-Beg your pardon? Pardon? What? -Beg your pardon?
-Come again? I like the way it starts. Quite fat. Thin, really. Thomas, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Just a moment, John. I promised
Marjorie I’d mend this clock for her. -I wonder if you’d mind giving me a hand.
-Big hand? Little hand. Anyway, listen to me, Thomas.
I have some bad news. -Bad news?
-It’s Marjorie. -Marjorie?
-She’s had a fall. -Marjorie’s had a fall?
-I’m afraid so. She was out riding this morning on Thunderbolt and she hadn’t returned
by the time Mrs Mempwaster arrived. It turns out she’s had a fall. Now, just a moment, John, calm down. Marjorie’s had a fall, you say? -Yes.
-Off a horse? Well, of course off a horse. I don’t see there’s any
“of course off a horse” about it. Girls nowadays are likely to fall off anything.
Doesn’t have to be a horse. No, but in this case it was. Could have been a chair, a table,
a pianoforte, anything. Yes, except in this case,
she was riding a horse when it happened. -When she fell off?
-Yes. So you reason to yourself
Marjorie has fallen off a horse? That’s right. Thunderbolt. -Thunderbolt, you say?
-Yes. -Well, Thunderbolt’s a horse all right.
-Exactly. -Any damage?
-Well, too soon to say. -Cavendish is examining her now.
-That old fool. What does he know about horses? No, Cavendish is examining Marjorie. -Marjorie? Is she ill?
-No, she fell off a horse. -Well, you better fetch Cavendish.
-I have. He’s in the drawing room. -Horses are pretty big, John.
-I know they are. -You fall off one of them, anything can happen.
-Well, quite. -Well, not anything.
-No, not anything. I mean, this clock isn’t going to become
Prime Minister just because someone’s fallen off a horse. -Of course not.
-I didn’t mean anything in that sense. Well, absolutely, no. Anyway, Thomas,
Cavendish is examining her now. -You said he was in the drawing room.
-He is. Examining Marjorie. -And where’s Marjorie?
-She’s also in the drawing room. -So they’re both in the drawing room?
-Yes. Perhaps he’s not such an old fool after all.
How is she? Well, too soon to say.
Sounds like a hell of a fall. -Off the horse?
-Yes. What the devil was Marjorie doing
falling off Thunderbolt? Oh, you know how
Marjorie loves to ride, Thomas. Marjorie was riding Thomas? No. -I’m Thomas, John.
-I know that. Marjorie wasn’t riding me.
Your story’s a bit twisted there, old fellow. -You said she was riding Thunderbolt.
-She was. -She was?
-Yes. -But she’s not any longer?
-No, she fell off. -Good God.
-I know. -Where is she?
-She’s in the drawing room. Marjorie was riding Thunderbolt
in the drawing room? No, no, no, no. She fell off at Stratton Brook,
where the path separates. That young fellow Cottrell found her
and carried her to the drawing room. -Stables would have been better, I’d have thought.
-What? -Drawing room’s no place for Thunderbolt.
-No, Marjorie. -What do you mean?
-Marjorie’s in the drawing room. -With Thunderbolt?
-No, Thunderbolt’s in the stables. Oh, well, that’s all right, then. It’s not all right, Thomas.
I tell you, she’s had a bad fall. Is she hurt? Well, it’s too soon to say.
Cavendish is with her now. -Cavendish? He’s a doctor, isn’t he?
-Yes. I wonder if he knows anything about clocks. If my murderer’s watching this, he’ll kill me. This puppy, Snipper, is in most desperate need of help. Four weeks ago Snipper’s mother died and only three days later
her father was killed by a hit-and-run driver. Barely eight weeks old and an orphan, Snipper was also faced with the embarrassing
and painful affliction of incontinence. It’s a condition that we in the West
don’t talk about much. Shame keeps millions of sufferers silent, but Snipper’s incontinence
was a source of great distress to her and rather than come to terms with it,
she ran away to London. It was on the way to London
that Snipper was assaulted and abused by an older dog. You can imagine the effect that this would have
on an innocent puppy bitch like Snipper. She was totally confused, bewildered and hurt. We think that it is around that time
that she was struck with traumatic amnesia, a total loss of memory. This, apart from anything else, made it
very difficult for her to know who she was and where she was going. She drifted into a life of scavenging
and prostitution, selling her soft, furry young body
just in order to stay alive. That was the life that she was living
when we at the ASTL found her. We were able to give her food, warmth,
and more than that, love, the one thing that has been denied her
in her short and tragically unhappy life. Snipper is really taking an interest now. Her memory is slowly returning, which is how we’ve been able to piece together
the details of her existence, and with luck she will be able to lead
a normal, happy and fulfilled life. But, you know,
there are thousands of Snippers in Britain and we desperately need your help
to carry on the work we’re doing. We are an entirely independent charity,
we receive no government funding, and rely on public generosity to keep us going. If you’re the kind of person
who would like to help a Snipper, then why not send your donation,
however large, to… straight to me, Stephen Fry,
care of the BBC, instead. Thank you. Well, Bryan Robson’s definitely got one, but he’s the captain,
I suppose he’d have to have one. To set an example, I don’t know really. I joined up very early, very early.
Too early, I think. I should have waited
till they had a proper photocopier. Looks like the Arsenal might do it then. -The Arsenal?
-Yeah. Oh, leave it out. -Leave it out?
-Oh, leave it out. Just leave it out. No, why should I? Just turn it up. -What, turn it up?
-Turn it up. -Oh, switch it off.
-Move it under. -Oh, send it round.
-Knock it through. -Rinse it out.
-Park it sideways. Oh, support it laterally. Indicate left. -Oh, finance it underneath.
-Destabilise it casually. -Oh, slide it up.
-Remove it gently. -Oh, clean it thoroughly.
-Put it on the shelf. -Fax it over.
-Give it some mortgage. -Oh, drive it round.
-Sell it for a small profit. Oh, comb it thoroughly before putting it back. -Smell it gently.
-Oh, leave it out. -Leave it out?
-Leave it out. Oh. Who told you you were naked? I beg your pardon? I was thinking,
“Who told you that you were naked?” I think you may have lost me there, Arnold. Well, do you remember that passage in Genesis where Adam explains to God why he and Eve have covered themselves. Yes, yes. If I remember that story right, Adam says,
“We were naked and we were ashamed.” -And God says…
-“Who told you that you were naked?” Glenn and I are having a conversation about a passage in Genesis
which has been intriguing me rather. Yes, it is fascinating, isn’t it? Anyway, tell me about
the size of your girlfriend’s breasts. Well, first of all, Glenn, let’s clear up this problem of why God gave such a complex response to what is,
on the surface, a relatively simple question. Not as simple though as,
“Are they very big, or only quite big?” No, perhaps not that simple,
but still relatively simple. Yes, yes. Simpler certainly than,
“Is she very exciting in bed?” I think, Glenn, that what God was saying is, “How can nakedness mean anything to you?” “How can that concept have any significance “unless you have eaten the fruit of the tree
whereof I said thou shouldst not eat?” Yes. My bet is that
they really are quite substantially large. Well, one thing at a time, Glenn. Yes, yes, all right.
Let’s take the left one first. How enormous would you say that is? Glenn is having a little difficulty
concentrating on our Bible study readings because he has something of an obsession
with the size of my girlfriend’s breasts. Well, I like to put it this way. Arnold is having trouble concentrating
on our discussion about the size of his girlfriend’s breasts because he is a little too interested
in analysing passages from The Bible. We’ll sort it out, don’t you worry. -I think God…
-So would you say a 48-cup, or bigger still? Oh, I think the Queen should give one
to Esther Rantzen. Definitely. Stand a bit further to the left. A good smack in the face, she deserves it. Hello, Control. Something up? Well, it’s the oddest thing, Murchison, but I’ve been told that if I want to stay fit, I have to walk at least 10 miles a day. -10 miles?
-Hmm. But you’ve always been as fit
as a flea, Control. Or a fiddlet, anyway. “One of the fittest men in the service”
you’ve been occasionally referred to as. -Have a look at this, then, Tony.
-What is it? Well, that’s what I asked myself
when the doctor gave it to me, and then I asked the doctor, and he said it’s a pedometer. -A pedometer?
-Yes. It measures how many miles I walk. Come on. Mrs Control is jolly careful
to make sure I put it on everyday, worse luck. Still, I suppose she only has
your best interests at heart. That’s true. I shouldn’t grumble.
After all, Tony… Control? …she’s only being so quite firm about it
for my own good. Mmm. Any golly way,
I think that’s enough for one morning. And you didn’t come here to listen to my woes. Oh, I don’t know,
they’re quite interesting woes. What does bring you to the seventh floor, Tony? Well, Control, do you remember
the Minister asking us to jolly well hurry up and find out who was behind these bombs that have been going off
in government departments of lately? Yes, indeed I do remember. An urgent, A-1, top priority investigation
was called for as I remember. There was to be telephone tapping,
surveillance, everything, and no limit on the budget. The Minister said, “I want you to
pull all the stops out on this one, Control, “if you’d be so kind.” Yes, it was quite a to-do. Mmm. As I recall, Tony,
I put you in charge of that investigation. Is that right? -Yes, you splendidly did.
-Mmm. Well, have you come up with something
that might be regarded as a clue, or better still, concrete evidence
that might lead to some arrests? Yes. Well, that’s really the reason I popped in
and surprised you at your walking, Control. Because I’ve just had a report from
Commander Henderson of Special Branch. That’s the Scotland Yard branch
that was set up specifically to deal with subversion and counter-insurgency
earlier this century. -That’s the exact one.
-Oh. I imagined quite strongly it might be. Yes. Well, they say that with some of
our agents working undercover alongside them, they’ve managed to arrest a cell of men
and women who they think they can prove are responsible for the whole sorry wave
of unfortunate and exasperating bomb attacks. -It was a sorry wave, wasn’t it?
-Yes, it certainly was. Well, this is good news, I must say. I thought you’d be pleased. I am. Most pleased. Well done, Tony. Full marks. Calls for a coffee, wouldn’t you say? It most certainly does. -I’ll fetch you one.
-No, Tony. I’ll fetch you one. It’s my turn. Well, goodness, Control, thank you. No, thank you, Tony. White, no sugar, I think it is. That’s exactly right. This really is excessively kind of you,
Control. Not at all, Tony, and besides… the extra walk will impress Mrs Control. -Oh, you.
-Back in a mo. Bye. There’s a riot down at Bletching Common so they had to use all
the trousers for that one. So you see, hence the… Hopefully, when it’s… You know, when it’s all sorted,
we’ll get our trousers back and things will be back to normal. Actually, I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, well, yes,
I got one but before I had that one, I used to have to go down
to the laundrette every week, but now I’ve had one put in my kitchen
and the laundrette comes to me every week. It’s marvellous, really. Violence. It’s a theme
we’ve touched on before now in this fortnightly look back
on the past three days. And I daresay it’s one we’ll touch on again,
and we don’t apologise for that. Violence is not something
that’s gonna lie down and go away. Hmm. Well put. Ah, but the point is, surely,
what are we going to do about it? Well, I suppose the phrase
that best sums up our approach is, Responsibility Television. Now, what does Responsibility Television mean? Well, it means that we are immensely concerned that nothing we do
has a bad influence on our viewers. Thus, when I hit Hugh, like so… we have to consider what the effect
on the viewer might be. Yes. Is a vulnerable,
easily led section of our audience going to start imitating
this kind of behaviour? Well, so far in this series I’ve hit Hugh
on no less than a startling five occasions. You might think we had no thought at all as to how the young might be influenced
by this kind of senseless, horrific violence. Would they start to imitate it? Hugh. Well, the interesting and inescapable
that we’ve come up with is, yes. Because since the series
has started to be transmitted, I’ve found, walking along the street, that
I have been hit on no less than 12 occasions by complete strangers. So it looks as if the suggestible out there are actually imitating
my violent behaviour patterns and striking you? That’s right. Yes. Yes. -Is that a worrying development?
-Well, it’s not unworrying. Right. So it may be that the Milton Schulmans
and Mary Whitehouses of this world aren’t as incredibly stupid as they appear
at first, second and 34th glance? Are we unwittingly helping to make Britain
a more violent place? Well, it’s beginning to look
horribly like it, yes. Right. Well, let’s stop now and let’s see
if we can’t reverse this whole process. Now, would all those out there
who are stupid enough to go out on the streets and hit Hugh, just
because they’ve seen me do it on television, would they now kindly watch very carefully
as I now smile at Hugh, hand him a £5 note, and say, “There you are, old chap,
there’s a fiver for you. “Have a really super time. “Oh, look, here’s another one. -“And another.”
-Oh, well. “There you go. Bless you.” Well, thank you very much,
if you don’t mind me saying so. Indeed, I certainly don’t mind you saying so.
In fact, it’s quite kind of you. Here’s a fiver. Well, thank you, I’m sure. Good. Well, I hope now, Hugh, you’re going to
monitor the public’s behaviour very closely and if you find people are approaching you now
with £5 notes instead of clenched fists, you’ll come back
on the programme and let us know? -I certainly will, yup.
-Thanks so much. -There’s a fiver.
-Oh, thanks. All right, then. Just time now to go
over to Devizes and to catch up with
Chris and that giant sauna. Chris. Well, it’s a dying art. That’s my view. House prices, I don’t know. You practically need to take out a mortgage
to buy one nowadays. The last decent pencil I bought was Malaysian,
beautiful thing. Beautiful thing. Must be worth quite a bit now, I think. So, he gets all misty-eyed and
he puffs himself up and he says, “I do it for my country,” and he stabs himself in the head
with a pair of scissors. Right? So the Irishman says… Are you ready for your main courses now? -Er, yes, thank you.
-Excellent. -Umm, can I ask just you something?
-Certainly, sir. -How do you do it?
-Do what, sir? How can you hear
from the other end of the restaurant the exact moment
when I get to the punch line of my jokes? That is the fourth time you’ve done it
since I came in. Well, now, that’s actually
a very good question, sir. There’s actually a tiny microphone -hidden underneath your ashtray.
-Ah, I see. And we have a receiver in the kitchen.
So it’s very simple, really. -Yes, I’d always wondered. Thank you.
-Now, who was having the lamb? -Here we go, madam.
-Right, so… the Englishman had said… er… “I do it for the Queen,”
and jumped out of the window. Right, yes. And the Scotsman says,
“I do it for my country,” and he… Stabbed himself in the head
with a pair of scissors. Right. Exactly. And so then Irishman says… -And you’re having the chicken, sir?
-What? Chicken lacroix prepared at your table. -Yes, thank you.
-Right, right. So, the Irishman says… Oh, my God! -What?
-Chicken lacroix. What are you doing? -What am I doing?
-Yes. Well, sir, I have to make sure
the knife is properly sharp. Yes, but… The chicken, it’s still alive! Ha. Not for much longer, sir. I think I’m going to be sick. -Something wrong with the lamb, madam?
-Oh, no. You’re not going to kill
a live chicken in here? Well, certainly, sir.
This is chicken lacroix, as you ordered. “Fresh, plump, baby chicken
prepared at your table.” Stop. Stop. Stop. Don’t kill that chicken. -Don’t kill it?
-No. -What, you’d rather eat it while it’s still alive?
-No. -Well, I have to…
-No, no. I’m telling you, actually. Don’t kill it. -Well, why not, sir?
-Well… You know, it’s not worth it.
Think of the letters we’ll get. -Letters? Who from?
-Well, I don’t know. Mad people. Mad people? You know the sort of thing, “Why, oh, why,
oh, why was my five-year-old grandmother “forced to watch a live chicken being hacked to
death in the name of so-called entertainment?” That kind of thing. Well, it’s no worse than being hacked to death
in the name of so-called lunch. -Well, I know that.
-I think it is, actually. -I beg your pardon?
-I think it is worse. -Oh, do you?
-Yes, I do. Well, that’s just her point of view,
that’s perfectly fair. All right, well,
let’s ask the chicken, shall we? Would you rather die as part of a sketch
on national television or would you rather go straight
into a Tesco sandwich, unmourned and unnoticed? Look, I’m sorry, Hugh.
It’s just the way I feel, okay? What’s the matter with you?
It’s had a great time.
We showed it the Blue Peter studio, didn’t we? It sat next to Desmond Lynam in the canteen,
what more could it want? Look, I know we agreed that we should
actually kill the chicken on air but I think… I’d be happy now if you didn’t. Happy? What’s happiness got to do with it? Look, basically the whole joke of this
is supposed to be that I
can’t get out my Irish joke and if you sort of add this…
I mean, really, it’s not… -I think we’ve gone off it.
-I agree, yes. Absolutely. Well, yeah, okay, if everyone’s
just going to go squeamish at the last minute, yes, all right, we’ll call it off, then.
Yes, fine. -Excuse me.
-All right. -So I’ll just have a green salad, please, waiter.
-A green salad? Yes. Coming right up. Thank you. Excellent. Now, where was I?
Yes, the Englishman said, “I do it…” er… “for my count… for my Queen,”
and jumped out the window, and the Scotsman said,
“I do it for my country,” and stabbed himself in the head
with a pair of scissors, and the Irishman says… Now what are you doing? Never heard a lettuce scream before? -What?
-Frightening, isn’t it? Never occurred to you that a lettuce might have
dreams, hopes, ambitions, a family? Look, bugger the lettuce,
will you let me finish my joke? Oh, I’m sorry. Right, so, the Irishman says… I wouldn’t suck it. Except in… non-member states
where you’re obliged to eat your own. -All right, Mr Simnock?
-Eh? I say, are you all right, Mr Simnock? Where’s smimble cocoa? Yes, your cocoa’s coming in a minute. Eh? I say, your cocoa is coming in a minute. I’ll draw the curtains, shall I? Be cosier then, you’ll be more cosy. -Draw the curtains, yeah, it’ll be cosy, that.
-Yes, your cocoa is coming in minute. -All right?
-Curtain. Yes, I’ll draw them for you. There we are. That’s a bit cosier, isn’t it? Nights are getting chillier all the time,
aren’t they? Only seems like yesterday it was Christmas,
I don’t know. Oh, look, you’ve dropped your magazines.
Look, I’ll pick them up for you. Didn’t like them. Rubbish they were. Well, let’s see what they are. There we are, look. Oh. Oh, now. There was no call to go doing that,
was there, Mr Simnock? Where’s me cocoa? Your cocoa’s coming in a minute. I’m not so sure you deserve it now, though. Acting up like I shouldn’t wonder. I’ll tuck you in, look. 92 years old. That’s right. 93 come November. 92 years old and I’ve never had oral sex. Well… I should think not, indeed. Oral sex! The idea. Never ridden a camel. You’re just babbling now, Mr Simnock. Never watched a woman urinate. I shall get very cross with you in a minute.
I shall, really. Never killed a man. Well, there’s a certain man I shall be killing
if he’s not very careful. Never been inside an opera house.
Never eaten a hamburger. You’re a stupid silly old man
and I won’t have any more nonsense. I’m fed up, me. I’ve never done anything. Well, you’re a bit chilly, I shouldn’t wonder.
Your cocoa’ll be along in a minute. Don’t want any stupid cocoa. Well, there’s no call to be getting
contrary, now, is there?
You love your cocoa. You know you do. I hate cocoa. Gets a skin on it. Not if you keep stirring it. Makes me want to kek that.
Makes we want to cat up. I want to drink milk
from the breasts of a Burmese maiden. I don’t know what’s got into you today,
Mr Simnock. I don’t, really. I think we’re going to have to give you
some extra vitamin E. Burmese maidens! In Todmorden? You’ve got bad breath, you have. Well, there’s no call to be getting personal,
I hope. Like rotting cabbages. I’m very angry with you today, Mr Simnock. You’re a great nancy. I’m not a great nancy, Mr Simnock,
and you’re wicked to say so. You’re a great Mary Ann, bum-boy nancer.
I bet you’ve never even done it. I’m not going to take anymore of this from you,
Mr Simnock. I’m not, really. You shouldn’t be in a place like this
at your time of life. Well, someone’s got to do it. Dedication.
Though why I bother, I do not know. You should be out there having oral sex and killing people
and watching women urinate in opera houses and eating hamburgers in opera houses and drinking milk
from the breasts of Nepalese maidens. It was Burmese last time. Well, Nepalese, I’ve changed me mind. Instead you’re stuck here
taking rude talk from an old man. You’re a great bog-breathed nancy. You’ve really upset me today, Mr Simnock,
you have, really. I’m going out to hurry along your cocoa.
When I get back I don’t want any more nonsense. Honestly. You’re a screaming great Bertie and you pong. 92 years old
and I’ve never watched a woman urinate. Tragic waste that. Now here you are, Mr Simnock. I managed to intercept Mrs Gideon
in the hall with the tray. So don’t say you’re not a lucky man
to get your cocoa before the others. -Hooray!
-Yes, that’s better, isn’t it? -Cocoa.
-That’s right. But a certain naughty boy
said a few naughty things, didn’t he? I’m sorry, Brian. Right sorry. Well, I’m not so sure you should have it now. Soon as you see your cocoa
you mend your manners, don’t you? Oh, please, Brian. All right, there you are. That’s better, isn’t it? Oh, it’s a lovely drop of cocoa that. That’s Berent’s. That’s the best. Good old Berent’s cocoa. Always there. Original or New Berent’s, specially prepared
for the mature citizens in your life, with nature’s added store
of powerful barbiturates and heroin. The shorter one’s got a different accent, but they both smell of Noel Edmonds to me. …in line with inflation. The rate of tax on beer will be increased by two pence in the pint, cigarettes by four pence in the pint,
which is in advance to the rate of inflation, in line with the government’s current thinking
on smoking and health. Petrol and diesel and Derv fuels will be
increased by three pence in the litre. Aye, and what of the people? I’m sorry? You bleed the people
so that you may stuff your own fat pockets. Erm, yes. The vehicle licence tax will be increased from £100, its present rate, to £120… Yes, so that your own bathroom may be lined
with venison and fine delicacies. Erm… Captured in foreign wars
fought by the poor people. Be quiet. I’ll not be quiet! The poor of England have been quiet too long. While I have breath in my body
and blood in my veins, I’ll fight for the poor people of England. Bold words indeed. Aye, bold, but true. And what is your name, sir,
that you must shroud yourself under a lightweight travelling hat? My name, sir, and I bid you mark it well, is Tony of Plymouth. -Tony of Plymouth.
-None other. By God, then, Tony of Plymouth, this time you have stumbled
into the lion’s den. Guards, seize him! I fear, sir, that the guards will
never save you from the people. Why, you mangy swine! Cur, dog, mongrel, fish! I’ll see you swing
from the nearest gibbet for this. -Is that so?
-Aye, that is so. Then have a care, sir, that the rope does not
fasten itself around your own soft throat. You’re no match for a real swordsman. On the contrary, sir, the blade of a tyrant
is dull and fat, like its owner. Dull and fat, am I? We shall see. Stand and fight, coward. As you wish, dull, fat tyrant. So, the worm has claws. -Aye, and more.
-More? This worm will not be means-tested by a bully. Means-tested? Is that… Guards! I wouldn’t suck it. Do you return the greeting? Farewell, Chancellor, I am leaving now,
but the people will return to take my place. Alternatively, of course,
you could just write to your MP.