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Hello.
Yes, I'd like to speak
to Immoral Timothy, please.
Yes, I can hold.
Here you are, Filthy.
I know you like it hot and steaming.
Tea, I mean.
May I say what
a tremendous pleasure it is to see you!
Yes, indeedy-do.
How are you?
I'm not lending you any money,
Eddie, and that's final.
Hello, yes.
Immoral Timothy?
Ralph Filthy here.
Now, look, look, I've told you before,
I don't deal in drugs.
Yeah.
That's why I sold you
three ounces of scouring powder.
Look at it this way, you'll have
the cleanest nose in Clapham.
- A fiver, then.
- Look, Immoral Timothy,
there's no need to call in Huge Simon.
I was wondering if you'd accept
use of my body in full payment?
I'm in lovely condition,
I only got my new teeth last Thursday.
Oh.
Five? 5p, Filthy.
Really, daughter, you do tire me
with your heartless scrounging.
Got a ***, by the way?
What sort of a minder are you?
Whenever Richie needs you,
you're never there,
and when he gets beaten up, you join in.
I don't know why he keeps you on.
Filthy, show business
is a cruel and lonely world.
When you're up,
everyone wants to be your friend,
and when you're down,
nobody wants to know.
Richie sticks by me because
he knows, amidst all the hypocrisy,
he can count on my feelings.
He knows I hate him.
Ohhh, I'm stretched on the
rack of my own genius!
What is wrong with the boy Richie?
He's trying to write a novel
but he keeps coming up against
the same huge lack of talent.
A novel? He's no more
a novelist than Jeffrey Archer.
I knew Jeffrey when he was still going
to adult literacy classes.
No, no, Richie should stick
to what he's good at.
Well, you can't make much cash
off lying on the sofa
and blowing off occasionally.
Ohhh, why must there
be such pain! Such pain!
About this cash, I'm serious.
Richie hasn't brought home
anything in three months,
not since that wonderful
voice-over for Durex.
I really thought that might
turn into a big contract.
"For a fantastic finish,
with no annoying drips,
"slap your brush into Durex.
"
Dulux, Eddie, it was a paint ad.
Whatever, that was three months ago,
now we're broke again.
I'm broke, we're all broke.
God, what a country.
I'm a sick man.
- Does the government care?
- No.
My medicine has gone up
to eight quid a bottle.
Eight quid!
Then you have to buy the tonic.
Ohhh, the blank
and empty page!
Staring at me! Taunting me!
Eddie, how the hell do you plug
these bloody things in?
Have you just spent the last four hours
trying to plug the typewriter in?
It's bloody stupid.
Look at this.
A plug, right?
Two pins at the top, one at the bottom.
The socket has got two pins
at the bottom and one at the top!
It beggars belief!
It defies comprehension!
Oh, God, how depressing.
It's the wrong way up, daughter,
the two pins go in the two holes.
Oh, I see.
So I'm supposed to go in there
and turn the wall upside down?
Bloody stupid!
- You haven't written anything?
- No!
- No nov?
- No!
Not even a dirty pamph?
I've joined the ranks
of the other suffering artists.
Keats, he suffered.
Shelley,
she suffered.
Michael Barrymore
We all suffered.
Van Gogh-cut his ear off
for a smile from his lady.
His ear for a smile?
Blimey.
Lucky he didn't fancy
a quick wriggle.
Suffering's got nothing
to do with it, Richie.
You have failed through
complete lack of talent.
Au contraire, lesser mortal.
Despairing of modern technology,
I allowed my genius to flow
through a simple medium -
- I dug out me old ballpoint.
- Oo-er!
Eddie, I'm not in the mood.
So you have written a nov, then?
Better - I have mastered the highest,
most complex art form known to man.
I have perfected a game show formula.
A copy has already been dispatched
to the Nice Entertainment
department of the BBC
where Jumbo Whiffy, the great
entertainment supremo, will flip his lid.
What, you mean you just sent it to them,
just like that?
No security, no copyright, no nothing?
Not even a stamp! Ha!
Auntie can pay the postage.
But daughter,
this is show business suicide.
If your idea is any good,
which is a million-to-one chance,
the Beeb are bound to pinch it.
It happens all the time.
Panorama, that was
Arthur Mullard's idea originally.
I remember, we did lunch.
He said to me,
"Ralph, I've got this magic new idea
"for a political analysis
and current affairs programme
"with me as front man
and Thora Hird on links.
"
Dimbleby's at the next table
playing footsie with Val Singleton
and Arthur got stitched.
Poor old Arth.
You'd better take me with you, Richie.
You'll need a tough, experienced,
hard-headed negotiator.
Just as well I'm not taking
a broken-down pornographer.
Jumbo and I are artistes,
agents spoil the atmos.
Come, Eddie, we go alone.
The idea comes from that, er,
clapped-out, useless, talentless
has-been, Richie Rich.
Never heard of him?
You've missed nothing.
Problem is, he wants to present it.
It's a while since I've sat here.
Mr Whiffy won't be long, I'm sure.
It was when old Stewpot pipped me
for that Crackerjack job.
Crackerjack!
- Before my time, Mr Rich.
- Ah-ha-ha.
Dear old Stewpot, eh? Where is he now?
A few years handing out
Crackerjack pencils to kids
Crackerjack!
and then, whoops-a-daisy, oblivion!
Whereas me! Me!
Phew! Ha! That's me.
Meteoric.
Best thing to happen to me,
losing Crackerjack.
- Crackerjack!
- Stop shouting "crackerjack"!
This is the BBC,
not a place of entertainment.
Do I hear a well-known voice?
Richie Rich, you old ***.
- What?
- Put it there!
Put your pint-pot holder there,
you old ***.
Oh, all right, then, you old git!
So, how are you, you old ***?
Oh, pretty good, pretty good, you old
***!
This is my minder, Edward Catflap.
Terrific.
Get yourself in there,
we'll have a drink, you tarts.
Don't mind if we do,
you ***-faced bucket of sex sauce.
Er three coffees, please, darling love.
If he really is your darling love,
get your eyes tested
while it's still free on the NHS.
You met Jill?
Don't know what I'd do without her.
Terrific pair of eyes, eh?
Yeah, fantastic knockers as well,
hasn't she?
Yeah, well, sit ye down,
sit ye down, take a pew.
Or, as my old sergeant used to say,
"Pop yer bot on the spot,
or I'll shove a bayonet up it.
"
Three more coffees,
please, darling.
- Right, then, Richo.
- Jums.
How much are you gonna pay me
to present my great new show?
Oh, let me take a look at you,
you old queen.
You look great!
Yeah, but what about his idea, Jums?
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.
Hold it, cowboy.
Where's the fire?
Let's dance around this,
knock our heads together
and see if you can end up on my lap, eh?
- Be honest.
- Hang on, Richie,
we're not homosexuals, are we?
Ooh, no.
No, Jums, no.
Now, look, Richie.
I'm not saying your idea's not sexy
but can I afford to go to bed with it?
Or am I looking
for a different kind of lover?
I'll run it up the flagpole,
see if the cat wants to lick it.
Er, yes but are you
going to give me the job,
er bumface?
Three more coffees, please, darling.
Richie, let me put it this way -
when I first came into this office,
there was a fat old drunk sat
behind that desk mumbling platitudes.
And it was me.
And I'm still there.
See the way I'm thinking?
- Yes.
- No!
Yes, we do.
But are you
going to do my new show?
Let's buy you a drink, me old mate!
I've asked Eggy Guffer,
our finance and budget troubleshooter,
to join us for a swift one.
Or ten! Eh?
Ahhh.
Ten? Trying not to get pissed?
Ha! Ha-haa! They don't call me
fantastic company for nothing!
Right, lads! Bottoms up, trousers down,
and don't tell the wife!
- Right, about my new series.
- Yeah, about the new series.
I've asked Eggy here to fly a few
proposals past the saluting platform,
see which one develops engine failure.
Now, I
Phwoooarrr!
Oh, very nice, thank you!
- Woof!
- That'll do for me!
- Say no more!
- Yeah! Whoo, blimey! Rrraargh!
Ooo-aarrhh-oooh-eeuurrrgh!
What are we looking at?
Now, Eggy, regarding baseline options
on a new Richie Rich series
layout initiative?
- Water pistols or cruise missiles?
- Well
- Grrrrr!
- I say!
Down, sir! Shouldn't be allowed.
She'll get me into trouble.
Hey, get me to a cold shower!
Yeah! I'm certainly glad
I'm wearing my trousers.
Yeah, whooooarrrr! Whooooarrrr!
So, the new series.
I've read the outline treatment
and I like what I see.
Fantastic! I want
Terry Scott's dressing room.
- Get Selina Scott's.
- And don't tidy up the undies.
Richie, I like playing with myself,
doesn't mean I wanna do it
prime time on channel one.
Run your idea past Eggy, see if he wants
to stick his hand up your blouse.
Jumbo, I respect you for holding back.
This guy, Eggy
This man Ooh.
Jumbo Whiffy, who I knew
when he was only a quarter of a ton,
this fabulous professional,
who brought Keith Harris
and Orville into Television Centre,
is the nearest thing I've got to family.
Sod off, you old queen!
Ohhh, up yours,
you rancid, dribbling zit.
Yeah! Screw you, you complacent,
misogynistic bumsplat.
That's the kind of showbiz friendship
these new boys don't understand.
Richie, Richie,
run your idea by me, sunshine.
Get this-you're gonna flip
your flippin' lid.
All-Star Golfing Secrets.
- I like it.
- Good telly.
It's a hot one.
I felt this way
when I got a sniff of Bernard Manning.
- Eggy, what say you?
- It's big.
Put this against Play Your Cards Right,
blow Brucie off the box!
- Let's go, contract!
- I shouldn't sign without my agent.
Get on with it,
maybe they'll get another round in.
Thank God someone's still got
their feet on the ground.
There! When do we start?
You don't start at all.
We only wanted the idea.
Which you've signed over
for two pints of lager.
We want Davro for the presenter.
Jumbo, no gags about talentless creeps.
He does good impressions.
Look at Copycat.
No one has ever recognised
a single impression on that
except when they say,
"Hello, my name's Benny
from Crossroads.
" In an Irish accent.
We rate Davro very highly indeed.
He's the next Tarby.
You're a talentless moron.
We're gonna pinch your idea, get Davro,
and you can *** off
to Give Us A Clue.
Oh, God.
Still alive.
There was something I meant to do
before I nodded off.
Oh, yeah, put my *** out.
Ow.
I hate doing that,
going to sleep with a *** still on.
Bloody BBC!
Ohhh, I hate everything!
Well, did you get the job
or did they cheat you?
Yes and no.
You got the job
and they didn't cheat you?
Sorry, no and yes.
They nicked my idea,
those BBC ***!
I'll show them!
I'll be a TV megastar! Bigger than
Judith Chalmers!
That's absolutely bloody enormous.
Jumbo will beg me to work for him.
The only way you'll get on telly
is robbing a sweet shop
and getting on Police Five.
Actually, that's not too bad
an idea, Eddie.
Filthy, get me an advert.
Get me an advert.
A good ad always sorts things out.
That's true.
Look at Leslie Crowther.
Yeah.
Or rather not.
That wasn't bad!
Get that down, Eddie.
Good gag!
I feel like throwing it up.
We thought Leslie was finished
after My Good Woman.
But then he did the marg ads
and before you know it,
it's "Come on down
and make a complete *** of yourself!"
You couldn't do an ad,
not a personality one anyway -
you haven't got a personality.
All right, all right, don't rub it in.
No one's gonna buy a toilet roll
cos you've got it in your mouth.
- Nobody.
- All right!
Selina Scott! Am I forever
to be surrounded by poltroons?
You don't need to be famous anyway,
you just need a good idea.
Like selling instant noodles
on the grounds they taste nice.
It's so outrageous it's brilliant.
What about that dog
you wipe your bottom with?
Yeah.
If you are referring
to the gorgeous Anthrax pup, Edward,
it's got a toilet roll in its mouth.
The idea is that the paper's
so lovely and soft that
It's like wiping your bottom with a puppy.
I suppose so, yes.
Perhaps what they're saying is
the paper's so bad you might
as well feed it to the dog.
They've got an elephant in the new ads.
Where does that fit in?
I shouldn't think it would fit in.
No, they're saying
feed the paper to the dog.
Yeah.
And wipe your bottom
with the elephant.
A truly surreal concept -
that's what we need.
Let's think of an advert for me.
The ideas sesh is on.
- Er, well
- Yes?
What, me?
Er Oh, well.
Er
Well.
Well!
I've always thought
that cornflakes
look a bit like people.
After dipping his toe
in the waters of reason,
the man with no brain retreats
to frolic on insanity beach.
You'll pay for that, you ***.
Hi, Richie Rich here, God bless,
look after Mum! Ah-ah-ahhh!
Some dates still available.
What can I do for you, squire? News?
You want someone for an ad?
Oh.
Oh, I see.
That's very interesting,
thank you so much.
- Not work, then?
- No, no, my dad's dying.
Damn! We really need
some bloody cash.
I know, and I need to get on telly!
What I need is a bloody good advert!
Listen, your dad's dying,
that's tr�s bona news, daughter.
Well, I must say, Filthy,
I find your att a trifle cal.
No, we can make money out of this.
It's no good, I tried it with my gran.
They just don't buy bodies any more.
Come here, come here.
Listen, this is the plot
Eddie
Right, get your pad, Sexy.
They're in the office now.
Hi, Tommo baby,
you old ***!
You look like a million dollars
in used notes.
Just joshing.
Let's do business,
you old ***, you!
- What can I do for you?
- Aha!
It's more a question
what he can do for you, gusset face.
Bloody hell, Richie, I think I'm on!
I'm your big new advertising initiative.
Mr Rich, overweight, drunken old
has-beens are not a major market force.
Ah-ha-ha! Nice gag, Tommo.
I like your style,
you hatchet-faced old easy lay, you!
We're gonna get on great.
Richie, I think she fancies us both.
Let's get frisky.
Get out of my office
or I'll have you sprayed.
Ah-ha-haaa! Touch�.
I love a chick
with a sense of humour.
Listen.
- My dad's dying.
- This is head office, not a retail outlet.
If you wish to buy a wreath,
Freddie will be pleased
to supply you with a list of shops.
Miss Tomkins, this is my plan -
my dad's dying, tough for him
but life must go on.
If we can get a few celebs for the funeral,
probably up to Saint and Greavsie level,
then we'll make the nash news
and then we're laughing.
- I don't follow.
- For God's sake, you stupid cow!
That's when we do the ad -
a celeb wearing mourning
flogging flowers at his dad's funeral.
It's coloss!
How will you get
celebrities to the funeral?
It isn't even you that's you dying.
Mm-mm-mm.
Well, you're not gonna get Tarby, obv,
but some of these has-beens
haven't been on TV in years.
- They're desperate men.
- All we have to do is get
a camera at the funeral.
The minor celebs will turn out
trying to get on South East At Six
looking sad and concerned
and available for work.
- This, Mr Rich
- Please, call me Sexy.
This, Mr Sexy,
is fantastic.
I am prepared to offer you a contract
worth half a million pounds.
Maximum TV exposure, posters, the lot.
From now on,
you are the Bloody Flora bloke!
Fantastic! Shall we shake or ***?
You'll get a contract after the funeral.
If any other relatives start
to look peaky, let me know.
- Good day to you.
- Get the door, Sexy.
Fantastic!
Filthy, you old failed
experiment in brain surgery!
Your plan worked brilliantly!
I've landed the biggest contract
in history! We're rich!
- Well, I'm rich.
- No more shoplifting! Limitless lager!
I'll buy a theatre, write a play,
buy a newspaper
and write myself a good review.
I'll have my head removed
and replaced with two pub optics,
one Scotch and one gin.
That way I could press myself
against the ceiling
and get a double straight down
the neck without all the bother.
Hi, God bless, drive safely,
look after Mum, Richie Rich here,
some dates available.
***!
My bloody dad's getting better!
Well, it was nice to be rich for 30 secs.
Oo-er, sounds a bit rude.
Sounds a bit like sex.
- Sounds exactly like sex.
- Oh, shut up!
Filthy, I can't return to pov.
Well you don't have to, do you?
- How do you mean?
- Well, you could always kill him.
Kill my own father to get on an advert?
- Why not?
- Yeah, why not?
Well, because Because
There aren't really
any reasons why not, are there?
No pics, no pics!
Please respect my right to privacy,
perhaps a few autographs later.
Eddie.
- Now, listen
- Richie,
I'm not complaining or anything
but a few moments ago we decided
to kill your father.
And now we have come down
to a public house
where, presumably,
we are about to get
completely whammoed again.
I don't follow the logic.
But surely you don't expect
me to kill my own father,
from whose loins I sprang.
Why, I'm the fruit of his very seed.
How could I ***
my own flesh and blood?
Richie Rich
I never knew you capable
of such touching sentiments.
No, I'm talking about the papers.
What if they find out
I've killed me father?
It might be a bit of a scandal.
I'm sure we could sit on it
but give a dog a bad name
- Like "Tiddles".
- Right.
And some mud is bound to stick.
No, we've come here to get
somebody to kill him for us.
I'll get the drinks in,
you find some low-looking fellows.
Lads who'd as soon handle
a blackjack as eat their dinner.
Right.
I'll have a rustle around.
OK.
Richie.
Look, I don't wish to appear defeatist
but after some considerable rustling
there appear to be
no low fellows to report.
Eddie, this is an East End pub,
there's bound to be.
- Haven't you read your Dickens?
- No.
We're in Bill Sykes country -
thieves, murderers, prostitutes.
I'll check out the landlord.
Well, if he's a ***
he's gonna starve to death.
Ah! Mine host! And a very good day
to you too, landlord.
Perhaps you'd be so kind
as to draw us two frothing
tankards of your best ale
and perhaps a smidgen
of the fine old English fare
which is so boldly promised
on your sign outside.
And we'll have two pints of lager
and a couple of pasties.
Is he winding me up?
It's the oldest trick in the book.
So that no one suspects my dark intent
I'm passing myself off
as a harmless idiot.
That shouldn't put an undue strain
on your acting ability.
I knew you were going to say
something like that.
I really knew you were going to say
something like that.
I really, really, really, really knew you
were going to say something like that.
Just so long as you realise
that I knew you were going to say that.
- Well, it was in the script.
- Shh-shh.
- Here you are.
- Thank you very much.
- What are you having, Richie?
- Small port and lemon, please.
Now, landlord, I'm a well-heeled
toff from up west,
and I'm looking for low fellows
for some dirty work for a sovereign.
You're not gonna get much
for a quid, mate.
That old bloke might kiss you for that.
More if he puts his teeth in.
Not that sort of dirty work!
As far as *** gratification
is concerned
I can do that on my own, thank you.
Listen, what I require, landlord,
are two stout artisans
of such morals
that they'll do bloody ***
for the price of a bellyful
of mother's ruin.
You want someone to risk
life imprisonment for a fiver?
A fiver? I only want him killed,
not stuffed and mounted!
You think this is a job centre
for the criminal fraternity?
Well, come on, mate, I know
you working-class costermongers.
Once you've drunk your meths
and beaten your wives
there's nothing to do except sex the dog.
- You're always up for mischief!
- That's it!
- All right, Frank?
- Morning, Rocky.
Hey, Richie.
Take a look at those two.
Pretty hard, aren't they?
Wouldn't want to meet them
in a dark alley
if they had a chainsaw
and were gouging my guts out,
splitting my head open with a machete,
spilling my brains out.
If your brains were spilt,
I hardly think the street
cleansers will be overtaxed.
- Er
- Shut up.
Restrain your imbecility
while I ingratiate myself.
- Two pints of wallop.
- I'll get these!
Make 'em halves.
Who are you?
I want someone taken out.
Permanently.
- You mean killed?
- You have a keen brain.
What is this, a cabaret?
What's the matter, kid? Ya scared?
Think you're tough, don't ya?
But when the bottom line comes,
you can't hack it.
Plenty of swagger
and "two pints of wallop",
but when there's man's work to be done,
it's off home to Mummy.
Yeah.
Come on!
I just bought you lily-livered
lettuce leaves a half of bitter.
Blimey, I only want my dad killed.
Maybe they're scared.
What are you? ***?
Maybe they're poofs.
Just a couple of poncy old queens.
Just two mincing old woofters.
Whoops, watch your bums, lads,
backs to the wall.
Put on your bike clips,
or they'll be up your trouser leg.
Bloody fairies.
That's what you are, isn't it?
Yeah.
This is a gay pub.
And don't come back
until you've liberated your *** politics
or you'll get a *** all right.
How dare he? I'm liberated -
I work in the theatre!
Some of my best friends
are trouser bandits.
I just wouldn't want one
near my daughter.
You haven't got a daughter.
You're very unlikely to have one
because the chances of a woman
letting you within a billion miles
are nonexistent.
You're a spiteful viper, Eddie.
Christian virtue is a foreign language,
kindness and good fellowship
a closed box.
Come on,
let's go and kill my dad.
It is imperative
that we are brilliantly efficient.
Right.
On our past record,
that seems unlikely.
Above all, we must leave no fingerprints.
Got the gloves?
- Yes, indeedy!
- Oven gloves?
Yes.
You said we'd need gloves
cos things might get a bit hot.
Well, you should say what you mean!
It was obv what I meant.
I can't navigate every tortuous twist
of the bottomless pit you call a brain.
Cue for a gag.
What do you call
a coal mine that can't go to the toilet?
- Who knows?
- A bottomless pit.
Brilliant! That gag'll be
all over Britain next week.
So's *** but I don't think
people want it on their tellies.
Which do you want,
the Mr Men ones or the foxy ones?
The foxy No, no! Mr Men!
No, no, foxy.
No
God, I don't know! One of each.
- Nice choice.
- Eddie, you should wear a mask.
You think I'll get recognised?
No, I just don't like your face.
I never mind a jibe when it's a witty one
and that was brilliant!
Thanks.
Now to buy the poison.
Shh! Quiet!
I must stress that care
and stealth are of the essence.
We must give nothing away.
Softly, softly, catchy monkey.
- Oo-er.
- Let's go.
Good afternoon, I'd like some
poison to kill my dad.
Ooh!
I'd like some poison to kill my rat.
I've only got six packets left.
Well Well, how strong is it?
Oh, quite strong, yeah.
Quite?
Look, if I wanted to kill one,
say, very big rat
how much will I need?
How big a rat?
Well, er Er Eddie,
how big would you say my dad was?
- About six foot, eleven stone.
- He's a big man.
Er, ooh, with claws! And a long tail!
- And teeth.
- And a snout.
- "Where's my tea?"
- Six packs'd kill an elephant.
Four pound, please, sir.
He thinks we're killing an elephant.
We're baffling him at every turn.
There you are, shopkeeper.
My name's Angela Rippon
and I live in Antwerp.
Come on, Eddie.
- I mean, Gloria Hunniford.
- Where?
Right, let's pop the poison
in a pot and poison Pop!
Yeah! People may say I'm cruel
and heartless but cash is involved.
Richie, there's a letter for you.
No time for fan mail,
I'm poisoning my dad.
I think you should read it.
It's germane to the issue.
Oh, give it here.
"You are a ***.
"
Stop talking about me and get on with it.
He is doing, it's from his mother.
Ah, dear, sweet, silver-haired Mummy.
"You are a ***.
"
Such a josher!
"Dear Richie, you are old enough
to know I never knew your father
"who was just a one-off *** to me.
"The man you call Dad
is just my present sex slave
"and I've told the papes for a fiver.
"A few more home truths -
we never liked you
"and your name is not Richie
but Gertrude.
"I've enclosed next year's birthday cake
so I need never see you again.
"Love Mum.
PS - *** off.
"
That's it, then.
We can't poison
Pop cos we don't know who he is.
Better eat the cake.
You know what, Gertrude?
I could get to like your mum.