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.
50p?
Oh.
Five? 5p, Filthy.
Really, daughter, you do tire me with your heartless scrounging.
Got a fag, 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 bugger.
- What? - Put it there!
Put your pint-pot holder there, you old bugger.
Oh, all right, then, you old... git!
So, how are you, you old bastard?
Oh, pretty good, pretty good, you old...
foreskin!
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 rectum-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 bugger 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 fag out.
Ow.
I hate doing that, going to sleep with a fag 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 bastards!
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 tit 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 bastard.
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 très 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 prostitute!
You look like a million dollars in used notes.
Just joshing. Let's do business, you old bugger, 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! Touché. 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 shag?
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.
Bastards!
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 murder 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 prostitute 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 sexual 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 murder
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? Queer?
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 sexual politics
or you'll get a murder 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 herpes 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 bastard. "
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 bastard. "
Such a josher!
"Dear Richie, you are old enough to know I never knew your father
"who was just a one-off bang 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 - Piss 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.