The Thin Blue Line (1995–1996): Season 2, Episode 5 - Come on You Blues - full transcript

Good evening, everybody.

"Play up, play up, and play the game."

Kipling said that if you
can meet triumph and disaster

and treat them just the same,

then you will be a man.

These days of course, you
would have to say "Person,"

Which doesn't even scan.

But nobody bothers about that
sort of thing anymore, of course.

Nonetheless, Kipling's message is
needed more today than it ever was.

Because sport, as we shall see,

is like a half-sucked sweet,



not what it used to be.

Sorry, sorry.

I love football.

There's so many aspects
to the modern game-

The beer, the crisps,

the dirty songs,

just savoring the pre-match atmosphere.

Do you mind? I think we could do
without your pre-match atmosphere.

Oh, I love a good burp, me.

A really good chewy one.

Big solid beer-flavored belch.

A really huge tongue-twanging
mouthful of gas and dinner.

Nothing like it.
Especially at the footie.

Gladiators is my sport.



I love it. Such thighs.

Colossal thighs.

They could crack nuts with those thighs.

In wolf's case, his own.

Oh, yes. I'm going to
go in for it one day,

when I've pumped enough
iron to fill my leotard.

I've already got my
name- "Love Muscle".

Yes, football is boring
compared to gladiators.

- Football is not boring.
- No.

It's the reason god
made Saturday afternoons.

Football is just a socially
sanitized homo-erotic ritual.

"Socially sat..."

What nonsense, constable Habib.

Is there no trendy leftist theorem

which you will not uncritically embrace?

Some American feminists
think sport was invented

so that men could avoid
confronting their sexuality.

Some American feminists
think that phoning a woman

while she's having an afternoon
nap constitutes assault.

Homo-erotic ritual?
Coconuts and custard.

On what evidence is such an
appalling generalization based?

I think it's obvious.

For instance, Gary plays
football every Sunday.

Now, what do you do
after the game, Gary?

Let me think.

- We all get in the bath together,
- Right.

Oh, and I suppose you
are suggesting that

men bathing together by
definition is is a sexual act.

What a sad world it has become.
Sometimes I despair, I really do.

I think we should let him finish, sir.

Well, we have a bit of a splash,
you know,

and a bit of a sing-song, you know?

"The hairs on her dickey di
do," "Tits out for the lads"...

All the classics.

And then after that
there's a towel fight-

You beat each other with wet towels?

You've got to have a flick, haven't you?

Then we all get in the pub, pour a
load of beer over each other's heads,

and sing more songs
about lovely saucy birds.

And are any lovely saucy birds
actually present at this point?

Get out of it.
It's a lad's thing, innit?

Anyway, when we are well sorted

we'll probably take our trousers off,
hang them over a lamp-post,

and if it's a really good night, fall over
in a puddle of vom' on the way home.

There you go. Blokes
singing about women,

but actually wallowing
in their own naked excess.

It's transparent
suppressed homo-eroticism.

As long as it gets you pissed.

Constable Habib,

do you think that the
gay sexual community

would thank you for categorizing
their particular sexual preference

as the act of a disgusting,
puerile, drunken oaf like Boyle?

- Steady on.
- Your mistake, constable Habib,

is to seek a sexual
explanation for the simple truth

that men understand football
but they rarely understand women.

Oh, that's very true, sir.

Even the dutch game is a picture
of simplicity and clarity compared

to the mind of a woman.

I could demonstrate the
mechanics of the offside trap,

but I couldn't tell you why

all the women I have ever
loved have said to me,

"I've got a fat bottom."

And then I say, "Yes, I like it."

They throw their dinner at me.

Lying about a girl's bottom
is part of a man's duties.

It makes up for never
putting the toilet seat down

and not replacing the
loo roll when it's empty.

Well, explain this then.

What is it about the inability
of women to get out of the house?

- What?
- You heard.

Why can't women ever
get out of the house?

I say, "Tina, we are leaving at 7:30."

That is 7:30, not a quarter
to 8:00, not next year,

not in another lifetime when we've
come back as a couple of insects

which only live for a day-
which she'd spend in the bathroom,

putting mascara on her antennae

and trying to stick 300 contact
lenses into her multiple eyes.

Lipstick in her-spiracles,

and blonding her follicles.

- Yes, the kick-off is-
- I shout, "Come on, Tina!"

She says, "I've got to
put my face on, haven't I?"

I say, "Right. I'm waiting in the
car. She says, "Wait in the car."

I say, "I will wait in the car." she
says, "Right, go wait in the car."

I say, "I'm going out to the car."

She says, "You go to the
car." it grinds you down.

Oh, what a very splendid thing this is,

the local community coming
together in celebration of sport.

It's what being British is all about.

What? Being wet and bored?

Well, yes, being wet and
bored is part of it, certainly.

But there's so much more.

I mean, look at this stadium.

It reeks of history.

It reeks of weed.

Under these ancient terraces,

Gasforth town F.C. have seen it all.

From not quite disaster,
to complete disaster.

From bottom of the league,
to not even in the league.

- It's a dump.
- And therein lies its glory.

We don't need some vast superbowl
with a great big electronic sign

that says "Fwaaaah! Go-ooo!"

We're quite happy to gather
together in small groups

on a wet Saturday and be a bit sad.

That's the spirit that made
Brittain what it is today.

- Knackered.
- And proud of it.

Do you think they know they're
supposed to get the round leather thing

into the big square netty thing?

Amateurs all, Goody, remember that.

Weekend sporting heroes-

Butchers, bakers, builders.

I wouldn't want to live in
a house that lot had built.

- They're just not very good, are they?
- Exactly, Habib.

Not being good at things is
what the British are good at.

We excel in failure.

A good thing too, because
failure is character building.

Some of our finest
moments have been defeats.

Mons, Dunkirk,

"Lulu" coming second at eurovision
with "Boom bang a bang."

The french vote was
our undoing, of course.

They've never got over Agincourt.

What a waste of time.

I've never seen such a useless

bunch of old women in all my life.

They've got no aggression,
no killer instinct.

Oh, I don't know.

The one with the limp's not bad.

I'm not talking about the players,

I'm talking about the fans.

I am an Inspector of
criminal investigations.

When I police a football match

I expect a decent enemy.

Where are the skinheads,

the shadowy street-fighting generals?

You only get premiere-league hooligans
with premiere-league sides, sir.

Don't be so defeatist, constable Boyle,

this could be the season when
Gasforth F.C. rises like a phoenix.

More like a turkey.

We're already through the
first round of the F.A. Cup.

Only because their lot all got
food poisoning from our burger van.

Nice game that. It's a long time

since I've seen 11 men
vomiting in tight formation.

- Nonetheless, if we win today-
- Ooh, ooh, sir, sir, look!

Goal!

An F.A. Cup second
round victory for Gasforth.

- Lucky shot.
- They all count.

Where was their goalie?

Look, sir. There he is
coming out of the bogs.

Mmm, we really must get
the health and safety people

to have a look at that burger van.

Uggghhh! I can't stand it!

Those pathetic
little-little builders

working outside the bank.

Every time a woman goes
in or out of that door

they're there, hanging
off their scaffolding

like sexually inadequate bats.

- Who's that then?
- Men!

Tiny brained, sexually frustrated,

emotionally retarded,

inadequate, puerile, juvenile, drooling,

leering, sneering, pointless bloody men.

Could be half the blokes I know.

They've always been bad.

But this stupid F.A. Cup
thing's made them even worse.

What you've got to do is
not sink to their level.

Just turn around, give them a smile,

maybe a bit of a wiggle, and say,

"Oi, bum head, do up your
flies, your brain's hanging out."

Tell them get stuffed.

Oh, yeah, sure.

They're 30 feet up and I'm
standing on the pavement going,

"Get stuffed."

They'd love it!

Oohhh! You're
beautiful when you're angry, darling.

Well, I would have
thought it were flattering.

Of course it is, Boyle.

There's nothing builds
up a girl's self-esteem

like having a human gorilla

with a brain the size of a peanut

inviting you peel its banana!

Ah, sergeant,

since you still have 18 seconds
to go before you're back on duty...

darling, I must say you're
looking lovely today.

Very lovely indeed.

Do up your flies, bum head,
you're brain's hanging out.

Mmm. Hmmm, well.

I must get on, must get on.

Constable Habib,

hold all but the most urgent calls.

- There haven't been any calls.
- When there are, hold them.

Inspector Grim, you're on duty.

You can't strut about
like Roy of the rovers.

I have gone undercover.

That should fool them.

Listen, Fowler, this
is the sharp end, mate,

not jolly cricket bats,

lovely boating weather, don't you know?

Oxford and Cambridge-
row, row, row,

and hoist your little
cox above your head.

This is football, and
football is not a game.

Well, obviously it is a game.

But it is also not a game.

I mean, even though it is a game,

there's no point
treating it like a game,

because it is not a game.
Although clearly it is a game.

All right, Boyle, with
me. Let's go, go, go.

I think we should
contact the x-files, sir.

Inspector Grim's body has been inhabited
by a being from the planet Berk.

Respect for rank, Habib.

It's just as well he's
out of the way, actually,

I have an appointment with the mayoress.

And he does rather lower the tone.

- They mayoress is coming here?
- Yes, that's right.

Dame Christabel Wickham.

"Chrissy Wicky," yes.

- Who you were at school with?
- I had that honor, yes.

- And you've fancied ever since?
- Yes, that's the one-no!

Now don't be absurd.

I'll know anyway, because
your nose always twitches

when you fancy someone.

- Patricia, you're not jealous, surely?
- Of course not.

Why would I be, when
my boyfriend dribbles

at the thought of another woman?

But that's ridiculous, Patricia.
How could you feel threatened by her?

- It's insane.
- Are you sure, Raymond?

Well, of course.

Chrissy Wickham is brilliant,
beautiful, accomplished.

I could never get a girl like that.

She's completely out of my league.

Thank you, Raymond, you've said enough.

I hope I've set your mind at rest.

A wonderful woman like that is scarcely
a threat to any girlfriend of mine.

Good morning. Good
morning. Sit, sit, sit.

As you all know, there's been

A quite extraordinary
development in the world of sport.

Gasforth are going to play a
premier-league side in the F.A. Cup.

And what's more, it's a home
game. Chelsea are coming to us.

Now what are our chief concerns?

Let's... Kick
off, as it were-

With the prospects for crowd trouble.

Now sadly, the game of
football is not what it was.

Gone are the days when
decent lads in enormous shorts

thrilled peaceful crowds of
chirpy cloth-capped costermongers.

What sort of example do these permed
and preening louts of today set?

These gazzers and bazzers

and slashers and hackers
and rozzers and tozzers?

Footballers used to have nice names.

Like Dixie Dean,

Tiddler Tompkins,

Nobbie Nut and Ginger Curlies.

Raymond, the world's finest example
of womanhood is at the front desk.

Gloria Hunniford?

The mayoress, brilliant, beautiful-think
she might have had a little chin tuck.

The mayoress? Here already?

- How do I look?
- Sad and pathetic.

Good. Good.

Mayoress Wickham, welcome to
our humble and unworthy station.

Hello, Raymond.

Your worship, this is
indeed an unhoped for honor.

Don't be so formal.

I can remember you following
me up the stairs in big school

trying to see my knickers.

I'm-I'm astonished
and most touched

that you recall our
former acquaintance, ma'am.

I could hardly forget
old feely Fowler, could I?

All right, where's your office?

I want to get straight down to it.

Tea, sergeant!

Photo surveillance of last
week's game, sir.

Blimey! Have you seen this?
It's worse than I thought.

Fascist insignia, millitaristic uniforms,
badges of rank...

We are clearly dealing with a highly
organized, well-disciplined pack.

Yes, sir.
It's a scout pack.

One or two visious looking
brownies in there as well.

Right. Down to business.

Oh, dear sir.
I'm afraid you've exposed them.

Oh, thanks Boyle. I did
tell Tina to fix this zip.

Boyle.

Are you chewing a brick...

or looking at me
eating hospital food?

'Cause either way I'll be
going home in an ambulance.

No! That's wrong isn't?

Sir, sir.
It's the Met.

The Met?
The Metropolitan Police?

No sir, the Metropolitan
Water and Sewage Authority.

Of course the Metropolitan Police.
They want you.

It's those parking fines.
I told Tina to pay 'em.

Well, she can take the rap.

No, sir. They want to meet with you,
to discuss the game.

They want to liaise.

The Met want to liaise with me.

Well, it's not a big deal, is it?

Bit of liaising, so what?
I do it all the time.

You ask him to hold, will you?
I'm just going to put on my tie.

Oh, please take a seat, your ma'amship.

Oh, come on, Raymond.

It's Chrissy in private.

Oh, that is most kind
your-your Chrissyship.

This fixture against Chelsea,

it's quite simply the biggest thing
that's ever happened to Gasforth.

And it could not have
come at better time.

You are aware of our "Relocate
in Gasforth" media campaign?

Oh, I am indeed, yes.
I've seen the posters,

"Gasforth, it's not
as bad as you think."

We are going all out to persuade
big companies to set-up in our area.

Gasforth already makes
Taiwanese micro-computers,

Japanese virtual reality software,
at British cloths specs.

But we can do better.

Britain is poised to become
the sweatshop of Europe.

And Gasforth cannot
afford to be left behind.

Well, no, indeed.

We need profile.

This F.A. Cup match is key.

It will bring television, the press,
and thousands of people into the town.

Win or lose, Gasforth is on the map.

Your tea, ma'am.

Put it on the desk and leave us.

I didn't make you one, feely.

Thought you were hot and
steaming enough already.

Some biscuits, sergeant?

If you offer her a custard cream

perhaps she'll let you
look at her knickers.

This will be Gasforth's big day.

If anyone even looks as if they
might cause trouble, lock 'em up.

If you pull it off, Raymond,

if my big day goes without a hitch,

I'm going to do something for you

that I know you've always wanted.

Your worship.
Can you mean...?

I'm going to write to
the honors commission

and recommend you for an M.B.E.

An m-

An m-m-m-m, an m-m-m-m,

an m-an m-

An m-m-m-m-Blimey.

Raymond.

- Raymond!
- Huh? Patricia!

- Where am I?
- Raymond!

Biscuits!

Gladiators ready!

Enter...

Love Muscle.

Ooh, Maggie. Maggie, Maggie

maggie, come here. Come here.

Okay, now, who am I? Who am I? Okay?

Quack, quack, quack,
quack, quack, quack.

Quack, quack, quack, wack, wack, wack.

J. Nasty with a sore throat?

Donald Duck.

Oh, I do love this riot gear.

Really Patricia, what a horrid
suspicious mind you have.

There are any number of
perfectly innocent reasons

why a man might put his
head up the mayoress' skirt.

She promised to
recommend me for an M.B.E.

Oh, well I hope she doesn't
try and get you knighted.

I should probably find
you copulating together

on the steps of the town hall!

Really, Patricia, these
insinuations are unworthy of you.

My relationship with the
mayoress is entirely respectable.

Even when you've got your
face in her underwear?

Particularly when I've got
my face in her underwear.

Particularly.

I think I've said all I
need to say on the subject.

Can we kindly move on to another topic?

All right. Right.

I'm going to the bank at lunchtime.

Can I get you anything from the shops?

Ooh, hmmm.

Some chocolates,
some flowers for the mayoress?

Some blistick,
so your lips don't get

chapped when you're
next kissing her bottom?

Our job on match day will be
to police the Gasforth crowd.

The metropolitan police will, of course,
be in charge of the Chelsea supporters,

and a nasty bunch of ill-mannered
yobbos they are bound to be.

I anticipate quite appalling behavior.

I think you're being prejudiced, sir.
Most supporters are genuine fans.

I wasn't talking about
the supporters, Habib,

I was talking about
the Metropolitan police.

The idea of Gasforth being awash with
London officers fills me with dread.

Swaggering about the place,

calling each other "My son"...

and saying that things
have gone a bit pear-shaped.

We of the Gasforth constabulary will
be as smart as a bowl of cornflakes.

I shall not have any of that
London police behavior around here.

Right, you lot. Shut it!

Strewth, Fowler, my son,

it all looks a bit
pear-shaped round here or what?

The guvnor's talking.

Saturday's game, very dodgy.

Very naughty. Could go
a little bit pear-shaped.

If there's a ruck, things
might get, well, iffy.

These faces are a little
bit hard. Know what I mean?

A little bit-ufff!
Have some of that, my son.

Bosh, salty, ta-ta.

Got me? So be clever.

Good. Now shut it!

Inspector Grim, in recognition
of our multilingual society,

the modern force boasts officers
trained in any number of languages.

But not, I fear, complete idiot.

Funny, tres droll. You're a
comedian, my son, that I do not think.

I've been liaising with
some geezers at the met,

pooling our intelligence.

Goodness, between you, you
must have made an imbecile.

Shut it, you slag!

- Boyle, my son.
- Guvnor.

Let's go, go, go,
before things get pear-shaped.

Sorted.

And, you lot, shut it!

C.I.D., not so much out of
the blue as out of their minds.

Now, to business, and
to Gasforth's big day.

Now, as you can see, her
majesty has seen to it

that we are fully equipped for the
worst-case scenario of riot control.

So, if you could put your
helmets on, everybody...

I thought you'd never ask.

Hey, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, shall I?

Quack, quack, quack, shall I do it?

- No. No.
- No, not now.

Now the ideal is not to
employ force, but intimidation.

We wish to subdue the hooligan
before he becomes violent.

We can achieve this by setting up
a rhythmic beating on our shields,

such as to strike terror
into the hearts of the enemy,

as once did the Zulus- an adversary
the British army truly appreciated.

I'm not surprised. The
Zulus had rhythmic beating,

the British had field artillery.

I bet they appreciated it.

All right, Habib. Just because
something is morally inexcusable

does not stop it being a cherished
part of the national fabric.

Look at the walnut whip.

Now, the rhythm I had in mind,

was ra-ta-ta,
ra-ta-ta, ra-ta-tah.

Ra-ta-ta, ra-ta-ta, ra-ta-tah.

All right, try it.

And ra-ta-ta,
ra-ta-ta, ra-ta-tah.

Goody, Goody. Can't you
keep a simple rhythm?

No, sir, I'm hopeless.

I need a metronome to brush my teeth.

Sir, sir. I think it will help

if we put some words to the rhythm, sir.

How about, um...

Pat-a-cake,
Pat-a-cake, baker's man.

Pat-a-cake,
Pat-a-cake, baker's man.

Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake-

- Good idea. Goody, will that help?
- I think so, sir.

Right, okay. After me.

And, Pat-a-cake,
Pat-a-cake, baker's man.

Good, excellent. All
right, form up. Form up.

Now, prepare to intimidate the
enemy with rhythmic beating.

And, Pat-a-cake,
Pat-a-cake, baker's man.

- Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake, baker's man.
- Turn!

Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake, baker's man.
Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake, baker's man.

Halt! Excellent. Well done, everybody.

That should scare the socks off them.

After we've subdued them
with Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake,

we can give them a chorus
of baa baa blacksheep.

That will really make
them fill their trousers.

You think we ought to
toughen up our chant?

Either that or hire ourselves
out for children's parties.

How about, bugger off,
bugger off, stupid prat?

- Bugger off, bugger off, stupid prat?
- No!

I will not have my officers employing
gutter language rhythmically in public.

- Sorry.
- What about go away, go away, naughty men?

If the Zulu's had called
Michael Caine a naughty man

he would have laughed so hard he
would have irrigated the veldt.

Maybe we should change
the rhythm a bit, sir.

If you don't move along boom-boom,

I'm gonna stick this baton, boom boom,

where the sun don't shine, boom boom.

I've got one. I've
got one. I've got one.

What's the difference between you lot,

and a bucket of sick?

The bucket.

No, we should be tougher.

Come and have a go if you
think you're hard enough.

Come and have a go if you
think you're hard enough.

How about:
Up yours - dog breath.

Up yours - dog breath.

- Up yours - dog breath.
- Up yours - dog breath.

- You want me to get them off?
- Yeah!

Right!

You're all under arrest.

It's all going pear-shaped, Boyle.

Where are the naughty faces?

The iffy, dodgy, nancy poncies?

How can I face my muckers at scotters,

when I've yet to bang even
one slag in the slammer?

Could I have done more?

Could I have gone deeper undercover?

No way, sir.

You have taken your
bobble hat off all week.

And wool makes my forehead itch.

All right, lads. Tomorrow,

those Chelsea scum are dust.

But we stick with the plan, all right?

Sorted, my son.

Yes, madam.

No, seargeant,
you were absolutely right to arrest them.

I will not stand for sexual
intimidation of that sort.

- It's abusive and threatening behaviour.
- Yes, it's flippin' well is.

Just imagine if it'd been the mayoress
going to the bank instead of just you.

I'm sorry, madam, there
are no grounds for police action.

Goodbye.

What was that, Habib?

Just a cantankerous complainer
from Colchester Crescent.

Complains about something every day.

Yesterday, it was the
pelican crossing beeping.

I think she wanted me to
arrest the little green man.

Tonight it's a party. Some lads celebrating
Gasforth winning the F.A. Cup already.

Great grumbling
grommets, Habib. A party?

Supposing the mayoress heard the row?

Or an important trade
delegation from southeast asia?

Bring those naughty carousers in.

But, sir, it's only 7:00 in the evening.

It's 2:00 in the
morning in Kuala Lumpur.

Bring them in. Bring
them in and lock them up.

Lock them all up! Lock everyone up!

I forgot my truncheon.

Gasforth offers cheap labor, long hours,

no unions, no minimum
wage, no job security,

and a maximum 5-minute lunch break.

That's a very attractive
package for any foreign investor.

Also, included as an
incentive is free child labour.

Centrally funded via the
youth training scheme.

Yes, yes. But when
does the football begin?

Uh, the kick-off is at 3:00, sir.

That is the tradition in our country.

I know when a bloody football
match starts, constable plod.

But it's 3:20 now.

Your worship, I'm afraid we're
going to have to forfeit the game.

What?

None of our players have turned up.

It's incomprehensible.

They were all fine yesterday.

Bazzer, Gazzer, and Bazzer

were at work on the building site

next to the bank, as usual.

Bazzer, Bazzer, Gazzer,
and Simon the captain

were having a strategy
meeting at the pizza hole

and Gazzer, Gazzer, and Gazzer
were having a bit of a party

and a sing-song round at Bazzer's house

in Colchester Crescent. I simply cannot
imagine what has happening to them.

- Now listen-
- No football? I'm going.

No, no, please. Please, wait.

We'll have a dual carriageway

that runs all the way to
the Sainsbury superstore.

When I find out who's responsible
for the team not turning up-

Raymond, I want you to-

Raymond!

Raymond!