Original subtitles

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T.S. Eliot said that the purpose of literature was to turn blood into ink.

Well, I tried that.

I published five collections of poetry in

eight years, and I bled like a haemophiliac.

Then, somewhere along the way, the blood finally clotted.

Over time, the scab became a scar, and now I can scarcely feel the wound.

All the arterism veins had dried out.

I no longer turn blood into ink.

These days, I turn whiskey into journalism.

I haven't written a poem since 1987.

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ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho,

♪

ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho,

Noble patricians, patrons of my right,

defend the justice of my cause with arms.

Justice!

And countrymen, and my loving followers.

Never Bassanius, Caesar's son, were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome.

Take then this passage to the capital...

Complete and utter crap.

Shh, you're not defending this fecal matter, are you?

To justice!

Continence!

And nobility!

Princes that strive by factions and by friends...

Oh, fuck off.

Will you keep your opinions to yourself?

He's rather against the grain being a critic, isn't he?

...know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand a special party, have...

By common voice.

...have by common voice, in election for the Roman Empire...

Chosen andronicus, so name it pious, for many authors...

Get off the stage and find new representation.

Is this part of the performance?

On the contrary, madam, this is an intervention.

Where is the man responsible for this theatrical ordeal?

Where is Matthew Lake?

Throw him out!

Not me, madam.

It is the director who should be ejected, then tarred and

feathered for inflicting such loose-stooled effluent upon the paying public.

Say that again!

♪

Loose, stooled, effluent.

Oh, do you need the line again?

Still got it.

We need to put up a strong front, but

first we have to check you in for some rehab.

I can hold my drink.

Ted, I'm trying to help you.

This, this all, all just needs management.

Needs management, the war cry of the brown trouser.

You know I venerate your work.

I know no such thing.

I know you've been told by people cleverer

than you that I'm a feather in your greasy cap.

I know my writing for you makes you feel successful.

I know, you know, I could walk into any job and

spark grateful tears from the illiterate pricks in charge.

I also know you took culture because you couldn't get the news desk.

You would censure me.

You're the one bringing down the tone with your mealy-mouthed

mummery and your prostration before the gods of public approval.

I bet you never had a wank that wasn't

focus-grouped, you sexually craven provincial nerd.

Why don't you take your freckled arse on a

sabbatical and let a real man edit the paper?

You may have been the great hope for British poetry once

upon a forever ago, but when did you last write anything, huh?

When did you last do anything at all?

I have about as much need of you as I do a fucking fountain pen.

Is that all?

Get out, you're fired.

♪

No use denying the fact we all feel undervalued.

To be told officially that we're off the case confirms our

sense of being not fully appreciated by an insensitive world.

Paradoxically, this increases our self-esteem

because it proves that we were right all along.

Even when, what we're proved right about is

that everyone considers us a waste of skin.

Finding myself at leisure, perhaps I shall have some time to

craft the burning gems of literature that I was once famous for.

It was unlikely a poem would come in such peaceful

circumstances, but you won't get if you don't ask.

So I listed, as is my custom, such

few words as my mood suggested.

Egregious.

Salsify.

Monstration.

The rare words annoy the punter, but they never think about a poet's lot.

A painter has oils, acrylics, and pastels.

Turpentine, linseed, canvas, sable, and hog's hair.

A musician has entire machines of wood, brass, gut, and carbon fibre.

The poet, though...

Oh, yes, the poor poet.

Pity the poor bloody poet.

Roddy, I'm afraid I can't extend you credit, Mr. Wallace.

Hell.

It's on me.

One of the finest phrases in our language.

You're very good health, madam.

And yours?

You are Ted Wallace, aren't you?

You may not remember me.

We haven't done the deed, have we?

I'm Jane Swan.

Jane Swan.

One of the Berkshire Swans?

Cast your mind back to a small font, a baby, and a rising poet.

I'm Jane Burrell, Rebecca's daughter.

Fuck my best boots.

I haven't seen you since your mother threw me out.

I know.

I was always very proud of you.

Two of your poems were set texts at school.

Well, you should have written.

I would have come and gabbled at the sixth form.

Well, I hoped I'd find you here.

Where the last of the semi-famous get arseholed.

More than semi-famous.

My friends adore your reviews.

Well, train has just pulled out, I'm afraid.

Really?

Sooth, you see before you a recently fired man.

That is simply the best news.

Is it?

Will you come home with me?

With pleasure.

Jane's home lived up to my ripest expectations, as degrading a

cocktail of overpriced cliches can be found outside Beverly Hills,

any given surface crammed with some mad medley of crystal flacons,

miscellaneous fertility dildos, and a

veritable who's who of international deities.

Do you like?

Like isn't the word.

Some of the pieces are really special.

That thing on the sofa is a Kazakh placenta sheet.

♪

In the taxi over, Jane had mentioned she had a job for me.

I demurred, of course, and asked to be let out somewhere

in St. John's Wood, but she told the driver to keep

driving and assured me I was going to simply love her

terrific new idea, which she troublingly referred to as The Project.

are we here?

I have a proposition.

That's practically incest.

My doctor tells me I have three months to live.

Leukemia.

That's a smeller

Scared?

Not anymore.

That's ballsy.

But it's a grotty age and a grotty world,

and we'll all be joining you soon enough.

Do you believe in miracles?

As in calming the storms and feeding the multitudes?

Give us a fag.

A marvelous and mysterious thing has

happened to me, and I want you to investigate it.

I don't know what you have in mind, but

I'm not exactly an investigative journalist.

You sure?

No interest?

Well, it might be ungodfatherly of me to suggest, but

it's a racing certainty you're not in your right mind.

Well, you're forgiven, but it's a pity, because you know the people involved.

My uncle Michael.

Michael Logan?

And I'd pay you handsomely.

25,000 now, and the rest either later or left in my will.

I thought you said...

The doctors say I'm going to die.

I don't believe I will.

Something happened to me at Swafford Hall.

I want you to go there and find the truth.

And if the truth is you're not cured?

Then I'm dying of leukaemia.

Twenty-five thousand pounds.

A hundred, all told.

Jane, there must be a thousand

journalists who would do it for a tenth of that sum.

You're the only one who'd get through Swafford's front door.

But Michael... You're godfather to his son.

Use him as your cover.

Delicious girl, since your mother and I parted

ways, I've been as welcome at Swafford as a...

No, godson is still a godson.

Write to David, wangle an invitation.

and stay in touch.

I could be out of the house and filling in a deposit slip in 10 minutes.

Jane was mad, certainly, but her check was crossed and endearingly sane.

I was perfectly happy to labor in the service of Jane's delusions.

But what were those delusions?

I envied those careless peasants tasked to find a needle in a haystack.

Mine was a more elusive quarry.

An unholy mating of wild goose and shaggy dog.

My last visit to Swafford had been

amusing enough, but hardly revealing of miracles.

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I'm the pale moon shining

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Thank you for picking me up, Simon.

Davey wanted to come, but I thought you'd enjoy the two seats some more.

Built it myself!

Maybe says you're a poet.

That's the rumor Do one

Who am I?

A poet!

There was a young man called Simon

who hated the art of rhyming.

He thought it a shame that his very own

name could only be mated with hymen.

Genius!

And limericks the best I can do at 60 miles an hour.

hold your hats the roof is about

to tumble in holy cats

♪

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whoopin' up the whoop today.

♪

Swafford Hall, the home of the Logan family since 1984

when globe-trotting tycoon Michael Logan debased himself

for love by marrying into the cash-strapped British aristocracy.

After doing something sinister for Margaret Thatcher in

the late 1980s, Michael was rebranded Lord Logan of

Swafford and has since successfully managed the great

house as a personal fiefdom without compromising himself

by running a wedding venue or boutique hotel

or, God forbid, a safari park.

Uncle Edward!

Uncle Edward!

Uncle Edward!

Oh, Uncle Edward!

Uncle Edward!

Well met.

Hello, Uncle Edward.

Hello, Uncle Edward!

Just...

Just plain Ted.

Well, come on, Uncle Ted.

We've got so much to talk about.

Podmore, is it not?

Welcome back to Swafford, Mr. Wallis.

Oh, don't worry.

I'll show Uncle Ted the house.

Oh, very well, Mr. Ted.

And then, after dinner, I can take you round the east wing.

Whiskey's right, isn't it?

Indeed.

But first, perhaps a bath.

Followed by, conceivably, a nap.

Well, um, when you've...

I'll be on the South Lawn.

In case you wanted a chat.

Bye.

Since becoming his godfather, I had exchanged a series of

letters with young David, mine brief and infrequent and

only occasionally freighted with a crumpled fiver, his

almost monthly, impossibly tedious and often in iambic pentameter.

♪

♪

He looked up to his father Michael like a tiny daisy looks to

the sky wishing he'll grow up to be the blazing ball of the sun.

The truth is that men like Michael were never willowy teenage poets.

They were the prep school bullies punching the tuck money out

of cretinous boys like David and blowing it on fags and jazz mags.

Well, I'm here at least.

How long I'll stay depends I suppose on the kind of reception Michael gives me.

Michael and I were once the best of friends but a

lot of water has passed under that particular bridge.

Then the bridge has been dynamited by a corps of engineers

and washed downriver into a vast ocean of frosty indifference.

It's a long story.

Ted.

My love.

You're looking younger.

Lost some of that fat.

And you're looking...

wetter.

Tea?

Cake.

It is so good to see you.

Where's Michael?

He wants to have a date with you.

Before dinner.

I'll best get it over with.

The stock platitude of the untroubled mind.

I wish.

My love, what is it?

It's David.

Tell his godfather.

He's doing very well at school.

And he's a lovely boy.

It's just that he's a bit...

odd with people.

Roman's a goth.

He's a bit odd with people all the time.

Well, if only it was a matter of...

black eyeliner and clothes.

Give me a for instance.

Well, at a dinner party last weekend...

he asked the local MP...

which animal...

do you think has the longest penis?

She laughed...

and snapped the stem of a wine glass.

He persisted.

She said...

the sperm whale.

He said no.

The male rabbit flea's erect penis...

is two thirds the length of his body.

Isn't that wonderful?

Only if the female has a sufficiently elastic accommodation.

He's sixteen.

He ought to know how to avoid flustering people.

Teenagers are obsessed with sex.

He's pushing the boundaries...

finding his space.

It's normal.

Would you just keep an eye?

Both eyes.

That's why I'm here.

You're late.

I had to start my practice.

I was sleuthing.

Jesus suffering fuck.

Well, I expect you to be on time.

What have you seen?

Simon is the boring teen...

all England trophy holder.

David is...

well...

I don't know what David is yet...

but I've seen no sign of anything...

even faintly miraculous.

I'm not sure I'm getting value for money.

Honeymunch, just tell me.

Don't tantalize.

Tell me.

If you're not objective, there's no point.

You need to keep your eyes open...

and see what needs to be seen.

Christ!

She's absolutely fucking bat-infested.

Right now, though...

I have a pressing engagement...

to be the recipient of some of Michael's...

old-fashioned mafia boss disapproval.

Humiliating her on television?

Late night television.

I told you it's a long story.

A long...

and complicated story.

Look, I cared about her...

too much to make her...

a future ex-wife.

So?

So?

So, tell me your tale.

Your life is a mess, you've lost your job, and you've come to Swafford to...

-To... -hang out with David.

You took your time getting in touch.

It's been a few years, I admit, but I

bumped into Jane, and that got me thinking.

Thinking?

What?

Tell me why you're really here.

I...

You know, after the job, I've been looking for something to

do, and I think you'd make an amazing subject for a biography.

You fucking journalist.

A tame one, at the very worst.

No biography, no snooping, nothing.

I promise you, it'd be no hatchet job.

Get out of my house.

Michael, I'm sorry.

Forget I mentioned it.

I do not trust you.

No, I see that

Look, Anne is worried about David.

There's no point denying I made an almighty mess with your

sister, but to put courage into a cliché,

all is fair in love and war.

But not when it's played out in public.

Yes, I understand.

And on that understanding, I'm supposed to, what, give you a second chance?

As a godfather, I promise I won't put so

much as a look out of place.

I'll be watching.

Understood.

Well, welcome back to Swafford.

♪

It's been more than a decade since Michael and I last

crossed paths, although he crops up in the papers fairly

frequently as the highly celebrated CEO of this or that vast company.

That stands for Chief Executive Officer and is, I

believe, a sort of cross between a managing director and a cunt.

When a man like Michael says he's watching you, you

may as well be getting that news from a great white shark.

Stop.

♪

David?

Assuming that whatever enticed David from the house at just shy of 5 a.m.

was either fun or trouble, I followed his tracks in the dew

but discovered them to be a line of footprints leading nowhere.

Go!

Feeling like twelve types of dick, I was suddenly

struck by an image of David sprouting wings and flying away.

Certainly that would be a miracle worth investigating.

-Ow! -Fuck off!

Shite!

Mmm.

Mmm.

Mmm.

God.

...

...

...

♪

The things I do for money.

How is a person supposed to investigate nothing in particular?

It's like hiring Sherlock Holmes when no crime has been committed.

I'm beginning to see why he spent so much time playing

the fiddle and getting smashed out of his head on cocaine.

He wants to check if we have a defibrillator.

There's quite a few dietary requirements.

May I help, Mr. Wallace?

Ah.

Yes.

Hold on.

Could someone fix the curtain rail in my room?

It seems to have come down in the night.

Of course, sir.

Much obliged.

Oh, what's this? The weekend guest list?

This should be interesting.

Man.

Oliver Mills.

He's probably claiming a trendy intolerance.

Angina.

With its promise of aristocratic splendor and a degree of luxury

that approaches debauchery, Swafford attracts a motley caravan of

tight-arsed bourgeois and nervous bohemians who roll up the

driveway misusing the word weekend as a verb and wondering how

soon they might send an underling down into Swafford's world-class wine cellar.

Madame Valerie Richmond and Mademoiselle Clarke.

Well, who is this charmingly high-breasted and fiercely

fuckable creature with an air of contemptuous indifference?

Bonjour, madame.

Merci.

My bags.

Ted Wallace.

Oh, I thought you were a servant.

No.

A poet.

Oh.

And Michael's oldest friend.

Of course.

Avant qu'il avait bon goût.

Also, David's godfather.

I'm responsible for his spiritual development.

You are?

This is my daughter, Clara.

Maybe you and her can be friends.

Ah, and you must, of course, be David.

Jane has told me everything about you.

I have been looking forward to meeting you.

From the presumably fragrant loin of Madame

Valerie had sprung a daughter most woundingly plain.

I had no sure knowledge of her paternal lineage, but I

would hazard a guess that this snaggled-toothed myopic

hobbit may have been conceived on a visit to Middle Earth.

Nature can be unbearably cruel.

Regrettably, I was about to be thrust into my worst nightmare,

having to spend an entire weekend with one of my oldest friends,

the celebrated theater director and prolific buggerist, Oliver Mills.

I certainly find that violence is the answer.

Jesus, Oliver!

Did Michael not attach a security memo to your invitation?

No.

In fact, I'm probably on it.

Would you?

Oh, poor pompous hippopotamus.

Has his lordship not made you the most welcome of guests?

Actually, I'm here to see David.

-Oh. -You know.

Dear, what is it?

-What ills you? -You can tell me.

Ills?

He's my godson.

What do you mean?

Oh, is that the clitter-clatter of cutlery on China?

Let's not be late for lunch.

Hopefully it was the sound of the plot thickening.

I was going to have to start making some meaningful progress or

risk spending the entire summer in the company of these Camarades.

I hear you've had a particularly successful year with Vestad.

Well, yes, finally we had some good results at Higstead.

Thanks to him.

I'm particularly proud of our woodlands.

All native species.

What's the kind of green that only the British can bear?

Oh, if you don't like the countryside, what brings you to Swafford?

I am purchasing lilac for my daughter.

Lilac?

Lilac, our grey mare.

I've been taking writing lessons.

Yes, and we can go down and see her at the stables after lunch.

You can help me mark out if you like.

I would like that very much.

A hunchback who now also shovels shit.

Quelle fortune.

Don't slouch.

If you'll excuse me.

I'm dying for some of that.

Not just figuratively.

You know.

Pod nysereth, pod nysereth, pod montereth, Ted Wallace.

Is that why you're here?

No, no, I've got a delicious new play,

which Michael is going to fund.

Am I?

Has anyone seen David?

Child of Trees and Son of Earth Lies in wait for his

rebirth Beneath the trees he hides alone Beneath your

feet, this boy unknown Lies in his cradle, hidden from

sight Buried like seed, his seed so white He gives

himself the kiss of peace His seed doth

sprout with sweet release Well, fuck me

Gosh, I'd like you to keep it.

Lovely.

Has mommy spoken to you about me?

Why do you ask that?

I worry her.

I can see it in her eyes.

Mothers worry.

It's in their job description.

Well, I worry her more than Simon.

Simon doesn't treat strangers to nuggets of penile data.

He's safe.

Meaning I'm unsafe.

I should bloody well hope so.

I'm not having a godson of mine running around the

place being anything other than wild and dangerous.

Why are people embarrassed about sexual things?

I'm not.

In my opinion, people are more embarrassed about love than sex.

What makes you think that?

They never talk about it.

It's all anyone ever talks about.

Love, love, love.

Love is all you need. Love makes the world go round.

90% of the world's poetry is about love.

With swift, slow, sweet, sour,

a dazzle, dim,

he fathers forth whose beauty is past change.

Praise him.

Oh, God.

Of course you like Hopkins.

The greats know that poetry is how we

allow nature to speak to us.

Wordsworth...

No, you chump.

My heart leaps up.

On my couch, I lie.

I wandered lonely as a cloud.

He's an egomaniacal onanist.

Wordsworth did not masturbate.

He's a fucking tea-towel writer.

Look, young pup, my heart rejoices that you want to be a

poet, but I bet you can't name a profession with less

use, less chance, less point, less status and fewer prospects.

Sewage engineer.

Ah.

All right.

Scenario one.

All the poets in England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland go on strike.

Impact, nil.

Misery, nil.

14 years before anyone even notices.

Scenario two.

All the sewage engineers in London alone go on strike.

Impact, turds and tampons flopping out of your tap.

Scum and ooze where'er you walk.

Misery, hardship, newsworthiness, high.

You do still believe in poetry and

its power to change the world.

You do still care.

Oh, Christ, not you as well.

Of course I do.

It's just hard work.

You want gold, you break your back down a mine.

It doesn't just float from the sky gleaming bars.

All right

Gran, all this talk of poetry has awoken my appetite.

Time for a second stanza of your mother's cream cake.

♪

I'll put the kettle on.

Another bath?

My center of gravity has shifted since my last time in a cocksless pair.

You found David, then?

Yes, and read some of his poetry.

I've got some of it here, in fact.

He seems, in his own graceful way, to have been recording a wank in the woods.

-Any good? -On the poetry or the wank?

-Ted. -You know if he does it much.

Oh, please.

Look, my love, you asked me to keep an eye on him, and I have.

And if wanking's what he's doing...

There are certain things a mother doesn't need to know about in full.

I understand, but I'm not being prurient just for the pleasure of it.

I spent most of my life skipping after women like a puppy

trying to please his master, and the rest, pleasing myself.

And that's fine.

I'm a heartier fellow for it.

But if your son is writing metaphysical art spunk, and not simply

filling soft fabrics with human hand cream, then there is a problem.

Which is?

Mum, I think you should come to the stables quickly.

Lilac's sick.

Oh, shit.

♪

He must do something.

Yeah, well, I'm sure he will.

But first, we have to find the little fellow.

Don't you have faith?

Faith's great, but it'd be nice to have a super-

♪

This is a rather drastic course of action, don't you think?

She was fine yesterday.

It's fast acting.

She'll have complete renal failure.

There's no ragwork in her field.

And do you have another explanation for the blood in her stool?

No, but it's not an explanation for the blood in her spittle.

I'm sorry, Clara.

I think we're going to have to put Lila down.

get to ride her.

Come on.

Let's go back to the house.

I'm so sorry.

I'm afraid this is just very bad timing.

But there is a chance that she will recover.

It's a sadness, yes, but Anne has a lot of experience.

We need time for a miracle.

Hercule Poirot could probably take a cursory glance at this

group and glean all sorts of useful ammunition for his denouement.

But if any of this amounts to any sort of clue, it's absolutely wasted on me.

I think you're being very premature.

Anne, would you...?

David, don't touch her.

Don't.

A sick horse can be very dangerous.

Come on, come down.

What happened?

I'll explain in a moment.

What was happening was the Logans discovering they had no

stomach for mercy killing a sickly horse and yet were possessed

of a seemingly limitless capacity for procrastination and indecisiveness.

Maybe we should come back tomorrow and

we'll reassess it and see what she's like now.

Thank you.

Right.

Perhaps some drinks before dinner.

Yes, perhaps several.

I got the idea from the playwright.

Met him in Venice on my last trip.

Is there a point or are you merely recounting a selection of random events?

Oh, heart.

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes.

Gianni had the most enormous...

Oh, my God.

-C-K.

And he was afraid he might hurt me.

Gianni, darling, I said, fear not.

After what I've been through, you'll be lucky if it touches the sides.

It'll be like pushing a paper boat up the Grand Canal.

This is not language for when children are present.

Oh, prude la la, they know.

There's two options.

One, we let Oliver rattle on home about his various

exploits and the occasional ear gets singed, or

two, we let the kids work it out entirely for themselves.

I just don't understand every person's obsession with sex.

Not an obsession.

It's the meaning of life.

Well, there is something that children can

learn with help, and that is good manners.

David, help with the plates.

-Yes, Mama. -Clara?

Will you tell us the story, Oliver?

Oh, I thought you'd never ask, Michael.

Well, the story is about a-his-luck gigolo

who gets a job playing alto sax on a cruise ship.

But what he's really doing...

Oliver, stop.

Not a chance.

Not a penny.

Well, if we can't drink to my play, let's drink to Lilac.

May she have her miracle.

Yes, to Lilac.

The same toast they'll be making tomorrow night at the

glue factory as her bones render noxiously in the background.

To miracles.

Unlike you, to forsake a drink?

You don't seriously expect me to join

you in a wine-soaked prayer for a miracle.

Is that so ridiculous?

It's fluff.

Miracles are phenomena that we're too

frightened, or in my case, too lazy, to understand.

But nothing miraculous ever actually happens.

And certainly no one is ever healed.

You don't believe in healing?

You can correct a mechanical fault, but

nothing can be truly cured or made whole.

Everything rots.

And that's the beastly, bloody end of it.

Would anyone like a comforting chamomile?

I think Tedward and I might have a chat over something a bit stronger.

So I was sent here to investigate miracles and

have now been induced to refute their very existence.

More than a coincidence, I fancy.

I'm beginning to feel like doubting Thomas on a certain Easter morning.

What follows, you will never discuss with anyone.

My father came to this country from Massachusetts in 1936.

When the war came, he enlisted and

trained as an engineering officer in the RAF.

Later that year, a young man came round the base.

His father had a metal splinter in his foot.

It was gangrenous.

The boy knew the doctor would amputate and he asked my father for help.

My father touched the foot, the splinter came out, and the wound healed.

Instantly?

Yes.

I don't want to spoil the story, but that could have happened by chance.

That was just the first time.

A few more miracles, and people began to talk.

By the end of the war, he was being hounded.

It was intolerable.

That was another time.

It was 70 years ago, Ted.

Not the Middle Ages.

I never had a gift.

I guess it skipped a generation.

It's a childhood fairy tale.

Anne has asthma.

Do you remember that hot summer four or five years ago?

David and I were out one afternoon and she suffered a terrible attack.

Simon was there doing CPR like he'd been taught, but

it wasn't working We got back David heard the commotion

rushed in, pushed his brother aside and placed his

hands on his mother's chest and she began to breathe.

You're saying David saved her life.

Healed.

Not another attack since.

It's like Stephen Hawking announcing he still believes in Santa Claus.

I don't mind my old friends turning into venal

assholes, but it's rather unnerving when they go crazy.

Jane came to stay with us at Easter.

The leukemia had taken hold and the doctors had

given her three weeks to live she wanted to spend

them somewhere peaceful She took to her bed the moment.

She arrived the end of the first week.

She began to look better The second week she thought she'd get

up the third week entirely cured David

had been with her every day.

There just must be a rational explanation David's hands heal.

I've seen it with my own eyes But I'm at a loss we're

private people we don't make a fuss but this feels big

important Do I hide it like a curse or shout it from the rooftops?

Why in the name of dysfunction?

Are you asking me yesterday?

You made a big fuss about being David's godfather Earn the title

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

There was an old poet called Ted who was in well over his head.

He struggled to think why he shouldn't

just drink and collapse arseholed into his bed.

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

Oh, lilac.

Brought you an apple.

♪

Yeah.

Go away.

Alleluia!

Alleluia!

Alleluia!

-Alleluia! -Oh, what's got into you?

Lilac is well.

There are more things in heaven and earth to date you.

You have heard.

J'ai bien entendu, ma vieille orange.

Oh, my old maid, come in.

Why did you ask Podmore to?

If lilac is cured, then maybe Clara can be made beautiful.

Where are you off to now?

To find David.

Lilac didn't cure herself.

Oh, Christ.

Wait!

There is nothing to put me in a foul mood

more effectively than seeing Oliver happy.

But the realization that I had slept through some

kind of miraculous occurrence ran a close second.

David was yet to claim Lilac's recovery as his handiwork, but the

notion hung in the air above Swafford like a piss-filled Hindenburg.

I need to find your brother.

I haven't seen him.

Pop in.

We'll cover more ground.

We'll cover more ground.

♪

What do you think happened with Lilo?

I always check her field.

There isn't any ragwort.

Yes, I heard you with the vet.

No ragwort, no cure, no explanation.

St. David has swapped it at his magic hand.

Shit!

Stop this fucking motorized hair dryer!

♪

♪

♪

Hi, David.

Hello, Oliver.

What about this laying on of hands?

Dunno.

You're not in the miracle camp.

Sorry.

Have you ever seen him do it?

Once, on Mum.

What happened?

David put his hands on her and she got better.

No flashing lights, angelic chorus?

She just came to.

I need to see for myself.

Fucking Jane and her seeing what needs to be seen.

Where the hell have you been?

Pull yourself together Ted.

Existential crises are for wankers and characters in Scandinavian films.

I told you to look after David.

He's nowhere to be found.

That fucking horse has put the cat among the fucking pigeons.

It's my father all over again.

-It's in hand. -You have my word.

Which is worth what exactly?

What it's for.

Hello boys.

You're looking well.

Ugh!

-Ugh! -Fucking magic!

Oh, forget him.

He's too jaded to feel wonder.

Whereas you...

You have the power to change the world.

Clara's up next.

I'll find him.

♪

Oliver was gloating over his own cure.

Now our fearless teenage leader was sneaking off to find Clara.

If young St. David could transform Valerie's unlovely

offspring into some new-age Aphrodite, that was

a miracle I had to see.

David, it's Uncle Ted.

With a steam whistle, replaced by the

turgid sound of diesel, and now electric trains.

Mr. Wallace, I'm looking for David.

One of the great undertakings of our age.

What the hell was that?

I hear nothing, sir.

Don't tell me the last bastion of sanity of

this house is abandoning his faculties, too.

The greater the discretion, the larger the tip.

♪

Do you know where David is?

Oh, come on, John.

I know you see everything that goes on around here.

He's a bugger for hiding.

Go on.

Frequently doesn't sleep in his bed, never

leaves by the door when there's the option of a window.

In fact, he must spend most nights out in the grounds.

But where?

I licked the grass, licked it clean.

Clean grass is hay, gold hay for the flesh.

I hugged the leaves, squeezed their green.

Squeezed sap is blood, and blood must be fresh.

So is seed, seed of my own.

Oh, hello Valerie.

♪

Ugh.

Oh, God.

If you let the spirit in, it will heal you.

Feel the spirit surging through you.

You must embrace it.

Drain it, yes.

That's right.

-Drain it. -No!

-Yes. -No! -Let her go!

Let her go!

Come on, we can't have you going into the house looking like this.

Let's get you cleaned up. Oh, she bit me!

I'm sorry that you can't leave me!

Physicist, heal thyself.

So much for the modern miracle.

I don't recall St. Francis of Assisi ejaculating into anybody's mouth.

Maybe they just left that part out.

Uncle Ted, she bit me!

Are all your cures like that?

Don't talk.

Don't say a word.

Can you stand?

Come on.

It's easier for the old to judge the young.

And I'll admit it's been particularly hard to warm

to David with his crooked sweaters and soggy sonnets.

But the truth is that this boy is my godson.

I may be unreliable when it comes to fonts and silver

napkin rings, but when I saw him suffering a catastrophic

sex disaster, I did feel a twinge of the old esprit de corps.

I never was a boy scout, and I certainly don't

do a good deed every day, but one whopper every

15 years surely must earn me a badge of some kind.

Mr. Lennox.

Mr. Lennox.

Oh, yes.

Yes.

Can you tell me the nature of your relationship with David?

Some days good, some days bad.

You are the boy's father?

For my sins.

Then perhaps you can explain why David said to me, the pain got

much worse in the car, partly because

Uncle Ted is a terrible driver.

I'm glad to say it's rare for a child to be

admitted with human bite marks to the penis.

Even rarer for the hysterical boy to be accompanied by a famous public figure.

Well, if you knew who I was, why didn't you say?

I think you'd better tell me who David's parents are.

I'd like to talk to David.

I don't think the police will allow you to do any such thing.

Police?

You're in a position of authority, Mr. Wallace.

Let's be grown-ups, shall we?

This is just a pair of lovers suffering an unfortunate mishap.

This may pass for acceptable in your bohemian world, but...

I have a boy David's age.

If this happened to him, do you think I'd kick up a stink?

It may interest you to know that I'm a magistrate.

And a member of Calvinists against

Cocksucking and Housewives against Felicia, no doubt.

The parents get involved, the guilt, the shame.

If I do not have the number of David's

parents this minute, I shall call the police.

One.

-Two. -All right, all right.

I suppose you want the girl's name, too, so two sets can be...

-The girl. -The girl?

The girl, the girl.

Did you think he was being sucked off by a giraffe?

I thought you were the

other party.

You thought what?

If there's been a mistake, I'm sorry, it's

my duty to establish the facts.

Oh, fabulous.

I have chanced upon one of the very few people in the

world to have my poetry on their shelf, who have examined

the contents of my soul, and she thinks I'm a fucking paedophile.

Well, I went down to the woods today and I sure as hell had a big surprise.

I missed the sex offenders register by a whisker.

Sometimes the gift demands a sacrifice.

Perhaps it would help if you told me about the exact nature of your powers.

Stop the car.

No, I've done quite enough running around after you for one weekend.

I'll tell you, but not here.

I call it the gift, not my gift.

I can feel the power of nature.

I put my hand on a sick creature,

and it courses through me like lightning.

But I also have human feelings.

Hunger.

And cold.

And all types of hunger.

The first time I had a wet dream was

last year, I know, which is late.

I knew that I couldn't allow such a terrible thing to happen.

All that waste.

It's not just my hands, you see.

Every part of me can heal.

My blood and my seed.

Okay.

I knew that if I only used it for good and not to give

myself pleasure, then that could be a powerful tool as well.

Which is why, with Clara, you...

It started with Jane.

Her sickness was too powerful for my hands.

But I knew that...

if I got my essence in, deep inside her, then it would work.

These powers, do you think they're inherited?

Anyone can have a pure spirit.

Even me?

Especially you.

When you were a poet, you were inspired to see the glory of the world.

Bullocks.

You want poetry, you fight with paper and pencil.

You muck in with humanity.

You don't wait for inspiration to vomit bliss over you.

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out like shining from shook foil.

Gerald Manley Hopkins worked.

He studied Anglo-Saxon rhythmic structure.

He learned Welsh.

But the genius was inside him.

Look at Simon.

We have the same genes, but he has an ordinary soul.

And your soul?

It's different and special.

Different and special?

Yes.

And you should respect that.

See what needs to be seen, my arse,

miracles, my cock and baggy balls.

Sorry to piss on the parade, but we all

see what we want to see, and no one is immune.

Be it the shabby chic of Zen, or the wanton razzmatazz of

high Catholicism, or merely sucking off some teenage

-come-lately in a bucolic woodland glade, it's all just a funhouse mirror.

A mirror, a means to see yourself happier, healthier, prettier, or less...

well, less dying of leukemia.

Poor old Jane, you senseless cow.

Maybe I am just too jaded to be filled with wonder.

Maybe I should sacrifice my every standard of wit

and reason and throw my lot in with this imbecile cult.

If any of us could use a miracle, it's Ted fucking Wallace.

That wasn't always this bitter bin bag of custard, you know.

Tune me up, Jesus.

Make me whole, God's son.

Pour me a gin, would you?

Yes, of course.

My God.

Look at the state of you.

If you're here, Rebecca, who's ruling over Narnia?

Fancy you having the gall to turn up here.

I bet Michael must have loved it when you rang.

I wrote to David, as it happens.

Oh, of course you did.

Got some godfathering to make up on.

It appears we can evade the truth no longer and must finally

confront the tangled story of my life with the Logan's Well, that

story began with Michael's younger sister Rebecca with whom I

dared to dally many moons ago I'm joined this evening by one of

this country's most celebrated poets And now in the run a little

folly ardour came crashing to a conclusion After she invited me

to perform some earnest chin stroking on her tedious late-night

poetry stroke fest stanza, let us return to the reaction to

comments that you Brave enough to say what we

both know to be true that women don't enjoy Sex.

Oh, maybe the women that you've had experience I'm with it as the

price they have to pay for having a man for having a relationship I

mean if we're being absolutely frank The only reason I come on this

show is because I get to fuck you from time to time and indulging

those kind of absurd Whims is the highest

compliment our sex can pay yours Thank You, mr.

Wallace This was just me spitting on my hands and getting down to

work For the next five years I made a pile of all my treasures and

talents clambered up on top and cheerfully self-immolated like a

Laotian monk Since then Rebecca has performed diligently as my nemesis.

We are the jangling skeletons in each other's closets Jane

told me you'd come down here But I didn't actually believe

that you would she asked me to investigate her recovery She

has proved the doctors wrong and that's good enough for me

You're not interested in the how and the why ignoring your

goddaughter during her youth is one thing

but taking advantage of her is Repugnant.

I'm not exploiting your daughter.

Oh, of course not.

You're just taking her money of which she's got loads But what

she needs is someone willing to get to the bottom of this cure

And you're the man for that job?

Yes.

And how's it going, this noble quest?

Come on, Ted Wallace, the only thing you've

ever got to the bottom of is a whiskey bottle.

♪

♪

Are you happy?

Yes.

Thank you.

Isn't it wonderful?

It's an impenetrable load of bollocks and I've

got no way into it or through it or anything else.

Keep your money, Jane.

I have done bugger all.

Be happy.

I can't discredit David's gift.

Your cure is yours to have.

Ted, you can have it, too.

Just open your heart.

What if I don't want to?

You must.

No, I mustn't.

I don't have to do anything or desperately cling to any of your

ridiculous superstitions because I'm not about to kick the bucket.

Bugger! I'm not about to kick the bucket.

Kick the bucket.

♪

Oh, Christ.

It's physician heal thyself.

I need the vets number Zero double one

four nine six zero triple nine

Is Davy very angry with me?

♪

He'll be fine.

You've done more for him than you realize.

Mr. Ogden, about the horse this morning.

Lilac Logan.

Yeah, I know that's not her real name.

♪

You're late for dinner, Ted.

I'll be dressed in a minute.

Go through without me.

I've just seen David.

What is wrong with him?

A bit knocked about, but he'll be fine.

Annie.

Do you think he's a miracle worker?

Well, I am you're his mother if he is you must send something

I think he's a magical boy, but sometimes...

I still wheeze.

I've always known you are a wonder.

♪

♪

I think it's time for us to go public.

It's for me and Anne to decide.

Oh, for God's sake, it's not a guilty secret.

It's a wonderful, wonderful miracle that makes everyone happy.

I'm sorry to piss on your chips, Oliver, but I'm not happy.

Of course not, sweet Jesus, you're a piece of work.

Sorry, Michael.

What's going on?

Michael, I've listened to the stories, but I don't believe in David's powers.

One chance to raise his eyes to heaven, and what does he say?

It's a bit odd, isn't it, that a poet of all

people should be the only one not convinced?

Not at all.

I'm a poet because I'm very mundane.

I'm only good with what I can taste and see and hear and smell and touch.

Oh, so you've come to sneer at us up your snotty sleeve.

Jane asked me.

She told me there were miracles at Swafford which she wanted me to investigate.

And?

And I think David is proud and sensitive.

Is that it?

Oliver, be quiet.

I would like to hear what Ted has to say.

No teenager is as clever as they'd like to be.

David is at the point where he has glimpsed

ideas, but their true meaning lies beyond his reach.

Our culture rewards different and special.

The stories we tell our children are of superheroes and

foundlings with undiscovered talents that soar to towering heights.

Michael told his son a story that any child would

like to be the center of, and David decided it was true.

It's no story.

I know what I've seen and felt.

You've seen and fed the delusions of an ordinary child.

Tedwin.

Daddy.

My father's gift.

I've seen it work.

All right.

Yes, your father did have a gift, and it was passed on.

Oh, he's off his head.

He doesn't know what he's talking about.

I will not interrupt again.

I'm sorry, Ted.

Please, continue.

Michael's father's gift was passed on to Simon.

Simon?

A few summers ago, Anne suffered a terrible asthma attack.

Simon kept his head and tried to get her breathing.

David broke past and put his hands on Anne's

chest just as Simon's first aid started to work.

Michael, you saw your wife recover and you thought of your

father and then you told David that he had inherited a gift.

He told Jane, and when she too got

better, he let the bush telegraph do the rest.

So, you're claiming that Simon has been healing people.

Well, your father didn't have healing powers.

He had kindness, courage and sense, and that is what Simon has inherited.

David envisaged something far more grandiose.

He told himself that as long as he stayed pure,

his semen would be a channel for healing and a

far more powerful one than his hands could ever be.

Jane, beautiful, wonderful, desperate

Jane, presented him with the ideal test case.

I'm afraid it's probable he tried the same trick on Lilac.

My God.

Only Oliver can say what technique was used.

-How dare you! -You seduced my son.

It was a cure.

He cured me.

Go and get David.

Yes, mum.

But people are better, and none of this explains Lilac.

Lilac was my fault.

On my first morning here, I dropped a

bottle of whiskey into this bucket.

Lilac must have lapped and lapped.

She was drunk, and then she was hungover.

What did you do to me?

God knows what you thought you were doing.

And what do you say to this?

Did you really throw away all your pills?

I don't need them.

I've never felt better.

Then why were you shouting in agony in your bedroom?

I don't know what's the matter with you all.

Jane.

Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane.

Yes.

Remissions occur.

Davey's not in his room.

-What? -And I found this.

Tyler?

The noise at the door.

If he overheard me...

Christ! Where'd I find that little shit?

Five minutes ago, you thought he was the second coming.

-Woof! -Woof! -Hey!

Davey!

Hey there!

David!

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

Simon!

Bring soda here!

What have you got, Ted?

His pyjamas.

-Huh? -Go on, find Aki.

Aki's got

♪

-see. -Find Aki!

Find Aki, son!

Find Aki, son!

Is he playing now?

♪

He's not breathing.

He can't let me.

Amy!

Is he right?

I'll call an ambulance.

Thank you, darling.

I'll go with you.

You follow me.

Yes.

I love you.

Thank you, Ted.

You...

You did very well.

It was nothing.

I've been a terrible father.

You got carried away with your own story.

Something we're all occasionally guilty of.

Would you look after things here?

♪

Swafford Hall.

Yes, I'm her godfather.

Yes.

Yes, I'll tell her.

Was that the hospital?

Yes.

He could well have died out there.

Yes.

But you couldn't help yourself.

Your pompous speech, tearing his ego to shreds.

And you do realize, if you're right, then my daughter is dying.

You can't resist grandstanding, can you?

You have to be the smartest person in the room.

I know.

No matter what damage it does to those around you.

I know.

My darling, I'm so sorry, I have some terrible news.

It's Jane.

The phone call.

I am right.

She is.

♪

You fucking bastard, you fucking bastard!

I'm sorry.

♪

♪

♪

Oh

♪

♪

♪

♪

♪

From the wreck of the past which hath perished this much I at least

may recall It hath taught me that

what I most cherished deserved to

be dearest of all In the desert a

fountain is springing in the wide waste.

There still is a tree Sorry, dad It's

fucking awful Which speaks to my spirit of thee

Well read, young pup.

Thanks, Uncle Ted.

We'll make a poet of you yet.

How's the magic-free life going?

Normal life.

It's a bit like hard work.

You'll get used to it.

So, you're the guy who hung out in an open grave?

It's my son, Roman.

Yeah.

Cool.

♪

Where is Jane now?

In heaven?

Hell?

Well, neither, obviously.

She's just been chucked into the ground with

all the many million Janes who have gone before.

All the Toms and all the Dicks and Harrys, too.

All the priests and poets and rock stars.

All the fish and all the badgers and the beagles.

Cucumbers and camels.

Hello, goodbye.

Destination fucking nowhere.

But if you're looking for a miracle, try this on for size.

Last night, I wrote five poems.

That's five more than I've managed in the larger part of three decades.

This morning, another two came tumbling out, and I barely broke a sweat.

How?

Why?

Inspiration from a clear blue sky.

I may be jaded, I may be old, but

fuck my best boots, I'm filled with wonder.

To miracles.

♪

♪

♪

Now will you all kindly fuck off?

I have some writing to do

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