affiliated
to our Australasian branches
put no fewer than twenty-two things
on top of other things.
Well done all of you.
But there is one cloud on the horizon.
In this last year our Staffordshire branch
has not succeeded in putting
one thing on top of another!
(shame!)
Therefore I call upon
our Staffordshire delegate
to explain this weird behaviour.
Er, Cutler, Staffordshire.
Um ... well, Mr Chairman, it's just
that most of the members in Staffordshire
feel... the whole thing's a bit silly.
Silly! SILLY!!
Silly! I suppose it is, a bit.
What have we been doing wasting our lives
with all this nonsense?
Right, okay, meeting adjourned for ever.
Good Lord. I'm on film.
How did that happen?
It's film again. What's going on?
Gentlemen! I have bad news.
This room is surrounded by film.
We're trapped!
Don't panic, we'll get out of this.
We'll tunnel our way out.
Good thinking, sir. I'll get the horse.
Okay Captain, you detail three men,
start digging and load them up with cutlery,
and then we'll have a rota, we'll have
two hours digging, two hours vaulting
and then two hours sleeping, okay?
All right, Medwin, let's see you get over
that horse. Pick your feet up, Medwin.
Come on, boy!
Ze stupid English. Zey are prisoners
and all they do is the sport.
- One thing worries me, Fritz.
- Ja?
Where's the traditional cheeky
and lovable Cockney sergeant?
Cheer up, Fritz, it may never happen.
Good. Everything seems to be in order.
- Colonel! I've found another exit, sir.
- Okay, quickly, run this way.
If we could run that way...
Sorry.
Oh, I'm terribly sorry, excuse me.
Ah, hello. Well they certainly
seem to be in a tight spot,
and I spot... our next item
so let's get straight on with the fun
and go over to the next item
or dish! Ha ha!
Hello. 'Ow are you?
I'm fine.
Welcome to a new half-hour chat show
in which me, viz the man what's talking
to you now, and Brooky
- to wit my flat mate -
and nothing else, I'd like to emphasize that,
discuss current affairs issues
of burning import.
- Have you heard the one about
the 3 nuns in the nudist colony?
- Shut up. Tonight, the population explosion.
- Apparently there were these 3 nuns...
- Shut up.
Come the year 1991, given the present rate
of increase in the world's population,
the Chinese will be three deep.
Another thing...
Sorry, loves, sorry, the show is too long
this week and this scene's been cut.
Lord Hill's at the bottom of this.
But if you can find a piano stool
you can appear later on in the show on film.
- 'Ow much?
- Oh, about ten bob each?
- I wouldn't wipe me nose on it.
- 'Ave you 'eard the one about these 3 nuns...
Shh. I can hear something.
'Ang about, we may still get
in this show as a link.
- That's clever. How do they do that?
- Colour separation, you cotton head.
No, that's not right.
Oh, what's this?
- 'lo British pig, we meet again!
- What?
That bitch! He spilled the entire
bottle of Chateau la Tour.
- Everything?
- It's a disaster!
- Over here, Sir William.
- Sir William, over here.
Now, stay there!
How do we get out of this?
No idea.
- Don't jump!
- What?
- Don't jump!
- The firemen are coming!
- What?
- The firemen, don't jump!
- What?
- Don't jump!
My god, he's coming back!
Well, they seem to be in another tight spot.
Could you...could you, could you
keep it down a little, please?
Thank you so much.
Could you keep it down please...
Thank you.
Well and now we move on to our, main course.
Prawn salad...
Prawn salad?
Well, if you'll just wait in here, sir,
I'm sure Mr Thompson
won't keep you waiting long.
Fine. Thanks very much.
The mirror fell off the wall.
Sir?
The mirror fell off...
off the wall... it fell.
I see. You'd better wait here.
I'll get a cloth.
- Ah, it ... it came off the wall.
- Yes, sir?
- It just came right off the wall.
- Really, sir.
Yes, I ... I didn't touch it.
Of course not. It just fell off the wall.
Yes. It just fell off the wall.
Don't move. I'll get help.
Yes - er, fell off the wall.
Oh my God, what a mess.
- 'Ere, did you do this?
- No, no. I didn't do all this.
It... it did it all.
Oh? Well...
'ere, hold this. I'll get started.
Oh, it's jolly nice. What is it?
It's a Brazilian dagger. Ooops!
Er, she just fell on... on to the dagger.
- Yes, of course she did, sir.
- Yes,
just gave me the dagger and tripped,
and went, 'Oops'.
- Yes sir, I understand.
- I mean, I didn't er...
Oh no, no, of course not, sir, I understand.
- I mean she ... she just, er...
- Fell?
I'm terribly sorry.
- That's him.
- Right, sir.
Hello, officer.
There seems to have been an accident.
Well, several accidents actually.
That's right, sir.
Would you come this way, please.
Ahh! It's me ... me heart, sir.
You swine. I'll get you for that.
Er, I won't wait.
I'll phone.
Sorry.
I think we're really out this time.
Yes. Jolly good.
Now where's the school hall?
- I think it's over there.
- Come on. Sorry. Jolly good.
'Oh, Mr Belpit.
Your legs are so swollen.'
Excuse me, is that the school hall?
Um, I'm sorry, I don't know.
I'm not in this one,
I'm in next week's, I think.
Oh, come on.
'Oh, Mr Belpit! ...'
Oh, here we are.
Ah well, they seem to have
linked that themselves,
so there's no need for me
to interrupt at all.
So, ah, back to the school hall.
'Seven Brides for Seven Brothers'.
'Tis time the seven Smith brothers
had brides.
Fetch me Smith Major.
Sir.
'Tis time you and your six brothers
were married.
Thank you, Headmaster.
Fetch me your six brothers,
that the seven brothers may be together.
Behold, the seven brothers.
Right, I'll see Watson, Wilkins, and Spratt
in my study afterwards.
But...
where shall we find seven brides
for seven brothers?
The Sabine School for Girls.
Yes, and it's the Annual Dance.
Fetch hither the seven brides
for seven brothers.
Behold the seven brides.
Fetch hither the padre
that the seven brides
may marry the seven brothers.
Fetch hither the master on duty
that the seven brides
may marry the seven brothers.
Sorry, I'm late, Headmaster
- I've been wrestling with Plato.
What you do in your own time, Padre,
is written on the wall in the vestry.
Right, do you 4 boys...
take these 2 girls to be your 7 brides?
- Yes, sir.
- Right, go and do your prep.
- I say, Teddy.
- You said something, Neddy?
- That's right, I did, Teddy.
- Well what is it, Neddy?
Piggybanks, Teddy.
Piggybanks, Neddy?
Yes, I want to hunt piggybanks, Teddy.
- You want to hunt piggybanks, Neddy?
- That's right, Teddy.
- I got him, Teddy.
- Time to bring home the bacon, Neddy.
That's not bacon,
that's sirloin, Teddy.
Can't be sirloin!
Not from a piggy, Neddy.
- But that's sirloin, Teddy.
- No it isn't, Neddy.
- Is, Teddy.
- Isn't, Neddy.
- Is, Teddy.
- Hmm... Looks like I've been
playing the fool, Neddy.
- That's all right, Teddy.
- Thanks, Neddy.
Doesn't matter at all...
Good morning,
I'd care to purchase a chicken, please.
Don't come here with that posh talk
you nasty, stuck-up twit.
- I beg your pardon?
- A chicken, sir. Certainly.
Thank you. And how much does that
work out to per pound, my good fellow?
Per pound, you slimy trollop,
what kind of a ponce are you?
- I'm sorry?
- 4/6 a pound, sir, nice and ready for roasting.
I see, and I'd care to purchase
some stuffing in addition, please.
Use your own, you great poofy poonagger!
- What?
- Ah, certainly sir, some stuffing.
- Oh, thank you.
- 'Oh, thank you' says the great queen
like a la-di-dah poofta.
- I beg your pardon?
- That's all right, sir, call again.
- Excuse me.
- What is it now, you great pillock?
Well, I can't help noticing that
you insult me and then you're polite
to me alternately.
I'm terribly sorry to hear that, sir.
- That's all right. It doesn't really matter.
- Tough titty if it did,
you nasty spotted prancer.
Sorry, I asked for tea.
Thank you very much.
Well we've had the dessert and then,
and so the first item,
the last item on our menu of fun
is the coffee.
- Now I did ask for tea.
- But you just said coffee.
No, no, that was just my announcement,
just a metaphor.
We come... look would you mind
keeping it down, please...
we come as - as I said just now, to the coffee.
- Here, he said it again!
- Shut up!
This is Ken Clean-Air Systems, the great
white hope of the British boxing world.
After three fights, and only two convictions,
his manager believes that Ken is now ready
to face the giant American, Satellite Five.
The great thing about Ken is that
he's almost totally stupid.
Every morning, he jogs the 47 miles from
his 2-bedroomed, 8-bathroom, 6-up-2-down,
3-to-go-house in Reigate,
to the Government's Pesticide Research Centre
at Shoreham.
Nobody knows why.
Basically Ken is a very gentle,
home-loving person.
I remember when one of his stick insects
had a knee infection.
He stayed up all night rubbing it with
germoline and banging its head on the table.
Oh he was such a pretty baby,
always so kind and gentle.
He was really considerate to his mother,
and not at all the kind of person
you'd expect to pulverize their opponent
into a bloody mass of flesh and raw bone,
spitting teeth and fragments of gum
into a ring which had become
one man's hell and Ken's glory.
Every morning at his little 3-room semi
near Reading, Ken gets up at three o'dock
and goes back to bed again
because it's far too early.
At seven o'clock Ken gets up,
he has a quick shower, a rub-down,
gets into his track-suit,
and goes back to bed again.
At 7.50 every morning Ken's trainer
runs the 13,000 miles from his 2-room
lean-to in Bangkok
and gets him up.
I used to wake Ken up with a crowbar
on the back of the head.
But I recently found that this was
too far from his brain
and I wasn't getting through to him anymore.
So I now wake him up with a steel peg
driven into his skull with a mallet.
For breakfast every day,
Ken places a plate of liver and bacon
under his chair,
and locks himself in the cupboard.
Well, he's having a lot of mental
difficulties with his breakfasts,
but this is temperament,
caused by a small particle
of brain in his skull,
and once we've removed that
he'll be perfectly all right.
At 8.30 the real training begins.
Ken goes back to bed
and his trainer gets him up.
At 10.30 every morning Ken arrives
at what he thinks is the gym.
Sometimes it's a sweetshop, sometimes it's
a private house. Today it's a hospital.
Urn, straight down there.
Straight down there.
Straight down there.
For lunch, Ken crouches down
beside the road
and rubs gravel into his hair.
But lunch doesn't take long.
Ken's soon up on his feet and back to bed.
And his trainer has to run the 49,000 miles
from his 2-bedroom, 6-living-room tree-house
in Kyoto to wake him up.
Hello. When Ken is in
a really deep sleep like this one,
the only way to wake him up
is to saw his head off.
What is he like in the ring, this human dynamo,
this 18-stone bantam weight battering-ram?
We asked his sparring partner
and one-time childhood sweetheart,
Maureen Spencer.
Well, I think that if Ken keeps his right up,
gets in with the left jab
and takes the fight to his man,
well, he should go for a cut eye in the 3rd
and put Wilcox on the canvas by 6th.
Ken's opponent in Tuesday's fight
is Petula Wilcox,
the Birmingham girl who was a shorthand typist
before turning pro in 1968.
She's keen on knitting
and likes Cliff Richard records.
How does she rate her chances against Ken?
Well, I'm a southpaw and I think
this will confuse him,
particularly with his brain problem.
My lords, ladies and gedderbong!
On my right, from the town of Reigate
in the county of Kent, the heavyweight...
Mr Ken Clean-Air Systems!...
and on my left, Miss Petula Wilcox.
I think boxing's a splendid sport -
teaches you self-defense.
Obviously boxing must have its limits,
but providing they're both perfectly fit
I can see nothing wrong with one healthy man
beating the living daylights out of a
little schoolgirl; it's quick and it's fun.
Oh, no, he's gone. But he left a message.
Jack! Where's that note that fellow left?
Oh, here you are.
It says...
'Sorry, had to catch the last bus.
Am on the 49b to Babbacombe.'
Oh, er, there you are. Hello.
You got the note, jolly good.
Well, um, that's all the items
that we have for you this week
and er, what a jolly nice
lot of items too, eh?
Um...well, the same team will be back
with you again next week with another menu
full of items.
Um...I don't know if I shall
be introducing the show next week
as I understand that my bits in this show
have not been received quite as well
as they might
but er, never mind, the damage is done
- no use in crying over spilt milk.
I've had my chance and I've muffed it.
Anyway, there we are.
I'm not really awfully good with words.
You see, I'm more of a visual performer.
I have a very funny - though I say so myself
- very funny funny walk.
I wish I'd been in that show.
I'd have done rather well.
But anyway, there we are - the show's over.
And...we'll all be - they'll all be back
with you again next week...
Sorry.
I do beg your pardon.
I don't like these... displays of emotion.
... I wish it would say the end.