(Cut
to a kitchen. Mr Garibaldi is eating a packet of 'Ano-Weet'. On the back of the
packet in big letters it reads 'Free Inside - The Pope '+ Demonstration
Record'. Kevin Garibaldi is stretched out the whole length of the sofa, eating
a huge plate of baked beans. His father occasionally flaps the copy of the
paper he is reading at him to clear the air. The paper is called 'The Scum' and
has a pin-up on the front page with big headline 'What a Searcher! Phew! Can Resist
this Miss'; at the bottom of the page in small print 'China Declares War'. The
banner across top reads 'In the Scum Today 'Tits and Inflation' '. Ralph
Garibaldi is sitting at the table eating. At one point he stretches across the
table, and his arm sticks in the butter. He tries to clean it off and knocks
the sugar over. There is a large photo of lan Smith on the wall; built around
it is a plaster shrine, with flowers in front of it. Mrs Garibaldi is ironing.
She irons some underclothes, then she irons a transistor radio. Dotted about
the room are a flat telephone, a flat standard lamp, and a flat cat. Valerie
Garibaldi is wearing a shiny red miniskirt. She has bright yellow 'beehive'
hair so stiffly lacquered that it is quite a hazard to various ornaments on the
mantelpiece. She is continuously making herself up in the mantelpiece mirror
which is shaped like a lavatory. The other member of the family is a very fat
old dog. As we see all this, the football commentary is droning throughout on
the radio.)
Radio
Voice: Pratt... back to Pratt... Pratt again... a long ball out to Pratt... and
now Pratt is on the ball, a neat little flick back inside to Pratt, who takes
it nicely and sends it through on the far side to Pratt, Pratt with it but
passes instead to Pratt, Pratt again, oh and well intercepted by the swarthy
little number nine, Concito ' Maracon. This twenty-one-year-old half back,
remarkably stocky for 6' 3", square shouldered, balding giant, hair
flowing in the wind, bright eyed, pert, young for his age but oh so old in so
many ways. For a thirty-nine.year-old you wouldn't expect such speed. Normally
considered slow, he's incredibly fast as he wanders aimlessly around, sweeping
up and taking the defence to the cleaners. Who would have thought, though many
expected it, that this remarkable forty-five-year-old, 9' 4" dwarf of a
man, who is still only seventeen in some parts of the world, would ever really
be ... Oh and there was a goal there apparently ... and now it's Pratt ... back
to Pratt... Pratt again... a long ball to Pratt... (crackle)
(By
now mother has succeeded in flattening the radio with the iron. She folds it
neatly and puts it on the pile.)
Mr
Garibaldi: I like this Ano-Weet, it really unclogs me.
(Ralph
Garibaldi knocks a bowl onto the floor. It smashes.)
Mrs
Garibaldi: Oh, do be careful.
Ralph
Garibaldi: Sorry, mum.
(Kevin
opens another can of beans and pours them on to his plate, throwing the tin on
the floor. The radio drones on.)
Mr
Garibaldi: I mean a lot of others say they unclog you, but I never had a single
bowel movement with the 'Recto-Puffs'.
Ralph
Garibaldi: Now if we ... (he knocks the cereal box off the table) Oh, sorry,
mum ... Now if we lived in Rhodesia there'd be someone to mop that up for you.
Valerie
Garibaldi: (turning from the mirror in mid make-up) Don't be so bleedin'
stupid. If you lived in bleedin' Rhodesia, you'd be out at bleedin' fascist
rallies every bleedin' day. You're a bleedin' racist, you bleedin' are.
Mr
Garibaldi: Language!
Valerie
Garibaldi: Well he gets on my sodding wick.
Mr
Garibaldi: That's better.
(Mother
is now ironing the telephone and the cat. She irons them flat and pins them on
the line.)
Mr
Garibaldi: No, the stuff I liked was that stuff they gave us before the war,
what was it - Wilkinson's Number 8 Laxative Cereal. Phew. That one went through
you like a bloody Ferrari...
(The
doorbell rings.)
Mrs
Garibaldi: Now, who's that at this time of day... (she goes out)
Mr
Garibaldi: If it's the man to empty the Elsan, tell him it's in the hall.
Mrs
Garibaldi: Right, dear.
Mr
Garibaldi: And make sure that you hold it the right way up!
Ralph
Garibaldi: Dad... ?
(A
middle-aged man appears from the broom cupboard.)
Strange
Man: Yeah?
Ralph
Garibaldi: No no, my dad...
Strange
Man: Oh... (he gets back into the cupboard again)
Ralph
Garibaldi: Dad? Why is Rhodesia called Rhodesia?... (he knocks the teapot on to
the floor, it smashes) Oh sorry, dad.
(Cut
to the doorway in the hall. A man in a dark suit, very smart and well-dressed,
is doing strange kung-fu antics.)
Mrs
Garibaldi: No... no, really, thank you very much... no, thank you for calling,
not today, thank you. Good morning.
(She
shuts the door on him. As she does so Mr Garibaldi shouts out to her.)
Mr
Garibaldi: Who was that?
Mrs
Garibaldi: (coming in again) The Liberal Party candidate, darling... oh ...
what have you done now?
Ralph
Garibaldi: Sorry, mum. (he is standing beside the sink which has just split in
two) I was just washing up...
Mrs
Garibaldi: Go and sit down!
Ralph
Garibaldi: Mum? Do you know why Rhodesia's called Rhodesia?
Mr
Garibaldi: Do you remember 'Go-Eazi'? They were hopeless... (Kevin opens
another can of beans; dad notices in disgust and flaps his paper again) little
black pellets... tasted foul and stuck inside you like flooring adhesive.
Valerie
Garibald:i (she has finally finished her startling make-up) Right, I'm off.
Mrs
Garibaldi: When are you coming back tonight?
Valerie
Garibaldi: 3 a.m.
Mrs
Garibaldi: I think it's disgusting... you a Member of Parliament.
Mr
Garibaldi: I heard you in the hall last night, snogging away.
Valerie
Garibaldi: I wasn't snogging!
Mr
Garibaldi: Sounded like snogging to me. I could hear his great wet slobbering
lips going at yer ... and his hand going up yet...
Mrs
Garibaldi: Dad!
Strange
Man: (coming out of the cupboard) Yes.
Mrs
Garibaldi: No ... not you.
Strange
Man: Oh! (he goes back in again)
Mrs
Garibaldi: Just mind your language...
(Ralph
knock a leg off the table. It collapses entirely.)
Ralph
Garibaldi: Oh, sorry, mum.
Kevin
Garibaldi: (too fat and flatulent to get up) I've run out of beans!
Valerie
Garibaldi: We was talking, we was not snogging.
Mr
Garibaldi: Talking about snogging, I'll bet...
(The
phone rings. Mrs Garibaldi answers it.)
Valerie
Garibaldi: If you must know, we was talking about Council re-housing.
Mrs
Garibaldi: (on the phone) Would it mean going to live in Hollywood?
Kevin
Garibaldi: (desperate but unable to move) I run out of beans!
Mr
Garibaldi: Where to re-house his right hand, that's what he was interested in!
Mrs
Garibaldi: And has Faye Dunaway definitely said yes?
Valerie
Garibaldi: He is the Chairman of the Housing sub-committee.
(The
bell rings.)
Mr
Garibaldi: Snogging sub-committee, more like...
Mrs
Garibaldi: Ralph, do answer that door will you!
Kevin
Garibaldi: Beans!!
Mrs
Garibaldi: Shut up!!
Ralph
Garibaldi: Yea, mum.
Mr
Garibaldi: (shouting to Ralph) If it's the man from the Probbo-Rib, tell him
it's in the bed.
(Ralph
gets up. As he goes he knocks the leg off the old-fashioned gas cooker. It
falls to one side bringing down shelves next to it, plates, crockery and a
seaion of the wall revtealing the hallway the other side.)
Ralph
Garibaldi: Sorry, mum.
Kevin
Garibaldi: (roaring) Beans! Beans!
Mrs
Garibaldi: Shut up!
(A
man in a Tarzan outfit, except with a postman's hat and a little mailbag,
swings in on a liana shouting a jungle yell.)
Postman:
Postman-a-a-n!!
(A
gong sounds. They all stop acting. Cut to stock film of ladies applauding.)
(Pull
out from this stock film to see that it is on a screen in a presentation
studio. A glittery compare is also applauding sycophantically at his desk,
about which is the glittery slogan 'Most Awful Family in Britain, 1974.
Sponsored by Heart attacko Margarine'.)
Presenter:
A very good try there, by the Garibaldi family of Droitwich in Worcestershire.
Professor...
(Pull
out further to pick up a panel of three distinguished rather academic looking
people.)
Professor:
Well, I can't make up my mind about this family... I don't think there was the
sustained awfulness that we really need. I mean, the father was appalling...
(Two
other members of the pand nod vigorous agreement.)
Lady
Organs: Appalling... yes ....
Professor:
He was dirty, smelly and distasteful ... and I liked him very much ... but...
Presenter:
Lady Organs?
Lady
Organs: Well ... they were an unpleasant family certainly, but I don't think we
had enough of the really gross awfulness that we're looking for...
Presenter:
Well, harsh words therefor the Garibaldi family of Droitwich in Worcestershire,
at present holders of the East Midlands Most Awful Family Award - Lower
Middle-Class Section but unable today to score more than fifteen on our
disgustometer. Well with the scores all in from the judges, the Garlbaldis are
number three ... and a surprise number two ... the Fanshaw-Churnleighs of
Berkshire... (he turns to the screen)
(A
very elegant breakfast table in beautifully tasteful surroundings. Four
upper-class folk - two woman and two men - are talking most incredibly loudly
at each other, with quite appalling accents. An appalling din altogether. They
talk just about at the same time as each other.)
First
Person: What a super meal.
Second
Person: Absolutely super. Pat and Max are coming down from Eton to help daddy
count money.
Third
Person: How absolutely super.
Fourth
Person: My man at Poirer's says I could have my whole body lifted for £5,500
First
Person: How super... (etc.)
(Cut
back to the panel nodding thoughfully.)
Presenter:
Well, some of the wonderful behaviour that made the Fanshaw-Chumleighs the
second Most Awful Family in Britain 1974. But the winners, by a clear ten point
margin, are once again the awful Jodrell family of Durham. Unfortunately, we're
not allowed to show you some of the performance that won them an award, but I
assure you it was of the very highest standard, was it not, Lady Organs?
Lady
Organs: Oh, yes, superb ... Mr Jodrell - you know, the old grandfather, who
licks the ...
Presenter:
(hurriedly) Yes, yes...
Lady
Organs: He's superb. His gobbing is consistent and accurate. His son is a dirty
foul little creature, and those frightful scabs which Mrs Jodrell licks off the
cat are...
Presenter:
(during this speech we cut to the same image on a TV screen) Well, thank you
very much, Lady Organs ... and from all of us all, well done to the Jodrells
... and to all of you, not forgetting those of you who may be halfway in
between, without whom, of course, and not forgetting who made it all possible,
when, and we'll be back, until then and so it's goodnight from me and here's
wishing you a safe journey home, thank you for watching this show, don't forget
it was all great fun, I've enjoyed it, and I hope you watching at home have
enjoyed it too.
(He
is switched off, and fades into a dot. Pull back to reveal that the TV which
has just been switched off is in a dirty old sitting room in which all the
characters are really unpleaant pepperpots. They are dressed more or less
identically, except that son has a school cap and a blazer over his pepperpot
gear. He has a satchel and National Health glasses. The father has moustache
and glasses and a Fair-Isle jersey.)
Mother:
The Jodrells win every bloody year... makes you vomit ... dad?
Dad:
Yes?
Mother:
Get your stinking feet off the bread.
Dad:
I'm only wiping the cat's do's off.
Son:
Mum?
Mother:
Shut yet face, Douglas.
Son:
I wanted some corn-plasters.
Mother:
Shut up and eat what you got.
(A
cat set into the wall, i.e. a glove puppet, screeches as if someone had pulled
its tail outside.)
Dad:
Some fat bastard at the door! (to the cat) Shut up! (she slaps it; it expires)
(She
taka a couple of milk bottles out. Standing on the doorstep is a man with a
Nordic accent in female national costume. He has a tray labeled 'Icelandic
Honey Week')
Man:
A strong hive of bees contains approximately 75,000 bees. Each honey bee must
make 154 trips to collect one teaspoon of honey. Hello, sir.
Dad:
What do you want?
Man:
Would you like to buy some of our honey, sir?
Mother:
What you doing in here?
Man:
Which would you like, the Californian Orange Blossom, the Mexican, the New
Zealand, or the Scottish Heather?
Mother:
He can't eat honey. It makes him go plop plops.
Man:
Come on, please try some.
Dad:
All right I'll have some Icelandic Honey.
Man:
No, there is no such thing.
Dad:
You mean you don't make any honey at all?
Man:
No, no, we must import it all. Every bally drop. We are a gloomy people. It's
so crikey cold and dark up there, and only fish to eat. Fish and imported
honey. Oh strewth!
Mother:
Well why do you have a week?
Man:
Listen Buster! In Reykyavik it is dark for eight months of the year, and it's
cold enough to freeze your wrists off and there's only golly fish to eat.
Administrative errors are bound to occur in enormous quantities. Look at this -
it's all a mistake. It's a real pain in the sphincter! Icelandic HoneyWeek? My
Life!
Mother:
Well why do you come in here trying to flog the stuff, then?
Man:
Listen Cowboy. I got a job to do. It's a stupid, pointless job but at least it
keeps me away from Iceland, all right? The leg of the worker bee has... (They
slam the door on him. Someone rather like Jeremy Thorpe looks round the door
and waves as they do so.)
Doctor Whose Patients are Stabbed by His Nurse
Ad
Memoriam: Douglas Adams (1952-2001)
(Cut
to a doctor's surgery. It has a wall shrine with a photo of Christiaan Barnard
with flowers and candles in front of it. The doctor is talking to an
embarrassed-looking man.)
Doctor
(Graham Chapman): Well, Mr Cotton, you have what we in the medical profession
call a naughty complaint. My advice to you is to put this paper bag over your
head - it has little holes there for your eyes, you see - and to ring this
bell, and to take this card along to your hospital. (he hands him card three
feet long which reads 'For Special Treatment') And I shall inform all your
relatives and friends and anyone else I bump into. OK. Cash, wasn't it? (the
man hands him over wad of fivers) Thank you very much. Get out. (the man gets
up to go) Dirty little man. (he picks up big text book entitled 'Medical
Practice' and flicks through the pages) Hippocratic oath, Hippocratic... it's
not in there. Jolly good. Very useful. Next!
(An
out-of-vision scream. A man staggers in clutching his bleeding stomach. Lots of
blood pours out of him throughout the scene.)
Doctor:
Ah, yes you must be Mr Williams.
Williams
(Terry Jones): (obviously fatally wounded) Y... yes...
Doctor:
Well, do take a seat. What seems to be the trouble?
Williams:
I've... I've just been stabbed by your nurse.
Doctor:
Oh dear, well I'd probably better have a look at you then. Could you fill in
this form first? (he hands him a form)
Williams:
She just stabbed me.
Doctor:
Yes. She's an unpredictable sort. Look, you seem to be bleeding rather badly. I
think you'd better hurry up and fill in that form.
Williams:
Couldn't I fill it in later doctor?
Doctor:
No, no. You'd have bled to death by then. Can you hold a pen?
Williams:
I'll try.
(With
great effort he releases one of his hands from his bleeding stomach.)
Doctor:
Yes, jolly good, it's a hell of a nuisance all this damn paperwork, really it
is. (he gets up and strolls around fairly unconcerned) It's a real nightmare,
this paperwork. It really is a hell of a nuisance. Something ought to be done
about it.
Williams:
Do I have to answer all the questions, doctor?
Doctor:
No, no, no, just fill in as many as you can - no need to go into too much
detail. I don't know why we bother with it all, really, it's such a nuisance.
Well let's see how you've done, then. (Williams half collapses) Oh dear, oh
dear, that's not very good, is it? Look, surely you knew number four!
Williams:
No, I didn't.
Doctor:
It's from 'The Merchant of Venice' - even I know that!
Williams:
(bleeding profusely) It's going on the carpet, doctor.
Doctor:
Oh don't worry about that! Look at this - number six - the Treaty of
Versailles, Didn't you know that? Oh, my God.
Williams:
Ahgg... aghhh.
Doctor:
And number nine - Emerson Fittipaldi! (gives Williams a look) Virginia Wade?
You must be mad!
(The
nurse enters with a smoking revolver.)
Nurse
(Carol Cleveland): Oh doctor, I've just shot another patient. I don't think
there's any point in your seeing him.
Doctor:
You didn't kill him, did you?
Nurse:
'Fraid so.
Doctor:
You mustn't kill them, nurse.
Nurse:
Oh, I'm sorry doctor. It was just on the spur of the moment. Rather silly
really.
(She
exits, taking a sword from the wall. Through the next bit of the scene we hear
screams off.)
Williams:
I'm sorry about the carpet, doctor.
Doctor:
Mr Williams, I'm afraid I can't give you any marks, so I won't be able to
recommend you for hospital. Tell you what - I'll stop the bleeding - but
strictly speaking I shouldn't even do that on marks like these, I mean really,
it's not...
(The
nurse enters covered in blood)
Nurse:
There are no more patients now, doctor.
Doctor:
Oh well, let's go for lunch, then.
Nurse:
What about... er... (she points to Williams who is lying on the floor gurgling
by this time)
Doctor:
Ah yes - look, Mr Williams we're just popping out for a bite of lunch while
we've got a spare moment, you know. Look, have another bash at the form, and if
at least you can answer the question on history right, then we may be able to
give you some morphine or something like that, OK?
Williams:
Thank you, doctor, thank you.
Brigadier and Bishop
(Cut
to a large country house sitting more, dominated by large grinning portrait of
Jeremy Thorpe. A bishop is sitting at a desk, typing. A brigadier in full
military uniform just to below the chest, then a patch of bare midriff, with
belly button showing, then a lavender tutu, incredibly hairy leg, thick amy
socks and high heels, is dictating.)
Brigadier:
Dear Sir, I wish to protest in the strongest possible terms. Yours sincerely,
Brigadier N. F. Marwood-Git (retired). Read that back, will you, Brian.
Bishop:
And when he had built up Cedron, he sent Horsemen there, and an host of footmen
to the end that issuing out they might make outroads upon the ways of Judea, as
the King commanded them...
Brigadier:
Good! Pop it in an envelope and bung it off! It's no good bottling these things
up, Brian. If you feel them you must say them or you'll just go mad...
Bishop:
Oh yes indeed ... as the book of Maccabee said ... Ye as the flea is like unto
an oxen, so is the privet hedge liken unto a botanist black in thy sight, O
Lord!
Brigadier:
Quite... Look why don't you just nip out for lunch, Brian...
Bishop:
Yea ... as Raymond Chandler said, it was one of those days when Los Angeles
felt like a rock-hard fig.
Brigadier:
Brian, let's stop this pretending, shall we.
Bishop:
Oh... ye... as Dirk Bogarde said in his autobiography...
Brigadier:
Brian... let's stop all this futile pretence... I've... I've always been
moderately fond of you...
Bishop:
Well to be quite frank, Brigadier ... one can't walk so closely with a chap
like you for... for so long without... feeling something deep down inside, even
if it isn't anything... anything ... very much.
Brigadier:
Well, splendid... Brian... er... well I don't suppose there's much we can do,
really.
Bishop:
Not on television ... no...
Brigadier:
No... they ... they are a lot more permissive these days than they used to
be...
Bishop:
Ah yes... but not with this sort of thing...
Brigadier:
No ... I suppose they've ... got to draw the line somewhere...
Bishop:
Yes...
Brigadier:
Well take a letter, Brian. Dear Sir, I wish to protest...
Appeal on Behalf of Extremely Rich People
Voice
Over: and caption: 'THERE NOW FOLLOWS AN APPEAL ON BEHALF OF EXTREMELY RICH
PEOPLE WHO HAVE ABSOLUTELY NOTHING WRONG WITH THEM'
Sir
Pratt: (at a large leather-topped desk with an elaborate table lamp) Hello. I'd
like to talk to you tonight about a minority group of people who have no mental
or physical handicaps and, who, through no fault of their own, have never been
deprived, and consequently are forced to live in conditions of extreme luxury.
This often ignored minority, is very rarely brought to the attention of the general
public. The average man in the street scarcely gives a second thought to these
extremely well-off people. He, quite simply, fails to appreciate the pressures
vast quantities of money just do not bring. Have you at home, ever had to cope
with this problem... (cut to a rich young yachting type surrounded by girls in
bikinis) or this... (cut to a rich woman loading her chauffeur with all kinds
of expensive parcels) or even this... (cut to a still of Centre Point) I know
it's only human to say, 'Oh this will never happen to me', and of course, it
won't. I'm asking you, please, please, send no contributions, however large, to
me.
(We
see the last bit on a TV in Mrs What-a-long-name-this-is-hardly-
worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn't-come-up-again's living room. Ding-dong
of doorbell. A cupboard door opens, and the middle-aged man we saw in first
scene comes out. He has no iguana on his shoulder.)
The Man Who Finishes Other People’s Sentences
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again
(Terry Jones): All right, I'll go.
TV
Voice(Michael Palin): There now follows a Party Political Broadcast on behalf
of the Liberal Party.
(She
turns it off. The TV set just folds up as if empty and collapses on to the
floor. Dust rises. She goes into the kallway to the front door [singing
'Anything Goes' by the other Cole Porter to herself] and opens it. A man with a
briefcase stands there.)
Mr
Vernon (Eric Idle): Hello, madam. (comes in)
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Ah hello... you must have come about...
Mr
Vernon: Finishing the sentences, yes.
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Oh... well... perhaps you'd like to...
Mr
Vernon: Come through this way, certainly. (they go through into the sitting
room) Oh, nice place you've got here.
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Yes ... well ... er... we...
Mr
Vernon: Like it?
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Yes ... yes we certainly...
Mr
Vernon: Do... Good! Now then, when did you first start...
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
...finding it difficult to...
Mr
Vernon: Finish sentences, yes.
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Well it's not me, it's my...
Mr
Vernon: Husband?
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Yes. He...
Mr
Vernon: Never lets you finish what you've started.
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Quite. I'm beginning to feel...
Mr
Vernon: That you'll never finish a sentence again as long as you live.
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Exact...
Mr
Vernon: ly. It must be awful.
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
It's driving me...
Mr
Vernon: To drink?
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
No, rou...
Mr
Vernon: nd the be...
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
en...
Mr
Vernon: d...
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Yes...
Mr
Vernon: May I..,
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Take a seat.
Mr
Vernon: Thank you. (he sits) You see, our method is to reassure the patient by
recreating normal... er...
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Conditions?
Mr
Vernon: Yes. Then we try to get them in a position where they suddenly find
that they're completing other people's sentences...
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
(with self-wonder) Themselves!
Mr
Vernon: Spot on Mrs...
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
(hesitantly) Smith?
Mr
Vernon: Good! Well, try not to overdo it to...
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
(with growing confidence) Begin with?
Mr
Vernon: Good. Just keep it to one or two...
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
(faster) Words ....
Mr
Vernon: To start off with, otherwise you may find that you're...
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Taking on too long a sentence and getting completely ... er...
Mr
Vernon: Stuck. Good. Yes. Well that's about it...
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
(completely confident now) for now, so...
Mr
Vernon: Thanks very much for calling.
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Not at all.
Mr
Vernon: And, er...
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Just like to say...
Mr
Vernon: Thank you very much for coming along.
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Not at all
Mr
Vernon: And good...
Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again:
Bye, Mr...
Mr
Vernon: Vernon.
(Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again
leaves. Mr Vernon shuts the door. A girl's voice comes from sitting room.)
Girl's
Voice: Carl?
Mr
Vernon: Yes, dear?
Girl's
Voice: I've just had another baby.
Mr
Vernon: Oh, no! How many's that now?
Girl's
Voice: Twelve since lunch. Oh! There's another one!
(Cut
to exterior of Mrs.
What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again's
house. She comes out and sets off purposefully up the road, passing four
pepperpot nannies digging up the road. They are wearing the usual slippers,
paisley dresses and knotted handkerchief. One wears a halmet. One works a
pneumatic drill. She is stripped to the waist wearing a big pink bra. Behind,
heroic shots of Mrs. What-a-long-name-this-is-hardy-worth-typing-but-never-mind-it-doesn’t-come-up-again
walking out of town, through suburbs, into neat country, then into wilder
country. She finally stops in close up, and looks up with inspiration in her
eyes.)
David Attenborough/Walking Tree of Dahomey
(Cut
to a linkman standing before Stonehenge.)
Linkman:
This is Stonehenge ... and it's from here we go to Africa.
(Jeremy
Thorpe appears at the edge of shot and waves. Cut to an as overgrown, jungleoid
location as Torquay can provide. A very big thick tree in the foreground David Attenborough
pushes through jungle towards camera. He has damp sweat patches under his arms
which grow perceptibly during the scene. He has two African guides in the
background both with saxophones round their neck.)
Attenborough:
(slapping the side of a tree) Well here it is at last ... the goal of our
quest. After six months and three days we've caught up with the legendary
walking tree of Dahomey, Quercus Nicholas Parsonus, resting here for a moment,
on its long journey south. It's almost incredible isn't it, to think that this
huge tree has walked over two thousand miles across this inhospitable terrain
to stop here, maybe just to take in water before the two thousand miles on to
Cape Town, where it lives. It's almost unimaginable, I find - the thought of
this mighty tree strolling through Nigeria, perhaps swaggering a little as it
crosses the border into Zaire, hopping through the tropical rain forests,
trying to find a quiet grove where it could jump around on its own, sprinting
up to Zambia for the afternoon, then nipping back ... (a native whispers in his
ear) Oh, super ... well, I've just been told that this is not in fact the
legendary walking tree of Dahomey, this is one of Africa's many stationary
trees, Arborus Barnbet Gaseoignus. In fact we've just missed the walking
tree... it left here at eight o'clock this morning... was heading off in that
direction... so we'll see if we can go and catch it up. Come on boys.
(They
move off. At this point we notice that there are two other saxophone-wearing natives,
a trumpeter, a trombonist, a double bassist, a guitarist, and finally a man
with a drum kit tied to his back. Mix through to them on the move in another
pan of the jungle. Sweat is now spraying out from under Attenborough's armpits
as if from a watering can.)
Attenborough:
Well, we're still keeping up with it, but it's setting a furious pace. Early
this morning we thought we'd spotted it, but it turned out to be an Angolan
sauntering tree, Amazellus Robin Ray, out walking with a Gambian Sidling Bush...
(Jeremy Thorpe leans in the background and waves to camera) So on we go ...
it's going to be difficult - the walking tree can achieve speeds of up to fifty
miles an hour, especially when it's in a hurry. (Rupert the bearer points
excitedly) Super! Well, Rupert has spotted something ... this could be it... a
walking tree on the move ... (they move off, by this time waterspray is gushing
out from all over his chest) But, what Rupert had in fact discovered was
something very different...
(He
stops him, they kneel down. Cut to their eyeline. In the distance, amongst low
bushes and thick undergrowth, six Africans dressed immaculately in cricket gear
having a game of cricket. Cut to Attenborough, Rupert and one other bearer
watching. Attenborough is looking down at something he is holding. The other
two are gazing wide-eyed at the cricketers.)
Attenborough:
The Turkish Little Rude Plant. (he holds up, carefully and wondrously, a plant
which has green outer leaves splayed back to reveal a small, accurately sculpted
bum) This remarkably smutty piece of flora was used by the Turks to ram up each
other's ... (Rupert nudges him and points excitedly at the batsmen) Ah no! In
fact it was something even more interesting... (Attenborough points, apparently
at the batsmen, but he has clearly got it wrong again) Yes, there it was, over
the other side of the clearing, the legendary Puking Tree of Mozambique...
(Rupert nudges him again)
(Cut
to an animated professor.)
Voice:
No, what they had come across was a tribe lost to man since time immemorial...
the legendary Batsmen of the Kalahari... (cut to a shot of natives playing
cricket)
1st
Voice Over: Primitive customs still survive here as if the march of time had
passed them by. But for all the mumbo-jumbo and superstition, the Batsmen of
the Kalahari are formidable fighters, as we can see on this rare footage of
them in action against Warwickshire.
(Cut
to a big county ground pavilion in mid-shot. We zoom in on the commentator on a
balcony.)
Commentator:
Warwickshire had dismissed the Kalahari Batsmen for 140, and then it was their
turn to face this extraordinary Kalahari attack. Pratt was the first to go, but
Pratt and Pratt put on a second wicket stand of nought, which was broken by
Odinga in his most hostile mood.
(A
compilation of the day's play. Natives in normal cricket gear. Pratt at crease
as per usual cricket coverage. Cut to a low shot of the bowler thundering up
towards the wicket. Cut away to the batsman preparing to take the shot. Cut
back to the bowler. As he reaches the crease he produces a spear and raises it
to shoulder height and hurls it. Cut to batsman who is hit full in the stomach.
His bat dislodges the bails. There is a 'howzat' from all the native fielders.
He makes an annoyed gesture as if he were Colin Cowdrey caught clean bowled,
and sinks to the ground.)
CAPTION:
'B. RATT'
2nd
Voice Over: Thats B. Pratt, hit wicket - 0. But Pratt and Z. Pratt dug in and
took the score to a half... (cut to the new batting partnership; B. Pratt's
body is still on the ground) before Z. Pratt ran away. (Z. Pratt reaching the
pavilion, running with a hail of spears and arrows coming after him) But out
came M.J.K. Pratt... (cut to M.J.K. Pratt coming out pulling on gloves etc.) to
play a real captain's innings. (he reaches the crease and takes guard, the
bowler bowls) He'd taken his own score up to nought when he mistimed a shot of
Bowanga and was lbw. (a huge spear sticks right through the lower part of his
leg; they appeal and he turns and limps manfully off)
CAPTION:
'M.J.K. PRATT'
2nd
Voice Over: Typical of Umbonga's hostile opening spell was his dismissal of
V.E. Pratt, who offered no resistance to this delivery... (cut to native bowler
bowling a machete; it hits the ground and does a leg spin up, slicing off the
batsman's head as he waves his bat) ... and he was caught behind.
(The
batsman's severed head lands in the wicket keeper's gloves. He throws it in the
air with a flourish.)
CAPTION:
'V.E. PRATT'
(Jeremy
Thorpe appears and waves. Cut to the presenter from 'World' s Most Awful Family
1974 '.)
Presenter:
But by lunch the situation had changed dramatically.
3rd
Voice Over: and CAPTION:
'C.U.
PRATT KILLED OUTRIGHT, BOWLED ODINGA - 0.
P.B.T.R.
PRATT LEGS OFF BEFORE WICKET, BOWLED ODINGA - O.
B.B.C.T.V.
PRATT ASSEGAI UP JACKSEY, BOWLED UNBOKO - O.
Z.
PRATT MACHETE BEFORE WICKET, 'BOWLED UMBONGA - O.
M.J.K.
PRATT STUMP THROUGH HEAD, BOWLED UMBONGA - O.
V.E.
PRATT RAN AWAY - O.
P.D.A.
PRATT RETIRED HURT - O.
W.G.
PRATT RETIRED VERY HURT - O.
PRATT
DIED OF FRIGHT, BOWLED ODINGA - O.
Y.E.T.A.N.O.T.H.E.R.
PRATT NOT OUT BUT DREADFULLY HURT- 139.'
(Cut
back to the presenter. Behind him the 'Worlds Most Awful Family' sign is
crossed out and replaced with'Sport'.)
Presenter:
And so with the tension Colossal as we come up to the last ball ... that's all
from us.
(Roll
credits on black background. The first part of the signature tune is played
very hesitantly on guitar.)
PARTY POLITICAL BROADCAST ON
BEHALF OF THE LIBERAL PARTY
WAS CONCEIVED, WRITTEN AND
PERFORMED BY
J. THORPE (AGE 2)
C. SMITH (AGE 1 1/2)
L. BYERS (AGE O)
UNSUCCESSFUL CANDIDATES
GRAHAM CHAPMAN
LEICESTER NORTH (LOST
DEPOSIT)
TERRY GILLIAM
MINNEAPOLIS NORTH (LOST
DEPOSIT TWICE)
ERIC IDLE
SOUTH SHIELDS NORTH (LOST DEPOSIT
BUT FOUND AN OLD ONE
WHICH HE COULD USE)
TERRY JONES
COLWYN BAY NORTH (SMALL
DEPOSIT ON HIS TROUSERS)
MICHAEL PALIN
SHEFFIELD NORTH (LOST HIS
TROUSERS)
MORE UNSUCCESSFUL CANDIDATES
CAROL CLEVELAND (LIBERAL)
BOB E. RAYMOND (VERY
LIBERAL) PETER BRETT (EXTREMELY LIBERAL AND
RATHER RUDE)
EVEN MORE UNSUCCESSFUL
CANDIDATES
DOUGLAS ADAMS
SILLY WORD (NORTH)
NEIL INNES
SILLY WORDS AND MUSIC
(NORTH)
(COPYRIGHT 1984
THORPE-O-HITS LTD)
MAKE-UP AND HAIRDRESSING
JO GRIMOND
MORE MAKE-UP
MAGGIE WESTON
EVEN MORE MAKE-UP
ANDREW ROSE (COSTUMES NORTH)
MUCH MORE MAKE-UP
STAN SPEEL (FILM CAMERAMAN
NORTH)
MAKE-UP AND SOUND RECORDING
RON (NORTH) BLIGHT
ROSTRUM CAMERA WITH MAKE-UP
PETER WILLIS
FILM EDITOR AND NOT MAKE-UP
BOB DEARBERG
NOT FILM EDITOR NOT MAKE-UP
BUT DUBBING MIXER
ROD GUEST
LIGHTING, MAKE-UP AND PRICES
AND INCOMES POLICY
JIMMY PURDIE
VISUAL EFFECTS AND MR
THORPE'S WIGS
JOHN HORTON
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT
BRIAN JONES (MAKE-UP NORTH)
DESIGNER (NORTH)
VALERIE WARRENDER (FAR TOO
LIBERAL)
PRODUCED BY
MR LLOYD GEORGE (WHO KNEW
IAN MACNAUGHTON'S FATHER)
A BBC-LIBERAL-TV-PARTY
PRODUCTION (NORTH)
BBC News
(Nine
O'clock News intro in the newsroom behind. Behind the newsreader several men
including Jeremy Thorpe are drinking and celebrating. A woman is dancing on the
table.)
Newsreader:
Good evening. Over 400,000 million pounds were wiped off the value of shares
this afternoon, when someone in the Stock Exchange coughed. Sport: capital
punishment is to be re-introduced in the first and second division. Any player
found tackling from behind or controlling the ball with the lower part of the
arm will be hanged. But the electric chair remains the standard punishment for
threatening the goalie. Referee's chairman, Len Goebbels said 'at last the
referee has been given teeth'. Finally, politics: the latest opinion poll
published today shows Labour ahead with 40%, the AA second with 38% and not
surprisingly Kentucky Fried Chicken running the Liberals a very close third.
And now back to me. Hello. And now it's time to go over to Hugh Delaney in
Paignton.
(Cut
to the linkman on the pier at Paignton. A smallish crowd is gathered behind him
including Jerermy Thorpe who waves at the camera from the back.)
Linkman:
Hello and welcome to Paignton, because it's from Paignton that we take you
straight back to the studio.
(Cut
to a man in swimming trunks and a snorkel pushed back on his head standing in
the studio holding a stuffed polecat on a pole.)
Man:
Hello. And it's from here we go over there.
(Cut
to the 'Most Awful Family' presenter.)
Presenter:
Well we're already here so let's go over there.
(Cut
back to the newsreader.)
Newsreader:
Welcome back. And now it's time for part eight of our series about the life and
work of Ursula Hifier, the Surrey housewife who revolutionized British
beekeeping in the nineteen-thirties.
Voice
Over: and CAPTION: 'THAT WAS A PARTY POLITICAL BROADCAST ON BEHALF OF THE
LIBERAL PARTY'
(His
voice breaks up with giggles. Fade to blackout. The end.)