Subtitles by MemoryOnSmells http://UKsubtitles.ru
Then I shall throw in this mechanical French hater.
I'm a rich businessman looking for younger partners.
You'll get...
I don't see how we have become so rich so quickly. Good, isn't it?
I can be educated at boarding school!
I wish I might go to school!
'Miss Primly Tightclench is a fine governess.'
Look at the newspapers to see how awful it is for the poor poor.
It's throwing food!
'It's better your husband hear the truth from you'
than from a newspaper. I am French.
No-o-o! Get out!
No!
He suspects nothing.
It's just such a good deal!
My dearest dead wife.
I leave this in memory of you, here
where we spent the happiest days of our lives.
And, oh, what joy we had.
Until I became a rich businessman...
and you turned out to be secretly French
and hurled yourself into the Thames out of shame.
Goodbye, dearest Conceptiva.
Oi, hop it, you Pre-Raphaelite pervert!
Only half-drowned, eh?
But fully rich by the look of you.
And there's much reward for rescuing rich folks.
Oh!
Lady Swellsmore sent these in condolence.
I cannot bear colour.
Everything must match my mood.
Your supper, sir.
Coal soup, charcoal pie and,
for pudding, a really, really old banana.
Thank you, Servegood.
Oh!
Actually... What?
It's just there is a fine line
between grieving and racism.
Have I crossed it? No, no!
Perhaps if you signed the business over to me for a while?
No. I must continue with my businessy burden.
Of course.
Has Victor been informed at school?
I have sent my man Pusweasel to impart the dead mothery news.
As his name implies, he is a man of infinite kindness
and will break it gently.
Wake up! Your mother's dead! I'm sorry, what?
Your ma's gone and died, deaded herself.
But how?
Hurled herself into the Thames like an 'omesick herring.
Drowned?
Yeah, or poisoned,
impaled on an underwater spike
or eaten to death by eelsharks. Probably very painful.
Enjoy your first night with no mother, young culley.
Why am I kneeling like this?
Oh! I didn't know as you'd live.
If not, bit of rigor mortis, you'd make a lovely footstool.
I thank you for saving my life, crone.
Oh, that's nice.
But kind words don't butter parsnips.
You want money? No!
Just an appreciation.
You want money.
If I did, I'd say, or my name isn't Mrs Graspia Grumblechoop.
Which it is. So you don't want money?
No!
Though here's my invoice for saving you.
Payable now, in money.
Alas, I have no money.
Surely you have a rich husband?
Wealthy father? Generous, fat uncle?
I... I do not know.
Why, I know nothing, not even my own name!
Oh, so that's your game!
Not a fun game like Poke The Beggar or Slappy Foreign Punch Punch.
You're an invoice-evading mock amnesiac!
Not mock!
My mind is as blank as a...
As a...
No, my amnesia stretches even unto similes and metaphors.
Oh, great! Can't remember your own name,
but you can remember literary terms. What a pretty pig in a pickle!
Oh, alliteration.
I want paying!
And luckily for you, there's always ways
a girl can make money.
I have seen you about, hunched and wretched creature.
What do you want? My name is Smalcolm.
When my ma died, I was terrible sad
and I thought at such a time,
you could do with a chum?
A chum? Why, a chum is all I ever dreamed of from school!
Then chum might I be?
Chum might you be indeed, Smalcolm. How joyful this makes me!
Oh, though I have just remembered that my mother is dead.
There, there, chum.
Posture!
But my mama is dead!
That is no reason for slack spineitude. Does the Bible not say,
"Be not a bent-backed griever, but weep straightly that thy tears
"may flow unto heaven and water God's tomatoes"?
Where in the Bible does it say that?
Book of Gardeners. Chapter two, verse eight.
I wish to see my papa, that we may comfort each other!
Papa!
Silence! You must wear the posture gag.
Miss Tightclench.
I wish to see Victoria, that we may comfort each other.
Alas, she blames you for her mother's death.
Why, she said that hugging you would be akin to hugging a cold,
flinty rock which had indirectly murdered her mother.
Oh, that must be difficult to hear.
Perhaps you would like to sign the business over to me?
Now is not the time, Grimstone.
If only there were some way for me to vent this grief.
I would cry were it not illegal for a man to show emotion.
Sir, I may be able to help.
It's all right, he's with me.
Here, sir, you may vent your grief far from the eyes of the law.
Why, Servegood! Is this a weep easy?
It served me many a night when my Towser died of the mange.
Your poor dog.
Wife, sir.
Oh, I can't do it.
You have to. Now, one last practice.
In 'Ertford,
'Ereford and 'Ampshire,
'urricanes 'ardly hever 'appen.
Rich men love a posh girl who can talk Cockney.
Now, get to work!
Oh, the shame!
If in my unremembered life I had a family,
I hope they are not witness to this.
Unless I did something even more demeaning, in which case I hope
they see this and think I've come up in the world.
Might you be looking for company, sir?
What sort of company?
Why, a little...
Cockney company.
If... If I were, how much would it cost?
A shilling for a dropped aitch,
half a crown if you want the whole rhyming slang.
All right, me old China?
Look at me plates of meat.
Cor blimey, 'ave a banana!
Oh yes! Do you have any hake or haddock?
'Ave I hany 'ake or 'addock?
I should bleedin' well cocoa!
'The griefboil is lanced.'
Thank you Servegood. Thank you.
Ah! Grief burp, sir? No.
I fear I just saw a vision of my dead wife.
Yes. I had those, sir.
Poor Towser.
You wanted to see me?
Was that artillery fire?
Conceptiva achieved much poverty relief with her food cannons.
I have decided to continue the daily meal salvoes in her honour.
As you wish. Muppet!
Grimstone, does our business do good?
No, sorry. I don't understand.
Well, we've recently halved the wages of the shop workers.
Was that... good?
Yes.
They must now work longer hours,
leaving them less time for immorality
such as drinking, dancing and sleeping.
Therefore, they will reach heaven much more easily.
And sooner due to exhaustion. Why do you ask such questions?
Just curious.
And I suppose I was a bit up all night,
tormented by a vision of my dead wife.
Conceptiva! Is that you?
"Yes, it is me. Definitely not a figment of your guilty imagination."
Why would I feel guilty?
"Because you caused my death."
Ye... Right, yes.
If you are troubled,
perhaps you'd like to sign the business over to me for a bit?
No. I have been inspired by this vision. It is soon Easter.
What better Lenten sacrifice than to turn our business
into a charity to alleviate poverty?
Sorry, slipped.
In fact, I go now to investigate the lives of the poor,
the better to understand how we may aid them.
To disguise myself, I have replaced my rich clothes with these rags
whilst you, Servegood, being of the servant classes,
will blend in naturally. Truly we are chameleons, sir!
Aha, a hovel!
He looks the sort. How so?
Clearly a rich philanthropist in disguise.
The East End's full of them.
Awight, mate? Innit, yes? Geeza!
Oh, sod off, you obvious toff!
I am not a toff... innit.
Door, Servegood.
Sir!
Is anybody in here poor?
I'm poor. Excellent!
What is your name, wretch?
My name...
is Mr Jolliforth Jollington.
Jolliforth!
Come on, earn some money.
It is Easter soon, and I want an Easter feast. That man.
Dear old friend of bygone days, how did this happen?
How kind of you to ask.
Well, after debtor's prison I got myself back on my feet.
Opened a little shop, very much like yours.
You were my inspiration.
Oh, well...
We sold a range of small, tasteful objects and pants.
Called KnickKnacks and Knickers. It did well.
Until one day, one of your shops opened opposite.
28 minutes later, my own shop went bankrupt.
My fault! No, no, dear chap. Not at all.
Well, maybe a bit.
Oh, you have a mouthful of jam.
Yes, it is jam-like, isn't it?
But no, in this instance it's blood.
From the consumption I now have due to living in such awful conditions.
All thanks to you.
I am sorry. Oh, don't worry,
I've found a way of dealing with it by becoming incredibly bitter.
In fact, I might change my name from Jolliforth Jollington
to Bitterforth Bitterington. Really?
No, I won't be able to. Because I'll be too dead.
Come, old friend. Let me take you to my home, help you recover.
Too late, life ruiner!
The cold numbness of creeping death approaches!
I can't feel my hands. Or my shoulders.
Though my elbows really, really hurt.
Ow! Mind my elbows!
I am so cold!
But I can see Jesus!
And he's lit a lovely fire for me.
And put the kettle on.
What's that, Jesus?
Yes, I'm with Jedrington.
I know, he is awful.
Oh! Here I come, Jesus!
White with two sugars, please!
A biscuit might be nice.
No! He is dead!
Joy, he lives yet!
I... forgive... you.
Thank you...
Not!
Really dying now.
Ah!
Jedrington?
Ooh, cannon dinner time!
God bless the late Conceptiva Secret-Past!
Why, that is my name! I am remembering!
I remember every...
The death of his friend has pushed him close to the edge.
One final shove will give me
sole control of the business.
Then my fiendish plan can proceed.
Do you want me to kick his stomach out until he hands it over, sir?
No.
Cunning must come before stomach kicking.
And you're as cunning as an 'edgehog, sir.
You mean fox?
Hedgehog's far more cunning.
Every raided henhouse, every dead chicken.
That's hedgehogs, that is.
They pin the blame on the fox.
That's how cunning they are.
Ah! Then I shall play the hedgehog.
A vision of his dead wife
inspired this "help the poor" nonsense.
Well, I shall provide him with a vision of my very own.
But first, I think it's time for young Victor to... Heh!
Complete his studies at St Nasty's.
Right, science practical.
This is the world's first
fully automatic boy caner,
the Beating Jenny.
It can thrash 200 boys an hour at any intensity
from Avuncular Buttock Pat
all the way up to Death By Spanking.
Smalcolm, dear chum! Help me! No chums here, young man!
Nor friends, pals, buddies or homies.
Wait! He isn't tied in properly.
I... I wasn't winking if that's what you thought, sir.
It was merely a twitch, cos I'm a freak.
Good. Right, here we go.
Ha-ha-ha!
Argh!
Oops! My bad.
It's called a mattress.
It's the only one in the whole North of England.
Arrgh!
I say, what a stroke of luck!
I may yet save my family.
To London!
Right, back to sleeping on gravel then.
Jedrington.
I have good news,
and I have bad news.
Your son is missing,
presumed dead after a caning accident at St Nasty's.
Oh! To hear such news on Easter Eve.
Pray, what is the good news?
The good news is you won't have to tell your daughter the bad news,
because she has run away.
"Dear Papa,
"I can no longer live with a father responsible for Mother's death,
"not to mention one who has never given Miss Tightclench a raise.
"Bye! Victoria."
This is not her handwriting.
That is how distressed she was.
Changed her writing.
Where has she gone?
No idea...
Papa!
Oh! I hear her voice!
A guilty manifestation of her presence!
Yup, definitely that.
You'll probably want to sign the business over to me now then.
Yes.
No.
I don't know!
I need to think.
Sleep on it.
The answers to such things
often come in the night.
Bonjour. Je suis une femme. Comment allez-vous?
Eh? What's that babbling babble?
Oh, lawks! You've turned French on me!
J'ai besoin d'une boisson.
Avez-vous du pastis?
Ah. But there is money in this Gallic turn of events.
Plenty of unsavoury sorts want Frenchness.
Ou est la plume de ma tante?
C'est sur le pont d'Avignon.
♪ Alouette, gentille alouette... ♪
Jedrington Secret-Past!
You are a bad man!
I know! And to rub that in,
you shall receive visits from spirits,
who will impart moral lessons!
Behold, the ghost of Easter past!
What do you want with me, dread rabbit?
Behold Easter past!
This is you and your family, last Easter...
Look at how happy you were.
Before you ruined everything!
Yes!
Whereas this Easter, you have a dead wife,
a probably dead son,
and a missing daughter.
And... I can't emphasise this enough...
it's all your fault!
Yes, my fault! Oh, show me no more, dread, rabbity spirit!
There is much more to show!
But for now, I shall leave you
to have a good, guilty think.
You have found a third player for our next vision?
Yes, sir. This is Gob.
Ah! I asked for a small, frail boy!
He's an old army friend, sir. Very good actor.
He and I were a huge hit as Romeo and Juliet
up on the North West Frontier.
Good kisser, too.
He'll have to do. Positions, everyone!
Now, behold the pain you have wrought
in Easter Present!
Oh, dear wife. We are so poor and hungry.
Yes, dear husband.
We definitely both feel more miserable
than we have ever felt miserable before!
Who are these people?
Just some of the many wretches whose lives you have ruined
with your business.
A business you really ought to get rid of as soon as possible.
Yes, I should.
At least we still have our beloved child.
Hark! I hear his dainty tread!
Dear Ti... Massive Tim!
Sit on my knee, beloved chi... Oh!
How is your cough, tiny mite?
Oh, fine. Probably not deadly.
If only we could afford medicine!
Still, it is nearly Easter.
Even though I'll probably die soon,
God bless us, every one!
Except for Jedrington Secret-Past.
God unbless him!
What have I done? What have I done?
What visions will you show me, spirit?
Easter's not the same without Tim.
No! Not Massive Tim! Where is Massive Tim?
Let him not be dead!
Though he is still here... Oh, joy! Not dead!
Leg or breast?
No! He is to be eaten by his own family!
And it is all my fault!
Aargh!
I have gone mad with guilt and am off to take my own life. My dear friend, how awful!
Don't suppose you want to sign the business over first?
As the spirits commanded!
Are those rabbit whiskers?
No. Oh.
Aarrghh!
Arrgh! Arrgh! Sir! Sir! Sir!
This is where Conceptiva met her end.
It is only fit I meet mine here also.
Servegood, you have been a loyal servant,
friend, even,
so I wish you to have
this enormous sum of money as severance pay.
Now I must ask one last service.
Give us a shove, will you?
The finest service I can do you now
is not to let you take your own life.
Quite right, Servegood. You've totally talked me out of it.
Oh, dear. I've dropped my watch. I'll get it, sir.
Bye-e-e!
O-o-o...
o-o-o...
o-o-o!
Goodbye, sir.
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