I'm nervous.
I don't think I'm ready for the open air.
It's been nearly 33 years.
Well, there's no time like the present, now, is there, love?
And don't worry, you'll be fine. That's what the bubble is for.
With the bubble, you can lead a normal life without ever having to worry about...
- melting. - I know.
BEVAN: I love you.
- I hope I get the job. - You'll be fine, love.
Findus are crying out for people like you to make their Crispy Pancakes.
- See you later then. - Okay.
No!
(SCREAMING)
Three metres.
Well done, Barry. Paralympics, here we come.
(CHUCKLES) Shot.
- What's that dank smell? - Gwynne.
No, the other one.
- Smells of dried peas and sandpits. - Oh, that's my toes.
I'm starting to take more care of them.
They always come last, my poor little tootsies.
I mean, how often do you wash and pamper yours?
- Never. - Exactly.
But I bet you pamper other parts of your body frequently, huh?
Huh? Huh? Huh? I know I do.
See, we neglect our toes.
We treat them like delinquents or outcasts or moths.
Yet, without them we wouldn't be able to tap-dance or tip-toe.
- Imagine that now. - Oh, I don't want to.
(SIGHING)
A world without toes scarcely bares thinking about.
On other matters,
we got a serious problem.
I've been looking at our accounts.
Not now, Arwell, I've just eaten.
Listen, Da, we can't sweep it under the lino any longer.
We're going down, Da. Deep, deep down, like East 17.
ARWELL: We haven't buried anyone for nine weeks.
We got no money.
- Who's taking all our business? - I don't know.
But everyday, I keep praying to the Dark One for a tragedy in the valleys
so we can work again. But so far, nothing.
I blame the advance in medicine myself. It's crippled the funeral game.
GWYNNE: Coo-ee! I'm back.
Da-daa!
Oh, Gwynne, that's it! You are not to go down the SPAR again.
That's the 40th beanbag you've bought this week.
Now take it outside. Don't buy any more.
I won't pay you wages if you waste your money like that.
Bloody SPAR. Bloody beanbags.
Wheee!
ARWELL: Will you listen, Da?
I've been thinking long and hard of a way of increasing business
and I think I've found a solution.
It's the future of undertaking. It's called...
Cryogenesis.
- Cryo what? - Genesis.
No, no, no. The word's too complicated, Arwell. Won't catch on.
Try harder next time.
Oh, whilst you're trying, make me a nice cup of Kenco,
that's a good boy bach.
No one wants to listen to me.
I've been thinking long and hard and I got a rock-on idea how to increase business.
Great! What is it?
- Hold on! - Hush, Arwell, he's got a rock-on idea.
This is our saviour. Get down on your weak knees and praise it.
What in the name of Hank B Marvin is that?
It's a CB.
With this, I can listen to secret 999 sound waves, find out who has just died and where.
That way we can get to the scene before anyone else
and get to keep the corpses all to ourselves.
Hey, Percy! You are the mighty lion's bollocks.
I know. Right, let's have a listen.
(STATIC)
WOMAN ON CB: Charlie, Charlie, Foxtrot, Charlie, we've got an emergency. 56 Benny Road.
A woman has melted. No need to rush. She's dead already. Over.
(LAUGHS) We got one. Come on, let's go.
What about my idea? I haven't explained mine, yet.
Sorry, Arwell. Percy's onto something. Come on, man.
(SOUND OF RADIO TUNING)
(TYRES SCREECHING)
(WESTERN MUSIC PLAYING)
Who are you?
Who am I? No, no, no.
Who in the name of the Academy Award-winning Keith Harris and Orville, are you?
We are the Roosters.
I am Phillip and this is my downgraded son, E'ward.
Travelling funeral directors at your service.
We travel the land in our mobile funeral unit and collect bodies.
We are the fastest funeral directors in Christendom. Aren't we, Pops?
- Yes. - This is Wales.
This is our jurisdiction, thank you very much.
So cluck off back to England, you limey fowl. That body is ours.
No, I don't think so, sir.
The deal has already been secured.
Bevan, how could you? We've buried all your ex-wives.
I'm sorry, Ivor.
They just got here so quickly.
I had no choice.
How'd you get here so fast?
Ah, meet the Rover Vitesse,
the car of a champion.
This baby can do nought to 60 in 43 seconds.
It is the badger's bollocks.
The chicks will cream.
So if you want to do more business, you'd better get a better car.
Instead of farting around in that shit tip.
It's not a shit tip. It's a Panda.
A Fiat Panda.
We'd better be going, Pops. You've got a booty call.
Oh, yes. Almost forgot.
Better go back to the unit and get a man-wash.
Come on, boy.
So long, gentlemen.
(SNARLING)
They dissed the Panda. Nobody disses a Panda.
Boy bachs. Let's go home.
We need an emergency meeting.
IVOR: Yes, thank you, Mr Nazareth.
Yes, thank you very much. Goodbye.
Well, I've just spoken to the mayor.
He says there's nothing he can do about the Roosters.
They are perfectly entitled to travel the country and bury people as they go.
He says they're like pikeys.
Apparently, they've been banned from England and Scotland
for stealing business and have just found Wales
where they intend to make a killing.
How long are they going to stay?
Well, who knows. I mean, the cluckers could pitch up forever.
So, not only do we have no money,
now the Roosters plan to steal all our potential bodies?
So, where are they now?
The mayor says that they've parked up outside the Old House Hospice,
you know, the place for the terminally old.
And they're just waiting for people to die so that they can be there first!
- Oh, that's terrible. - It's a bloody good idea, though.
Yeah, I know, top marks for innovation. Nevertheless, we can't let this continue.
We have to put our heads together and come up with a solution.
Don't worry, Gwynne. You're excused.
Go outside and romp in the beanbags, there's a good boy.
Yes.
We could get a faster car.
IVOR: And how are we gonna pay for it?
I mean, we can hardly trade in Celia Craddox for a new car now, can we?
Aye, the moths have been at her face again.
How about a sale? Two funerals for the price of one.
No, we can't afford to give away a free funeral, man.
Besides, people don't die in pairs any more.
I've got it.
We are going to drive the Roosters out of town.
We're gonna set them up to do something so awful,
so offensive, so shameful,
that they can never show their giblets around Wales again.
And how are we gonna do that?
All we need is a woman.
Oh, yeah.
Oh, yeah, yeah! But we don't know any women.
Or someone who looks like a woman.
No!
PERCY: Okay, so you know what to do.
ARWELL: Yes, and I wish I'd never agreed to do this.
They'll never fall for it.
Brave heart, Arwell, man. Trust in Percy's plan. It's a good one.
ARWELL: Yeah, right.
Come on, then. No time like the present. Let's get going.
IVOR: Go on, Arwell. Like a lion...
...ess.
(PERCY SMIRKING)
Why are we here, Dada?
Oh, close your mouth while you're eating, you filthy mutt.
- Otherwise, I shall get the pins. - No!
Oh, look at your gob, it's covered in oil. Come here.
Yes, we are waiting here until one of the batties in there snuffs the bucket.
How long will that be?
- My legs are turning to beans. - I don't know.
They are old and frail like a tortoise's beard.
Could be any minute.
- Can I go out and stretch my legs? - No, I told you. Stay in the car.
- You can stretch them here. - There's no room.
Oh, you've got little legs. What are you talking about?
Come here, you bleeder.
(SCREAMING)
Oh, stop the press, E'ward. What have we here?
It's a pretty.
Hi-de-hi, campers.
- Would you like me to dance for you? - Oh, yes.
Thank you.
WOMAN ON TAPE: Hi-de-hi!
PEOPLE ON TAPE: Ho-de-ho!
(HOLIDAY ROCK PLAYING)
Rub.
I like it when you rub.
Go, Arwell. Go, go.
You having naughty thoughts, campers?
Yes.
I think I need a sponge.
It's working! It's bloody working! The cocks are loving it.
Do you want to see a big chimney?
- Oh, yes. - Hop in then, I'll show you.
Bonanza! They've taken the bait! Yes!
IVOR: Let's just hope the Roosters don't see his winkus and satchel pack,
that could really cluck up the plan.
PERCY: Bloody hell. Look at the state of that.
Christ! It looks like The Cocoon reunion.
Come on everyone, gather around.
- Where are we going, Mr Wizards? - Well, as it's your 110th birthdays today,
I thought I'd take you all on a lovely day out, seeing as it may be your last.
Ooh!
- Where are we going, then? - We're going to Mumbles for the day.
Then it's off to the Pavilion to see your favourite comedian, Chris Rock.
Fuckin' A! I love Chris Rock.
- I got an idea. - What?
Go back to the funeral parlour, blow up some balloons, get out the dips,
find a Russ Abbot album. We are gonna have a party.
Huh?
Forgotten the tickets. Wait here, I'll be two minutes.
(SLAPPING)
PERCY: Okay, are you ready to have some fun?
No! Not my babies!
He's taken my babies!
Take a look at that.
Oh, yes. That is a big one.
(GROANING)
What's that stuff coming out of the end?
Oh, toxins.
I love looking at pictures of chimneys pumping filth into the sky.
- Hey, baby. You like toxins? - Oh, I love them.
(GROANING)
So, how long are you going to stay here, then?
Now I've met you...
forever.
(GRUNTING)
(ATMOSPHERE BY RUSS ABBOT ON RECORD PLAYER)
So what's the plan?
I haven't got a bloody clue. Percy's got all the answers.
Gwynne.
- Why are you laughing? - Those balloons look like boobies.
Oh, yeah, they do. Don't they?
- Where did you get those balloons? - They're Percy's.
Hold on a minute.
What in the name of Floella Benjamin?
Come on, then. Help yourselves to nibbles.
- Percy, what have you done? - I've stolen the old people.
Come on, here we come.
I can see that. But why?
Look, they're all knocking on heaven's door and not expected to make it through the night.
So I thought they might as well spend it here and die
then we can bury them.
That way business is, quite literally, on our doorstep.
Hey, that's a macabre idea, Percy.
But I bloody love it. Oh, bonanza! Genius!
This could turn out to be the undertaker scam of the "menellium".
All we have to do is wait for nature to take its course.
Right, ladies and gentlemen.
Who fancies a Scotch?
Percy, you can't give them a Scotch in their state, man. It could be...
Ah, yes!
Gwynne, get the malt kerosene. There's a good boy bach.
Can I have some more flat pop, Dada?
Gladys, shut him up and give him some pop.
PHILLIP: God!
You know, I'm really looking forward to making out with you.
(GROWLING)
E'ward, what do you say?
Thank you, Miss Pugh.
Go on, Gladys.
Show us your naughties.
I told you. I'm not that sort of girl, campers.
Oh, please. Don't tease me, Gladys, without giving me the treatment.
Ooh. What lovely soft, beautiful hands you have,
and lovely hard knuckles.
I like a girl with knuckles.
Well, come on.
Let me fill you with some of my toxins, mistress.
- Oh, still breathing. - Damn.
Never mind, now's a good time for this.
Now, remember, Gwynne, when you're ordering the coffins,
they're in wheelchairs so just double the length.
Okay, are you ready for this? Here we go.
- Twelve. Fourteen and a half. - Oh, this could take all night.
We haven't got time to waste.
We have to think of something to speed things up. You know, help them along a bit.
We could lay on a few danger snacks,
pork itchings, faggots, bones, other food they could choke on.
PERCY: No, not efficient enough.
I think we should play on the weakness of their hearts.
You know, give them a little shock. That will finish them off. Now!
(BALLOONS POPPING)
(IVOR YELLING)
IVOR: What are you doing? Stop that.
Didn't work.
Damn it.
I've got an idea.
(RECORD STOPS ABRUPTLY)
(FUNKY MUSIC PLAYING)
Forward. Forward, man.
Faster, Gwynne, and forward.
And back. Come on, forward.
Put them in the air, come on. Forward.
There you are, Colonel. Sit down. There we go.
All right.
- When are we gonna see Chris Rock? I'm bored. - Yes.
I wanna go back now. This isn't fun any more.
You are not going anywhere.
(MAN MOANING)
Here we go again.
Poor old Derek's having one of his contractions.
He needs his medication. We all need our medication.
IVOR: Medication?
We haven't got your medication.
What? No medication?
Medication.
ALL CHANTING: Medication.
IVOR: Oh, what are we gonna do?
I can't stand this bloody din!
Gwynne, go and get a bottle and make some medicine, quick.
- What with? - Everything, just go.
(PERCY SHUSHING)
IVOR: Shut up!
ALL CHANTING: Medication.
IVOR: Every bloody sham you get up to, I always end up looking a bloody twit.
Always, always!
(GWYNNE SHOUTING)
Ha! Here's Gwynne with your medication.
Come on, man, lap that up, come on. It'll do you the world of good.
IVOR: Come on. Yeah, go on, lap it up.
- There you go. - Go on, lap it up, mate.
The things I do for this business.
Oh, hello, ducky.
Psst! In here.
Who are they?
Clients. We're waiting for them to croak.
Arwell, how did it go?
- Fine. I did exactly what you told me to do. - Great.
That means the Roosters will be waking up right about now.
What do you mean... What do you mean you're waiting for them to croak?
That has got to have been the best Sister Act night ever.
Fancy Whoopi recording that special introduction for us.
MAN: Right.
Seems we've got some anti-Whoopis in town, boys.
What's going on?
Get off my machine of a dream.
E'ward,
- you've gone all Whoopi. - So have you.
You're not welcome here.
You offend the spirit of Whoopi.
- Dada, I'm scared. - Pelt them.
Let's get the hell out of here.
ALL: Whoopi, Whoopi, Whoopi. Whoopi, Whoopi, Whoopi...
ARWELL: What? I can't believe this.
I leave the funeral parlour for 10 hours
and you try to poison some very old people on their birthday?
How could you?
It was his idea.
Right.
I will get changed. Then I'm taking the bus and the very old people
back to the old house where they belong.
No, you can't. Come on, give me five more minutes.
They're gonna go any second.
- I don't know about you but I'm feeling wonderful. - Me too.
I haven't felt this good for years.
It must've been that medication they gave us. It's a miracle.
I can feel all the old memories come flooding back.
I can't believe my re-vitalised eyes.
Look, look at Maggie.
She hasn't opened her eyes in two years.
I stood up without help.
I haven't stood without help for eight years.
Bloody hell, I'll go deaf if I keep these on.
I can hear.
I can hear. I don't believe it.
What's happened to us? I feel on top of the world.
I haven't felt this good for years.
Me too.
I suppose we've got no choice, have we?
They're still alive.
Oh, take them home.
No, no, no, no. Drastic times call for drastic measures.
- Lethal injection time. - Wait.
- No, you can't. - Just you watch.
(BAD BY MICHAEL JACKSON PLAYING)
What in the name of the Academy Award-winning Sissy Spacek?
IVOR: No!
You were supposed to be dying!
ARWELL: They're getting better.
Da, they're getting better! It's a miracle!
It's a pain in the arse. Get old, be old.
Old? What does that mean? I'm king of the world.
- Hey, Ma, this song is going to punish you. - What?
I feel as randy as youth.
I want man. Give me man.
Oh, you're a handsome chap. Give me a kiss.
We've had a great time. I don't know what you gave us today,
but I feel like I could live forever.
- Thank you, Ivor. - Yeah.
And I can hear again. You're miracle workers.
We're the best.
Come on, folks. Let's show those old farts at the Hospice who's boss.
Great idea.
No, no, you can't... No, no you can't...
No. No, listen, you've got to stay.
No, you can't. You can't go.
BOTH: Oh, bollocks.
(THUDDING)
- There's still some hope. Come on. - IVOR: Come on. Quick, quick, quick.
- Is it good? - Good? It's brilliant. We've got them all.
IVOR: Oh, yeah!
Ah, not so fast.
These corpses are ours.
The road doesn't belong to you.
- No. You clucking bastard. - No.
But the car does and they died on our car.
- That can't be right. - Thank you, E'ward.
I have here a scroll dating back to olden times.
Written byJPs and our great-great-great-grandfather, Mr S Boardman.
It says by here, "Any persons or persons
"killed on our land..."
and I think you'll agree, my machine of a dream is wide enough
to be considered land, is it not?
"must be buried by us."
Nobsticles. He's right too, Perce.
Come along, Whoopi. Let's get back to England and bury these nuts.
- Yes, Dada. - Gentlemen.
IVOR: Well, some you win, some you lose.
At least we got rid of the Roosters.
Hold on.
You don't understand what just happened.
Yes, I do. I've just lost five funerals.
Yes, but the money you'd make from five funerals
is nothing compared with what we could make with the cure from all known diseases.
- You what? - Gwynne's medicine. It cured them.
They came in terminally old and left break-dancing like electro-babies.
If we can just get the ingredients and sell them, we could make a fortune.
Twat boy's got a point.
Gwynne, you are the messiah.
- Get a pen. - Right.
Now then, Gwynne bach, I want you to tell Daddy
all the ingredients of the medicine, okay?
- Okay, right. There were two spoons... - Two spoons.
- No, uh, two... - Come on, now. Come on.
- Two droplets... - Droplets.
- No, no. - Come on now, Gwynne.
- One mug. One mug. - Mug.
GWYNNE: No. IVOR: Gwynne man, come on.
GWYNNE: A quart of... No.
IVOR: Gwynne, Gwynne. GWYNNE: A bottle...
IVOR: Come on, Gwynne!
IVOR: Gwynne! Oh! Gwynne, man!
(IVOR EXCLAIMING)
IVOR: Gwynne!