Hello, John. Feeling better today?
Piss off, Doc. I'm making my models.
(SLURPING)
And get me some fudge. I'm starving.
Don't be like that, John.
Oh, what an exciting model.
Oh, dear me!
- What is it? - It's the cocking Tower of London, you freak.
What do you think it is?
(SLURPING)
Who's the one with the degree in this relationship?
Oh. Well, well.
Look what you've done now.
Don't give me bloody beetroot, then.
Oh, you must eat beetroot. You see, it will bring your lumps down.
Cut the bullshit, Doc.
(SLURPING)
When am I allowed to leave this pox bucket of a hospice?
- When you're better. - Well, when's that?
There's something I need to tell you, John.
(DOCTOR SIGHS)
- You will never be better. You are incurable. - Incurable?
(BLOWING A RASPBERRY)
Look at me. I'm perfect.
I mean, apart from the fact that my left side doesn't work,
my head is bigger than Cyprus,
and I can't lie down because my skull bone is too bulbous for my brain,
I'm a picture of health.
You'll never leave here, John.
I'm sorry.
Anyway, I'm meeting up with Dr Christ this afternoon,
and then we're going to the theatre.
Whoopee-fucking-doo!
Well, I wondered if you'd consider joining us.
No!
Now kiss my bumpy arse and bugger off. You're invading my space.
You know, you must change this attitude of yours, John.
There's more to life than matchstick models and bad moods
and fudge.
Your life will be even more intolerable if you persist in being evil.
Oh, well.
Yes... I suppose I should...
- I suppose I'll leave you in peace, then. - About cocking time.
(SLURPING)
John.
I love you, John.
Oh, no. Not again.
(JOHN YELLING)
(YELLS)
(GRUNTING)
Oh, bollocks.
Yes! Yes.
Thank you so much for looking after my wife, Ivor.
It's a privilege to know that my wife is being cared for
by Trebanos' second-best funeral directors.
- Oh, you've heard about that, have you? - Oh, yes.
I read in the gazette that you were on the Mayor's honours list.
Well, naturally we are delighted.
In fact, the Mayor is visiting the parlour tomorrow
to reveal our special plaque behind those curtains.
We've got a little press conference.
You ought to come along, being as you are one of our best customers.
How many members of your family have we buried this year now?
- Twelve. - Excellent.
- Well, I'll pop back tomorrow, then. - Right.
- Oh, and take good care of Maggie now. - Oh, yes.
- Good night. - Yes, good night.
(GROANING)
- Help! Help me, Dad. - Gwynne!
What have I told you about that Velcro suit?
(IVOR GRUNTING)
Keep it away from fabrics.
Now, you were supposed to be on rotation duty, right?
So get in there and start turning.
(VELCRO SCRATCHING)
Oh! That boy is wearing me out.
Ooh. Eh, that's good, Arwell.
(SCREAMING)
IVOR: Oh, not another one. PERCY: Oh, God. What's happened?
IVOR: Power cut.
PLIMSOLLS: I'm telling you. It's going to happen tonight. He's going to return.
No, no, don't listen to the Cardinal.
He wears nappies and his brain has turned to sausage.
Listen to me. I am the leader.
(SIGHING)
That was a good rehearsal. Now for the real thing.
Oh, hello. Is that the Pope?
Yeah, Father Plimsolls. The world is going to end. The beast is going to rise.
I have foreseen it.
You want me to what off?
Oh, well, okay, Your Holiness.
Sorry to have troubled you.
(SIGHING)
Oh, Pancake.
Why will no one believe me, hmm?
(HOOTS)
You're right.
I am the only one that can save him now.
I must begin the voyage, and the end of the world could be nigh
unless I pull my finger out and follow the storm.
For wherever the storm falls, the beast will rise and begin his reign of tyranny.
(SNIFFING)
Have you farted?
You dirty owl.
(EXCLAIMING IN DISGUST)
(MARBLES CLATTERING)
Your turn.
Bollocks! This game's rubbish.
You've said that about every game we've played so far tonight.
What's the bloody point? You pull a stick out and the bloody marbles drop.
There are no tactics.
It's not a game that invokes your brain, is it?
I want a game of strategy, of intelligence, skill, class.
A game for a king.
- Buckaroo? - Bonanza! Great idea.
No, no, that's a boring game. I got a better one.
I got this at a car-boot sale on Sunday.
It's called Ouija.
Ooh. Sounds fun and foreign. What are the rules?
Well, there aren't any. But the first person who contacts John Denver
wins a Terry's Chocolate Orange.
- But John Denver's dead. - I know.
But this game lets you contact people who've passed to the other side.
Are you sure about this?
I've heard bad things about them Ouija boards.
I knew someone who did one and got stuck with the spirit of Dustin Gee in his toilet.
Imagine that man doing his stinky impressions every time you passed a motion.
No! That's all tosh and bunkum.
Come on. Don't be a tweenie, man. Play the game.
All right. I'll play. But I will not be held responsible for what happens.
- Yeah. Whatever. - Where's the dice?
- You don't need one for this game. - Oh, I like dice.
Ooh.
- Okay, everyone? - Yeah.
- Link hands. - Right. Link hands.
Now, concentrate.
Let's play Ouija.
Now for the storm.
PERCY: Iechyd da, O spiritual ones.
IVOR: Is there anybody there?
Nah, I told you. It was a lot of tripe.
- Holy haddock, it's moving. - I don't like it. Can we stop?
IVOR: Oh, it's doing it again! PERCY: It's trying to say something to us.
What do you want?
(ALL SOUNDING THE LETTER F)
(ALL SOUNDING THE LETTER U)
(ALL SOUNDING THE LETTER D)
(ALL SOUNDING THE LETTER G)
(ALL SOUNDING THE LETTER E)
Fudge?
Do you want some fudge?
We haven't got any fudge!
We don't like fudge in this house.
(CLATTERING)
(ALL SCREAMING)
(MEOWING)
(ALL LAUGHING)
Oh, thank Zardoz for that. It's only the cat, man.
But we haven't got a cat.
(THUNDER CRACKING)
(GLASS SHATTERING)
Oh! Puff the Magic Dragon, Gwynne. What have I told you about that Velcro suit?
Sweet baby Dylan Douglas Jones.
Right. That's it. I've had enough. Game over. I am not playing anymore.
- But what about John Denver? - Bollocks to John Denver!
He can piss right off in his jet plane. I am going to bed.
Actually, can I sleep in your bedroom tonight?
My room's got mirrors.
(STAR SPANGLED BANNER PLAYING ON TV)
Oh, wow!
Are you Farmer Christmas?
Oh, you're very pretty.
Okay. But not on the lips.
CHILD: They're here.
(PHONE RINGING)
Iechyd da.
Thomas, Thomas, Thomas & Thomas funeral directors here.
How may I bury you?
(STATIC CRACKLING)
Hello?
Hello!
(LOUD TRUMPETING)
Who is this?
(DIAL TONE BUZZING)
What in the name of the Academy Award-winning Francis Ford Coppola?
(EXCLAIMS)
Boys! Boys!
- What have you done? - Me? I haven't done anything.
I came down to answer a phone call. I turned round and I saw all of this.
Who was on the phone?
No one. I just heard a horrible noise.
- What kind of noise? - Oh, I... Like an angry elephant.
- African or Indian? - I don't know, I didn't see its ears!
It's that bloody Ouija board of yours. We shouldn't have farked about with it.
What?
(GASPS)
- That shouldn't be happening, should it? - No.
- Go and check on Mrs Wilmot Brown. - Okay.
- Like a lion, boy. Like a lion. - Okay, okay.
(BOTH SCREAMING)
(GHOSTLY SCREAMING)
(EXCLAIMING)
Oh, dear. It appears as if the chapel of rest has become a portal vortex to hell.
Is that bad?
Well, the council might have something to say about it.
Oh, what's going on, Percy?
I think we have a poltergoost.
- A what? - A poltergoost.
It's kind of a naughty ghost, like a cross between Casper and Frank Bough.
That would explain the furniture displacement, the high level of paranormal activity.
Oh, the floating chair.
And the fact that Gwynne has been sucked into the television.
- What! - Hello, Da.
Hello, boy.
I'm in the vorpel schnorbitz to hell.
- Yeah, so is Mrs Wilmot Brown. - Oh.
Oh, what am I gonna do? The Mayor's coming round in two hours.
He can't see the parlour like this.
Look, we've got to tidy it up and get rid of that poltergoost quick.
- Oh, look! - What?
(IVOR EXCLAIMS)
Oh, is that not Wilmot Brown? What am I going to say to him?
I can't tell him that I've just sent his wife to the depths of hell, now can I?
(DOOR OPENING)
- Quick! Shut the door. Shut up the shop! - Right, right.
(GRUNTING)
Hello, Ivor. I just thought I'd pop round to see my wife.
It's all right. I'll deal with it. Go wake Arwell. Tell him to start tidying up.
Right.
- Oh. Who are the grapes for? - My wife.
- Is she better today? - No. No. She's still dead.
Fair enough. Only the doctor said not to give up hope, you see.
I think you can say goodbye to hope now, Mr Brown.
She won't be coming back.
(RATTLING)
- Oh, don't go in there. - Why not?
Oh, you don't want to go in there. It's hell.
- Cup of tea? - What was that?
Pot plant.
- Fondant Fancy? - Ooh!
Come on.
Jeeves and Wooster!
(SCREAMING)
Actually, Ivor, if I could just see my wife...
Oh, look. I just made a flan with fresh fruit. It's very nice. Do you want some?
Well, I've got to be back in the abattoir by half past.
I've got six cows to gut.
- What... - What are you doing to me?
(GHOSTLY LAUGHTER)
That's not very funny.
- That does it. In at once. - No, no. No, no, no.
- This is my parlour. You can't go in there, see. - But she's my property.
- That's it. I want her back. - No, you can't open that. No, you can't.
- I'm taking her somewhere else. - You can't take her somewhere else.
What'd you do that for?
Well, how else were you going to stop him from going in there?
Yeah. Good point.
(ARWELL MOANING)
Where's Arwell? And what's that bloody noise?
Better come and have a look for yourself. It's not very good.
What in the name of Sir Lenny Henry?
Make it stop. Make it stop. It throbs, it throbs.
(ARWELL SCREAMING)
(IN OTHERWORLDLY VOICE) Cock off! The hour is mine.
Arwell? Are you all right, boy?
I am not an Arwell. I am a human being!
My name is...
(SLURPING)
John Merrick.
Chomp on that! Chomp, you booty git!
Chomp, chomp, chomp.
I don't believe this.
The bloody Mayor's coming round in half an hour,
and the parlour's haunted and surrounded by the power of darkness.
Gwynne is in the television. The chapel of rest is a portal to hell.
Arwell is upstairs obsessed by the bloody Elephant Man.
And you have decked our best client.
(GROWLS IN FRUSTRATION)
What in the name of the award-winning sports commentator Dickie Davies am I going to do?
Have no fear, gentlemen. I'm here to protect thee.
- Who are you? - I am Father Plimsolls, ex-priest.
And this is Pancake, the wise owl.
I'm here to clean your house.
Oh, brilliant!
Well, look, you can start with the office. It's a right mess.
It looks like Pearl Harbor in there.
Of spirits.
Oh, I see.
So get me a large Scotch. I'm parched.
So...
Who are you and how did you know about this?
I know everything, Mr Thomas.
- Really? - Mmm.
I'll prove it. Pick a band. Any band.
Then Jerico.
UK male vocal instrumental group.
Right. Test me on the singles. Any order.
Let Her Fall.
Number 65. Five weeks. January 31st, 1987.
Good. Muscle Deep?
Number 48. Four weeks. October 24th, 1987.
Hey, well done.
Big Area.
Number 13. Seven weeks. January 28th, 1989.
Kiss my arse, PaulGambaccini.
So, you do know everything.
So what exactly is going on here?
Well, John Merrick won't let it lie, you see.
He's returned for his vengeance and his fair share of fudge.
I'm the only one that can stop him.
Well, listen, can you do it quickly? 'Cause, I mean, the Mayor is coming round any second,
and this is not going to look good for business.
IVOR: What is this stuff?
- Ectoplasm. - IVOR: Huh?
Actually, I think you'll find it's not ectoplasm.
What do you mean?
(EXCLAIMING IN DISGUST)
Oh, I feel so cheap.
Come on, Ivor. Let's do battle.
- Right. Come on. - No, no, no, no.
- What? What? - Keep well behind me.
What we're dealing with here isn't human. It's evil.
And no matter what he says, don't listen to him. He is an animal, and he's a liar.
He'll try to find out your weakness.
Right, well, I'll keep my knees out of his sight, then.
Iechyd da.
(SCREAMING)
Oh, my giddy Indian aunty. Father, come here!
Fools!
And get me some bloody fudge.
Sorry about that. I get a bit queasy. It always happens when I do an exorcism.
You see, the stomach just won't take disfigurement.
See, that's why I got sacked from the church. I'm not a very good priest.
I'd like to say it because I was a nomad or a maverick or a lethal weapon.
But I'm not. I'm just a chump.
Come on, man. We are dependent upon you. You are our only chance.
(EXCLAIMING IN DISGUST)
Percy!
Oh, titty Patch Adams, it's the Mayor.
Quick, up you get. Come on, Father, get upstairs. Do your stuff.
Stop being a fanny.
Percy, turn Gwynne off the telly. Get rid of Wilmot Brown.
- Where's my wife? - Oh, shut up. You want to see your wife?
You want to see your wife? Get in there and see your wife.
(BROWN SCREAMING)
(INSTRUMENTAL FANFARE)
Welcome, Mr Mayor.
Hello, Ivor. It's almost a pleasure to be here.
I was going to bring my wife and our two little otters, Simeon and Bod,
but, unfortunately, Bod has got the gout,
and his toes are swelled up like Christmas, poor little sod.
Oh, look, an owl.
What's this, then?
(STUTTERING) Oh, it's just embalming fluid.
Really? It smells like spunk to me.
Right. Come on, then. I haven't got much time.
Lots of business to attend to. I've got three Happy Eaters to shut down,
and a copy of Tarka the Otter to get back to Blockbuster by sundown.
How dare you?
- What? - You pinched my rump.
No, I didn't. It must have been the...
(CLEARING THROAT)
Oh, it was me. Sorry.
Right. Don't do it again and make me a cup of tea.
You clumsy oaf.
So, have you been busy, Mr Nazareth?
No time to chat, Ivor. I don't really wanna be here.
Right. Let's get these curtains open, take a few snaps and get on with it.
Where's the lav? Only I'm bursting for a double-decker.
- It's just down there, under the stairs. - Thank you.
(GROANING)
- Do you think he noticed anything? - No.
Okay. Right. You stay here, I'll go upstairs, check on the priest.
Yeah.
This is holy jungle juice from the Congo.
Release Arwell and return to your own world, or I will destroy you.
Go ahead and try it,
you God-bothering, Songs of Praise singing,
Simon Mayo-molesting heart-farter.
(BLOWING A RASPBERRY)
Rubbish!
- How's it going? - Not very well.
The Elephant Man is still very strong inside him. He's trying to intimidate me.
Oh. Right.
- Your mother sucks lollipops in Hull. - Yes, so I believe.
She was a bit of a bike, my old mum.
Your mother was a sausage-picking beef riddance.
Yes, that too.
And she used to...
(SLURPING)
...wrap herself in gammon, right,
stuff her parts with Paxo,
and go on long walks with tramps.
(LAUGHING) I know. The porky tart.
You're a show-off.
- What did you call me? - A show-off.
I am not a show-off.
Yes, you are. You're a show-off. A big, fat show-off.
I am not a show-off!
Show-off!
I give that 10.
Bye-bye, Benny.
(GHOSTLY MOANING)
- Calm down, calm down. - I am not a show-off!
Am I, Pancake?
(HOOTS)
Oh, shut up, you moon-faced tart. You're as bad as the rest of them.
(GROANING IN DISGUST)
Have you let another one go, hmm?
(MAYOR SCREAMING)
What's that?
Dank! You weren't supposed to find him.
Oh, that's it.
We're finished, Percy. Pack your bags. We're closing down.
Hold on, hold on.
No one's closing anything. This lumpy fellow is fantastic.
- Where'd you get him? - Well, he's my son. He's become obsessed.
He's a freak. I've always wanted a freak show.
It has been my dream.
- You what? - Think of it.
People will come from miles around to see him.
We could make a fortune.
- But he's evil. He's possessed. - Even better.
This would make the Jaws ride at Universal look like Shrek in comparison.
Whatever happens, don't exorcise him.
We are going to be rich.
Welcome to the Undertakers from Hell...
(LAUGHING)
...full of amazing attractions, like the portal vortex to hell.
(YELLING)
See the amazing Gwynne who has passed to the other side.
(EXCLAIMING)
And, for your friends and family and the kiddiwinkers,
look at the wonderful merchandise on sale.
37.99.
How about that, then?
- This is a bit much, isn't it? - No, no, it's perfect.
Just three minutes to opening. Have a look at the new plaque.
S4C will be here in a second, and then we will reveal"Arwell the Elephant Man"
live on TV to tens of viewers.
I just hope nothing goes wrong.
- Iechyd da. - Iechyd da.
Arwell? What happened?
What do you mean?
What have you done? I told you to keep him possessed.
There was nothing I could do. Honest.
It turns out he wasn't possessed after all.
- What? - Who's possessed? What's going on?
I went blank.
The last thing I remember was eating that Walnut Whip last night.
Oh, Arwell, how many times have I told you? You mustn't eat nuts. You're allergic to them.
The doctor said that if you ate them, you'd go mentaland you'd come out in...
- BOTH: Lumps. - I know.
Good job I didn't eat the whole thing. I probably would have died.
Please tell me this isn't happening.
I've just sold my entire collection of dialysis machines to fund this project.
Yeah, but... Hold on now.
What about the floating mugs, the disappearing animals,
the portal to hell, Gwynne in the television?
Oh...
Pick a band. Any band.
You are not getting off with it that easily. Come on.
AIII can say is that the house is an entity.
And like Arwell, the whole house is allergic to nuts.
The Elephant Man thing is just like a figment of Arwell's...
fevered and deluded...
(SPEAKING GIBBERISH)
Look, the portal vortex to hell. It's disappearing.
- MAYOR: And we're about to open. - What are we gonna do?
- Get him more nuts. - No!
- Come on! Open this bleeding door! - Come on!
I've been here half an hour!
(LAUGHING)
(GRUNTS)
Oh, bollocks!
(SLURPING)
- At least everything is back to normal now. - Yeah.
Hey, what about me? I'm still stuck in the telly.
IVOR: (LAUGHING) He's right.
- So come on, what's on? - Oh.
All right. Who Wants to Be a Gywnnionaire,
followed by Only Gywnnes and Horses,
The Gwynne O'Clock News,
Gywnne 2001 with Jonathan Ross,
and the late film, Wilt.
Well, at least that hasn't got him in it.