All language subtitles for Chris Ramsey - 2019 - Approval needed

Hello.

Hello, Newcastle. Hello.

Hey-hey!

Thank you very much.

Thank you for coming out
to the recording of my new
special.

Thank you very much.

I hope you have a lovely night.

I'm gonna watch my tone tonight.
I'm gonna watch my tone.

I've been getting in trouble a
lot
for my tone recently.

Mainly in the house,
I'll be honest with you.

Apparently it's not what I
say...

it's the manner

in which it is said.

Familiar with this?

Apparently in the house
when we're shouting,

me and my wife are trying
to get each other's attention,

apparently my what,
my "what" what is,

and I quote, "full of disdain".

Didn't know a what could be
full of disdain, but that's what
she says.

This is how it goes.
This is how the argument starts.

My wife goes, "Chris!"

I go, "What?"

And she goes,

"Well, if you're gonna be
like that about it!"

"What?"
"Nothing, doesn't matter now...

"if you're gonna be a bastard
about it."

Honestly, I had to change it.

I changed it all the way.
I recently changed it to a "yo".

"Chris!" "Yo!"

This guy!

Honestly, it was demoralising.

It sounds like I'm having
a mid-life crisis.

It's like she's living
with the Fresh Prince of
Bel-Air.

I was in my house once
and Rosie shouted my name.

And I went, "Yo!"

And my mate was there and he
went,
"Never say that again."

"Never. Don't you ever let that
word
fall out of your mouth again."

I just thought
I could get away with it,

because I thought a "yo"
is so inoffensive.

You can't upset anyone
with a "yo". Yo!

Hey, hey! Yo!
No one's gonna get offended by
that,

to the point where you could
walk in
on someone shagging your missus.

You'd go,
"What the hell's going on here?"

And if they were just like,
"Yo",
you'd be like...

"I'll let you finish."

If I'm committing the sin
around the house,

if I'm committing the cardinal
sin
of being in a room

where I can't hear
her bellowing my name,

or the double sin
of having some headphones in,

she will shout and shout and
shout

and shout and shout,

getting angrier
and angrier and angrier

and louder and louder and louder

until she just bursts
into the room that I'm in

and I'm then in the middle
of an argument that I didn't
know existed.

I'm just sitting on my laptop,
headphones in, and she just
goes,

"Chris!"

"Yo!" And that...

Turns out you can upset someone
with a "yo".

You can do it.

Right?

Do you know what I did, right?

I could tell by the laugh
that you did at the beginning

that a few of you in the room
are aware of the problem,

disdain in your "what".

I'm gonna fix it for you.
I went back to the drawing
board.

I took a day off
and I remanufactured my "what".

This is how you do it. This is
how
you don't upset anyone with your
"what".

You've got to add a ripple
in your "what".

You've got to put a key-change
in.

You've got to drop that shit
down an octave.

That's what you've got to do.
This is how it's done.

"Chris!"

"What?"

That shit's gotta give in
halfway through.

It's gotta actually submit.
That's how you get away with it.

"Chris!" "What?

"What do you need of me,
my darling?

"Which task can you not be arsed
to perform yourself?"

"Which part of my life
would you like to shit on
today?"

"How many iPhone cables
do you need?"

"Which lost item
do you need me to come and find"

"that will turn out
to be in plain fucking sight all
along?"

It's not just my tone
and it's not just in the house.

I have ruined multiple moments
in my life by just saying the
wrong thing.

I was genuinely almost, very
nearly,
a Hollywood movie star.

Very nearly...
That laugh hurt, madam.

That...
No need for that at all.

Right?

Ten years ago,
I genuinely had an audition

for the Hollywood movie
"Warhorse".

Me, this fella.

Genuinely.
It should have been a slam dunk.

Because the part I auditioned
for
was actually called

"lad from South Shields".

How stupid would a lad
from South Shields have to be

to fuck that up?

You're about to find out.

First audition I've ever had.

I walked into this big posh
casting agency in London.

I walked in. The lady running it
was very posh, very cool.

But she was on it.
"There is your script."

"Come and sit
in front of this camera."

"We will turn the camera on
in a moment."

"Learn your lines
and we will do the audition."

And I'm nervous and I'm
panicking.

And you know when you're just
from different worlds to someone
else?

I was just from a different
world to her.

And this is how
out of my comfort zone I was.

I was sitting there
and I'm looking past the camera

and on the table
it was the first time in my life

I'd ever seen a jug of water
with cucumbers in it.

Have you seen this?
I'd never seen it before.

I didn't know what was going on.
I was just staring at it like
that.

She caught us looking and she
went,
"Would you like some cucumber
water?"

"No!" I thought she was just
washing her cucumbers.

At work as well.

How busy are you?

It just seemed a weird thing
to offer someone.

No, I don't want a cup
of your sad salady broth,

or a glass of my bath water.

I held it together
but it did freak us out

and this is
where it all went wrong.

She started making small talk
because I'm a slow reader.

She's going,
"It's been manic today."

"We have only just today secured
our big-name Hollywood director"

"for the movie."

Obviously I said, "Is it a
secret
or can you tell me who it is?"

This is where it all went wrong.
I guarantee

if any one of you in this room
was in her position

when I replied with what I did,
it would be fine.

You get us, you know who I am,
you're on my wavelength.

It would be OK.
I'd probably be in that movie
now.

What you're about to hear
is the reason I am not.

She said,

"Steven Spielberg."

And I said, "Fuck off."

I wish that wasn't true.

She didn't even turn that camera
on
when that interview started.

I fudged a line and went,
"Shall I do that again?"

and she went, "No, it's fine."

I don't like upsetting people.

It's not something I go out of
my way
to do. I care what people think.

I don't like upsetting my wife.
I don't like arguing with my
wife.

Me and my wife have been
together
for seven years.

We've been married for five
years.

You know when you're with
someone
for so long,

you feel like the same being,

you feel like you finish
each other's sentences,

you feel like soulmates,
like you know each other inside
out.

And then one day they turn to
you
and they say something

that makes you think,
"Who the fuck are you?"

"Who are you
and who do you think I am?"

"What is this lie?"

You know the kind of sentences I
mean

that fall out your partner's
mouth
now and then.

Things like...

"Shall we just not do presents
this Christmas?"

"You talk like that,
you'll not be here at
Christmas."

It's all right, I'm not gonna
murder her,
I just want a divorce.

Sentences like, "Chris,
do you really need another
beer?"

"I need five now after that
insult."

And I know you've all heard this
one.
Ready?

"I'll just have some of your
chips."

"Will you now, eh?"

"Will you?
Just have some of my chips, will
you?"

"Not gonna order some, no?
Just gonna have mine when they
arrive."

"You've got the chance
but you're not gonna do it?"

"When we got married
the vows said we'd share
everything."

Yeah, but not chips.
They didn't mention chips.

The only time chips were
mentioned
was when they said that

and under my breath I said,
"Except chips." I remember it.

I'm 32. I do this for a living.

I consider myself young at
heart.
My wife's the same. We're quite
similar.

But she turned to me the other
day
and she said, "Chris."

"I think we should get a
caravan."

I said, "Yeah, yeah,
we should get a caravan",

"for I have suddenly
just become your granddad.

"I've just morphed into him now,

"and there's nothing I would
like more
than to spend my life"

"touring the motorways and A
roads
of the UK at 50 miles an hour,"

"arguing like shit with you
the whole way,"

"towing a trailer
of our own faeces behind us."

Exactly how I saw my life
panning out at 32.

Eh?

You know what I love
on a morning on holiday?

I love a bacon sandwich.

I love a bacon sandwich
cooked mere centimetres away

from a defecating family member.

Love that.

Nothing says good morning
on holiday to me

like my dad leaning out
of the toilet door.

"Brown sauce, son.
Brown sauce."

"Shut the door.
What are you doing?

"You could have shouted.
It's paper thin.

"Why are you opening the door?"

"Open the window at least.
No, it is a window."

"It's on the ceiling,
looks like a DVD case,"

"but it is a window."

Flies can't even get through it.

Pointless contraptions, right?

As soon as my wife said she
wanted it,
I started taking the piss.

That's what I do. I take the
piss.
And she said, "Don't."

"Don't take the piss out of
caravans.
That's not fair."

"I have got genuine fond
memories
of my caravan"

"when we were growing up."

Yeah, they had a caravan.

Incredibly, Rosie's family
got given a caravan

by her old headmaster.

So they had...
It wasn't over-the-top.

It was just your standard
hook-onto-the-back-of-your-car
caravan

that they were given for free,
so they did have a caravan.

What they didn't have: a car.

On my life that is true.

This caravan sat on their drive,

on bricks, for six years.

The saddest, loneliest caravan
in the world.

They lived on a main road
so it was just watching cars go
past.

"Please.

"Please take me with you,
please."

"Please take me
away from this place."

"Please, I just want
to feel grass under my tyres."

"One more time
before I perish, please."

It sat there the whole time
like a big beige conservatory,

like a great big shitty wheelie
bin,
like a shed with wheels.

Rosie's mum and dad
used to tell people they had a
caravan.

They used to go,
"Oh, yes, we've got a caravan."

"Oh, really? Where do you
summer?"
"On the fucking driveway."

"So handy to get to."

Rosie's mum used to go
into the caravan on an evening
to read!

But it wasn't hooked up
because it wasn't in a caravan
site

so there was no electricity.

So every night
she walked down that drive

with a book, a lamp
and an extension lead.

"I'll be in the library if you
need me."

I only knew one person with a
caravan
when I was growing up.

It was my mate's granddad.
My mate lived across the road.

Round the corner in the
cul-de-sac,
his nana and granddad lived
there

and their caravan was there
most of the year

when they weren't away in it,
and my mate used to say to me,

"Let's go and chill out
in my granddad's caravan."

I was about nine
and I did a couple of times.

Then I stopped
because it was really creepy.

We'd go round and that caravan,
when they weren't on holiday,

was exclusively used
for his granddad to do jigsaws
in.

So we'd stand there.
You weren't allowed to move.

There was a half-finished jigsaw
on the table, the border of it
like that.

And every single flat surface
in the caravan

had little jigsaw pieces
in little sandwich bags.

And they were all organised.
Proper serial-killer stuff.

"On that little shelf,
don't touch them, yeah?

"That's my little blue and white
bits.
They're the sky."

"Just down there on the hob,
don't touch them."

"They're the little green bits.
They're the grass and the
trees."

"And over there there's a little
bag
of human teeth. Don't ask about
them."

Honestly. I remember standing
there.
I went about twice.

And I remember my mate going,
"It's great this, innit?"

"No."

"It's really weird."

"And get your granddad
to put some clothes on."

When he picked up that jigsaw
piece,
I nearly passed out.

Rosie keeps telling us different
reasons
why we should get a caravan.

She keeps bringing them up
like little buzzwords and little
phrases.

She says things like,
"Chris, we need to get a
caravan."

"Because the good thing
about a caravan is"

"when you wanna go,
you can just up and go."

"No booking, no flights,
just up and go."

Can you? Is it as easy as that?

Is it just up and go? It's not.

We've all seen the rigmarole

of a family trying to get
their giant wheelie bin of a
caravan

off their drive.

Normally the trees
have grown over it in the
garden.

There's weeds holding onto it
like Jumanji.

Like that.
"It's our caravan now."

There's nine-year-olds with
machetes
chopping it back. "For the
north!"

The dad's trying to hook it on
the back
of the car and jamming his
finger,

telling his kids he never wanted
them
in the first place.

The wife's in the middle of the
street
like an angry traffic lady,

just going, "Stop it. No, wait,
wait!"

"Bit more, Terry. Bit more."

"Wait. Stop beeping.
You will be late for work"

"because we're going to
Scarborough."

Selfish. Know what she said
the other day?

Rosie went,
"Best thing about a caravan is"

"you get to your destination"

"and we will have
all of our stuff with us."

Rosie, have you heard
of the invention: the suitcase?

It's an incredible bit of kit.

You might not have seen it.
It's quite new.

You put all your stuff in,
you zip it up,

you get to your destination,
you open it...

All your stuff's there.
You'd love it. It's got wheels.

You drag it behind you.
It's called "the caravan of the
hand".

Do you know why this is possibly
one
of my favourite routines I've
ever done?

Because at this stage in the
show
I can feel you.

You don't think I can,
but I can feel you.

The little pockets of caravan
owners

who are genuinely furious.

You are, aren't you?

You're gonna hate us even more
in a second.

This guy in front of you now,

I have never ever been
on a caravanning holiday.

That's the level of dickhead
you're dealing with tonight.

I will lacerate it like that
and I've never been,

because it takes
one bad experience of something

for me to completely write it
off forever.

Yeah? Example.

I have also never ever had
chicken curry

from the Chinese takeaway.

Gasps. Genuine gasps.

There's people leaving.
"Bollocks to him. He's shite."

"I'm gonna have a chicken curry
in my caravan. Rubbish. Loser."

I get it, right? I know, I
swear.

I'll tell you what happened.
I was in junior school.

One lunchtime they had chicken
curry on
and everyone was losing their
minds.

"Oh, my God, it's just like
from the Chinese. This is
amazing."

All the kids are necking it.
One girl inhaled it.

Honestly, it looked revolting.

It looked like bits of chicken
bobbing round in gold paint.

Yeah? And I thought,
"No, I'm all right for that."

They all ate it.
I was a bit, "Eurgh."

Then we had a prizegiving
assembly
straight after lunch.

The teacher was giving out
prizes

and we were in semi-circles,
cross-legged on the floor.

I had a front-row view
of the girl in question

and I will never forget.

I will never forget the noise...

the noise she made

as that Chinese chicken curry
exploded from her face.

It was unreal. It was satanic.

It was a bark and it was once.

Like a shotgun.

And the whole curry
came out of her head.

In one go.

She was sitting there like that.

Like that, the whole lot.

One go.

The whole thing, all of it.

All of it. Her head opened
like a Pez dispenser.

- It was...

And it literally went airborne
and it hit the ground and it
went...

And there was bits of chicken
rolling past the wave of bile.

Full, like she'd necked them
whole
like a baby bird.

Kids were standing up,
screaming, crying

and running
while being sick themselves.

Kids were climbing on the piano.
Teachers were getting in their
cars.

And I'll never forget the
carnage.

Three dinner ladies
ran in with hymn books

and dammed it.

"Run, kids.
Save yourselves. Run!"

They diverted it into the
cloakroom.
"Sorry, Jesus. Sorry, Jesus."

"Sorry, Jesus."

So whenever
someone says to me now,

"Do you wanna get Chinese
chicken curry?", I go, "Er...
no."

The caravan one
is even worse, right?

This is what happened with the
caravan.
This is the bad experience.

My mate across the road
went away for a weekend

with his mum and his dad
and his sister.

They borrowed the grandma
and grandpa's caravan.

They went away to the Lake
District
for a full weekend.

Sunday morning, they're planning
to come back Sunday afternoon,

his dad ate
an undercooked sausage

from the barbecue
that he'd cooked himself.

And he sort of wrestled with it
all day,

saying, "I'll be fine, I'll be
fine."

They left it as late
as they possibly could to leave.

They had to leave to get the
kids in bed
for school the next day.

So the plan was,
the mother sat in the car,

towing the caravan,
breaking the speed limit,

flying home to get her kids in
bed
for school the next day.

The dad spent the full journey
home,
A roads, speed bumps,

swerving, potholes,
on the toilet in the caravan!

An '80s hand-me-down caravan!
"Aaaaargh!"

Emptying himself into a
weekend's worth
of his family's already mess
that's there,

like Satan's blender.

"Aaaargh!"

She's swerving,
she's breaking the speed limit,

she's braking, she's stopping,
she's braking.

The bottom of the toilet
comes fully loose from the
fixings.

He is on his back,
holding the toilet on his arse,

spinning round like a dirty
turtle.

He gets up,
he opens the toilet door,

covered, he's covered.

And this is why I hate caravans.

He opens that door
and with one swoop of his dirty
arm

he destroys the dining table,
the kitchen,
the living room and the bedroom.

Poo, poo, poo, poo, poo.
Write-off, yeah?

He's like a swamp thing

and he moves his way to the
front,
ruining everything.

And he's looking through the
window.
This is before mobile phones.

So he's got the kids.
He's going, "Kids!"

"Kids, please!"
The kids finally see and they
go,

"Dad!"

They think it's a game.

The full journey is, "Kids!"

"Dad!"

"Kids!"

"Dad!"

"Get your mum!"

"Get YOUR mum!"

- They just...

I heard of what had happened
at school,

so straight away Monday night
I went straight round

with my mate
to his gran and grandpa's house.

That caravan was on the driveway

with every possible
door and window open.

It was like a scene
from "The Walking Dead".

Honestly, his nana was in there,

tea towel wrapped round her
head,

mop and a disinfectant spray,

giving it all this,
like a Chernobyl nana.

Next door there was a lawnmower
in the middle of a half-mowed
lawn

where the wind had changed
and the bloke had ran back in
his house.

And the saddest sight,
the real victim of this whole
thing,

I looked into that garage
and I saw on a wallpaper-pasting
table

my mate's granddad
finishing his jigsaw.

Dirty bastard.

I told Rosie this story. I said,
"That is why I'll never go in a
caravan."

She said, "You're a psycho.
You're living in the past."

I said, "You didn't smell it,
Rosie."

Then she said something
that made me realise

I'd completely won this
argument.

Listen carefully.
This is what she said.
"Chris..."

"We need to get a caravan.
It will change our lives
forever.

"It will be amazing.
Picture this, Chris."

"We can pick our son up
from nursery"

"on a Friday afternoon"

"and we can... pop..."

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop. Listen carefully.

"We can pick our son up
on a Friday afternoon from
nursery"

"and we can pop"

"to France for the weekend."

"Could we? Could we pop?

"Could we pop to France
for the weekend

"from the northeast of England"

"at 50 miles an hour,
towing a caravan,"

"on a Friday afternoon
when the traffic's at its best,"

"with a toddler who's gonna want
to stop every five minutes?"

She went, "You're so
narrow-minded.
What's wrong with you?"

"You never think outside the
box.
Just picture it."

"We could drink champagne
in Champagne."

First of all, I thought
she meant a paddling-pool full.

And I thought, "Mate, we'll do
that
tomorrow on the drive. That's
amazing."

What she meant was

the region of France called
Champagne
is where they make champagne.

I didn't know this,
I'll be honest with you.

Rosie's been watching a lot
of "Escape to the Chateau"
recently,

quite frankly getting ideas
above her station,

coming out with shit like that.

I went, "That's your plan?
We're gonna drive to Champagne?"

She went, "Yeah.
Pop over for the weekend."

I went, "Good." I opened my
laptop,
I got up Google Maps.

I planned the route,
because I'm that kind of dick.

The region of Champagne in
France
is 750 miles from my front door.

That's a 13-hour drive
in one direction.

That's a 26-hour round trip.

You add in the fact that we have
a toddler who'll want to stop,

that we are circumnavigating
London
on a Friday afternoon,

which will be a right laugh,
and that we are towing a fucking
caravan,

that is around about,
I've worked it out,

about a 31.5-hour round trip at
best.

You add in two nights of
sleeping,

which we will have to do
on this weekend,

we are left
with a whopping half an hour.

Half an hour for me
to sit in Champagne

and watch my wife
neck a bottle of champagne

that I can't touch because
I've got to fucking drive her
back.

The caravan we've got
is lovely, though.

- It's so nice.

Beautiful.

Her mum's in it now, reading.
It's a lush little thing,
gorgeous.

Do you know the real reason
I couldn't have one?

It's the hatred

that we all throw at caravans
as we overtake them on the
motorway.

You do. You might not even know
you're doing it, but you do.

Every time you overtake a
caravan,

they might not have even
been blocking up the road,

you might be on a six-lane
motorway,
you might be miles away from
them,

but you all do it,
you overtake them and you go...

"Got a caravan, have you?"

"Fuck you and your caravan."

All the time, you do.

"Got a little wing mirror there,
have you?"

"With another wing mirror
attached to it."

"Yeah?"

"Is that to see the best bits of
your life
because they're behind you?"

Honestly, I couldn't handle the
hatred
that comes with having a caravan

because I've got
this ridiculous narcissistic
need

to be liked by strangers.
I mean...

Obvs! "Watch me."

I need to be liked. It's
pathetic.
The weirdest one I did recently,

I ran out of underpants.

That's not the full story
but I'm glad you're on board.

I ran out of underpants.

I exclusively, for years, wore
only H&M David Beckham
underpants.

They weren't proper expensive or
flashy,
they just felt like they were
made for me.

Honestly, every time I put them
on,
I heard my balls go, "Aaah."

It was lush, right?

They weren't flashy,

they just had David Beckham
written across the top,

like I'd been doing PE with him
and stole them.

You wear the ones out the box,
David.
You wear them. These are mine.

I loved them.
I wore just them and only them.

And I needed to get some more in
because all of them were
knackered.

The gusset was a warzone.
It was craziness.

It was like a colander.
It was horrendous.

Some of them were just the belt
bit.

So light and breathable.
Feels like I haven't got a pair
on.

So I went to H&M to get a
restock.

They have discontinued
the David Beckham range.

If I ever meet him,
I will not be able to stop
myself

telling him how livid I am about
it.

If me and my wife
ever meet Posh and Becks

in any kind of celebrity
situation,

what happens that night
will be read out at the court
case

for the restraining order that
they will absolutely be filing
for.

Rosie will be hanging on her,
going,
"Why couldn't you do the reunion
tour?"

"It wasn't the same."

Snot all over her.

And I'll be with him,
dead sinister, going,

"Look, I don't wanna
freak you out, mate,"

"but they just cupped,
they just..."

"Ah, they just cupped, man.
It was like a warm hand, Dave.

"I always imagined it was your
hand,
every time.

"Every time I put those bad boys
on,
honestly, they were just..."

"Hey, you must have some left
kicking about round the house."

"You've got to have some in the
house.
Sort a brother out."

"Hey, they don't have to be
new."

"They don't have to be clean."

"Come on. What you got on?
What are you wearing now?"

"Untuck your shirt."

"Why are you struggling?
Why are you being weird? Stop
it."

I'll be dragged away
by one security guard, going,

"At least write your name on the
ones
I'm wearing, you twat. It'll be
the same."

She'll be dragged away by
another one.
"You don't even need to sing,
Victoria."

"Just stand there like you used
to."

So I genuinely shed a tear.
I was devastated in H&M.

I turned round, I walked out
and I went to a few different
shops

and I got a load
of different pairs of
underpants,

different styles
from a load of different shops.

And I took them home

and I sort of put them
through a rigorous testing
regime.

I'm putting them on.
I've got a full day off.

I'm putting them on.
I'm just lunging round the
house.

I'm lunging, I'm squatting,
I'm picking stuff up.

I'm putting pants on and off,
yeah?

I'm turning up the heating full
pelt
and just sitting in a leather
chair...

seeing where they end up.

I'm going to the toilet and
seeing
if I can navigate the willy
maze.

You know the willy maze
that some of them have got?

You can pull it down
or you can go right angle, right
angle

and piss.

I'm looking at button placement.
Button placement's very
important.

If you've got ones with little
buttons on,
if them buttons are too far
apart,

that is the difference between
being able to answer the door

to an Amazon delivery driver
in your underpants

or not.

Them buttons are too far apart,
it's like,
"I've got a package for YOU."

"Hello."

So I found the winners,
and I'm not ashamed to say:

Tesco, own brand.

Got a pair of the bad lads on
tonight.

So what I did was, I thought,
"I'm gonna go for a full
restock."

So I dropped my son off at
nursery,
nine o'clock on a Friday
morning,

I jumped in the car
and I'm going up to the big
Tesco.

And I'm thinking,
"Weekend's coming."

"This big Tesco also does
my favourite craft beer by the
case."

I thought, "That's brilliant.
I'll get a couple for the
weekend."

So I'm off to get my two crates
of beer
and my 30 pairs of underpants.

I've done the maths on this.

I'm gonna keep some in storage,
rotate them.

If my maths is correct, I will
be buried
in a pair of these bad lads.

I went up there to the Tesco,
full of the joys of spring,
loving life.

I got my trolley,
I put my two cases of beer in,

I put my 30 pairs of underpants
in.

I stopped for a moment and I
looked
at the contents of that trolley.

- Thank you, thank you.

Thank you.
It's not just me, is it?

I thought,
"I can't go to the till with
that."

"At nine o'clock on a Friday
morning,
I cannot...

"I cannot take just two cases of
beer
and 30 pairs of underpants."

"That is a breakdown in a
basket.
That is..."

"That's the shopping list of a
man
who's just lost access to his
kids."

"That's..."

I cannot do it.

That looks like my whole plan
for the day is to just get
pissed

and shit myself non-stop,

again and again,
and never learn my lesson.

"Oh, I did it again."

"It's all right, I've got loads
of them."

You know when you're taking
something
to the till and you're
self-conscious?

You look in their eyes and you
go, "You're
gonna tell people about this
later."

"I know you are.
I'm gonna be your anecdote."

I can just imagine the lady
in the staff room later on
going,

"That Chris Ramsey was in
earlier on."

"I see he must be having another
one
of his celebrity pants parties
tonight."

Telling everyone how on a Friday
I'm just in my house with music
blaring,

standing there:
"Come on in, everyone."

"There's beer in the fridge,
there's underpants in the
bucket."

"Let's go mental."

Ding-dong. "Is that Beckham?
Right, no pants for Beckham."

"No pants. See how you like it."

So what I did was,

I unpacked the trolley,
I put everything back.

I went and got a basket
and I just filled the basket

with 30 pairs of underpants.

And it was full, yeah?

And that's still weird, so I
thought,
"I don't want any humans to see
this,"

so I went to the self-service

and I started
beeping them through, right?

To my horror, I shit you not,

there were 30 security tags

on 30 pairs of underpants,

which, A, tells you
how rough that Tesco is,

and, B, backs up how fucking
good
these underpants are.

Let's be honest here, guys,

I picked right.

If someone burgles your house,

the chances are
they're wearing a pair of them
bad lads.

The criminal underworld love
them.

This poor lady had to come over

and take 30 security tags
off 30 pairs of underpants

at nine in the morning on a
Friday.

She did it in silence.
I was redder than I've ever
been.

And I walked out
and I ran down to the carpark

and I put the underpants in my
boot
and I changed my top...

and I went back in.

If you know me,
you know that's not bullshit.

I changed my top

so I wouldn't be recognised
when I went back in.

And I got my trolley
and I went back to the beer
aisle.

I got my two cases and I
thought, "Genius,
I'll go back to the
self-service."

Fucking idiot.
"Approval needed."

The same woman...

The same woman
came marching back over.

There's veins popping on my
head, steam
coming off. I'm so red, it's
painful.

And to be fair to her,
she looked at the beer, looked
at me,

looked at the beer,
looked at me and said,

"Are you celebrating your new
pants?"

I hate her. I hate her!

Such weird stuff
to worry about, man, honestly,

but I just spend my whole life
worrying.

That's how I'd sum up my day.
I sit and worry.

I worry so much about my son.
Everyone worries about their
kids.

But I worry on another level
about him.

Put it this way, has anyone
else,
by way of cheer,

has anyone else in the room
got a toddler who...

regularly and loudly
and quite flamboyantly,

full name, refers to theirselves
in the third person?

It's always nice to hear that
silence.

That genuinely screams at me,
"Just you with the psycho
child."

He's brilliant.
I love him. He's the best.

But the first time he referred
to himself
in the third person, I was
freaked out.

We were in the kitchen one
morning
and he just went, "Daddy",

"Robin Ramsey would like
a bowl of cereal."

"Eurgh."

Eurgh. Like a horror film.
Eurgh.

"Get in the shed." Eugh.

Later on, the same day,
he was like, "Daddy",

"Robin Ramsey needs a wee-wee."

Eurgh.

Holy water.
"Back, demon, back."

Honestly,
one morning I'm gonna wake up

and he's gonna be sitting
on my chest with a knife.

"Robin Ramsey needs you
no longer, Father."

He does it in the street.
He does it to strangers.

And you see them trying to hide
how freaked out they are.

He only does it now and then
but he goes full hog.

You see them go, "Ah, he's..."

"Isn't he? He's..."

"Eh? Isn't he?"

Honestly, in our street he'd be
like,

"Robin Ramsey likes your dog."

"Bring your dog to Robin
Ramsey."

"Mm, mm..."

"Yes, yes."

"One day your dog will die."

"Robin Ramsey will be there."

"Come on, we're leaving.
Come on."

I worry about things that
haven't
even happened yet in his life.

Me and Rosie were watching
a proper trashy American dating
show.

The other week
we were sitting watching it.

And there was this guy crying

because he hadn't been paired up
with the woman he wanted.

It was just trashy
American-dating-show shit.

And he was crying, this guy,
and I'm watching it

and I'm crying my eyes out
with this bloke.

I was balling my eyes out
and Rosie caught us and she
went,

"Are you...?"

"Are you crying at this shit?"

And I went,
"It's not this, Rosie, it's
just...

"I've just realised that..."

"one day..."

"Robin might get his heart
broken."

"What will we do?"

To be fair to her, she went,

"We'll start by not worrying
about it
while he's three, you
psychopath."

That's what I was doing.

In my head he was three in a
nightclub
and he couldn't pull.

And he was gutted about it
and he was dead vulnerable.

He's in the corner of a
nightclub,
sitting on a speaker, going,

"Will no one love Robin Ramsey?"

"Robin Ramsey will die alone."

It might not be a girl
who breaks his heart.

Might be a boy. He might be gay.

And I worry about that because
I want to be a good enough dad

so that he can tell me straight
away.

If my son's gay, I wanna be
the first person he comes out
to.

- I want him to march up to
us... Bless.

I want to have
that kind of relationship with
him.

I wanna...

If my son even thinks
he might be gay,

I want him to march up to me
and go, "Father..."

"Robin Ramsey despises vagina."

"That's fine, son. Great."

Sadly that's not always the
case.
Some parents are the last to
know.

Rosie used to be best mates
with this gay guy when she was
20.

And they used to go out
on a Friday night, get drunk,

and then they used
to go and stay at his house.

He still lived with his mum and
dad
and they'd stay there.

And one Saturday morning,
she told me, they were making
breakfast

and the guy's dad came
downstairs.

And he went,
"Hey, you two, last night, eh?"

"Keep it down next time,
you dirty bastards."

And Rosie was like, "But..."
And he went, "Shh."

And he hadn't told his dad.
Everyone else knew.

His dad didn't know.
That would break my heart.

Do you wanna know what the dad
heard
that he thought was sex?

What he actually heard was Rosie
and her mate at 3:00am,
hammered,

learning the dance
to "Single Ladies" by Beyoncé.

Yes!

Incredible way to end your
night,

but what kind of fucked-up sex
did he think he was hearing?

Rosie's a professional dancer.

When you get it wrong,
she shouts at you.

She gets angry, right?
Our wedding dance looks
romantic.

I was crying. I was scared.

She's in my ear, going,
"Don't you step on my toes
again!"

That poor guy. I can just
imagine.
The dad's listening through the
wall

and she's going,
"Your rhythm's off. Your
rhythm's off."

"Jesus Christ, son."

"Bloody hell, you better listen
to her.
She sounds like she means
business."

"Is my arse sticking out enough?
Is it out enough? Look at it."

"Fucking hell, son."

"Better get him some Savlon.
He's gonna be red raw in the
morning."

"Bloody hell."

"For God's sake, it'll be better
when we do it with all my
friends."

"Legend, that kid.
I'm buying him a car."

People are saying at the
minute...
It's in the news at the minute.

At what age
should you teach children

about people being gay
and about people being trans

and different things like that?

And I don't like to tell you all
what to think in my stand-up.

That's not the kind of comic I
am.
But I'm gonna tell you my
opinion.

And my opinion is:
tell the kids that as early as
you can.

As early as they can grasp it,
tell them.

Because kids are so accepting
and they do not judge.

Recently, me and my mate Jordan
went into a café near where I
live

and we took Robin in.

It was one of them cafés
we've all been to, especially
with kids.

It's one of them cafés you walk
in

and the parents go to one side
and have their coffee and panini

and the children go
to one corner of the café

and they choose
which childhood disease they'd
like

from the pile of
saliva-encrusted,
disgusting scabby toys

that have been there for ten
years.

So me and Jordan
are having a coffee,

and Robin is playing with the
café
owner's son who's the same age.

We had a great time,
stayed for a couple of coffees,
then left.

I went back to that café
recently

and that café owner told me

that his son had been asking to
play
with my son since we'd been
there.

He didn't know who Robin was,

so he said, "Son, who's Robin?
Which child is Robin?"

Know what his son said? His son
said,
"Robin is the boy with two
dads."

That's fucking lovely.

Was he offended? Was he upset?
Did he think Robin was weird?

He just thought he was a boy
with two dads and he accepted
it.

Was I upset? Was I offended?
Absolutely not.

Because that little kid thinks
I could pull Jordan!

Me!

You won't know Jordan
but he's my fittest mate.

Jordan is my fittest mate by a
mile.
If he was here, you'd all be
naked now.

Genuinely. Straight blokes as
well,
you'd be going,

"Fucking look at him.
I don't know why I'm doing
this."

It was the best compliment I've
ever had.
I floated out of that café on
air.

I did, and I've been swinging my
dick
around in the house since then.

That's the confidence boost
I needed in my relationship.

Whenever Rosie goes,
"Your what's full of disdain,"

I go, "You're living on borrowed
time.
I can pull Jordan. People are
saying it."

Some people are saying
that you shouldn't teach kids at
all.

I see them on the news going,
"Don't teach the kids about
being gay,"

"because it will turn them gay."

Will it? Will it really?

It won't and I'll tell you how I
know.

Because my son is currently
being taught art,

and the front of my fridge
is a fucking embarrassment.

When I think about my son,

my little boy having to learn
sex education one day at school,

it freaks us out
because it reminds us of mine.

And my sex education at school
was a farce, an utter farce.

I was ten years old in the
juniors

and they taught sex education
for the first time,

they dipped their toe in.

It basically involved
my teacher reading from a folder

as fast as she possibly could.

Because she was my normal
teacher,
not a specialist that was
brought in.

She had to teach me science
the next day.

So, she literally sat there
and went, "Right."

"That gets hard, put it in
there,
wiggle it about, a baby comes
out."

"Go home and wash your ears.
I'm ashamed of you all."

It was like a wind
had blown through the class.

We all went, "Fuck."
We had nosebleeds.

She went, "Any questions?"

She then said the words
that I'm sure she came to
regret.

She said,

"Does anyone have any questions

"about anything you've heard
outside of the class

"from older children, from
siblings,
heard on the TV,"

"that you think might have
something
to do with sex but you're not
sure?"

"You can ask me now."

"Ask me anything."

She then said the words
that she'd come to regret even
more:

"Ask me anything.
You will not get in trouble."

A hand flies up.

It's mine.

"Miss, what's knob cheese?"

"And why can't I find it
in the supermarket?"

She calmly...

and concisely and professionally

explained to ten-year-old me
what knob cheese was,

and that if I found it
in the supermarket,

I should alert the manager
immediately.

She said, "Any other questions?"
A different hand shoots up.

It's my other hand.

It's me once more.

"Miss, when will I get my
period?"

"All the other boys say they've
got theirs
and they're making fun of me."

She explains professionally
and concisely

to ten-year-old me

that I would never get my period

and that if I did,
something had gone terribly
wrong.

I should maybe adjust my bike
seat.

You had to finish that one
yourself.
It's horrible, innit? Enjoy
that.

That's my little mental present
to you this evening.

She said,
"Any other questions?"

You saw her visibly breathe
a sigh of relief

as across the classroom at the
back
she saw a hand shoot up.

It was the reflection in the
window
of my hand.

It was me again.

"Miss, what's an orgy?"

"And why are people saying
that my mum was there?"

She calmly and concisely
and professionally explained

to ten-year-old me
exactly what an orgy was

and that my mum probably wasn't
there.

I inundated this teacher

with every single sexual
reference
and swear word I had ever heard.

She was my sexual Wikipedia.
I shit you not,

no other child's hand went up
that full lesson.

Not one. It was me,
again and again and again and
again.

Children were ageing around me.

There were three birthday
parties
during that class.

Childhood innocence was
shattered.
Kids were crying.

I asked her what rimming was.
She went to get the headmaster.

I wasn't in trouble,
she just didn't know.

Genuinely, I didn't get in
trouble.

I could not get in trouble for
this.

She said, "You cannot get in
trouble,"
and I'm telling you,

this was not only the greatest
lesson
I ever had at Mowbray Junior
School,

but it also led to the only,
only positive comment

I ever got on a report
from that teacher

and it genuinely said,

"Chris is not afraid
to ask questions in class."

Oh, God.

It's all I do, worry.
You gotta worry about your
family.

It's the main thing
about having a family.

I worry mainly...
I nearly died recently.

- Thank you.

- What the fuck's your problem?
- Sorry, sorry.

I genuinely nearly died
recently,

protecting my family
from a home invasion.

You're right to clap. Settle
down.
I'm just a normal guy. I'm just
a man.

I'm not a hero.

I was in my son's bedroom
during the day last month.

I'm in the bedroom.
I'm putting his clothes into his
drawers.

He's got a flat roof on his
bedroom.

On the roof I heard...

Obviously my first thought was,
"Santa?"

In May.

I came to my senses
and I genuinely thought,

"We're getting burgled. This is
it."

"Someone's burgling me
during the day, the cheeky
shits."

I dropped all the stuff
and I silently went across to
the window.

I opened the window quietly.
I climbed up on the sill.

I put one foot on the inside
bit,
one on the outside bit.

I ducked under the window.
I held onto the middle bit.

And I lifted up
and I looked up onto the top of
the roof

and I was face to face

with the biggest seagull
I have ever seen in my life.

It was massive. It was the
worst.

I've never been that close.
It was huge. It was imposing.

Give a cheer
if you love seagulls.

Exactly. Wankers.
No one likes them. They're the
worst.

A mate of mine can do
an impression of a seagull.

He doesn't do the noise, he just
nicks your chips and shits on
your car.

Huge thing, huge, and I'm like
that,
and I'm face to face with it.

It looked at me and I looked at
it
and we're like that.

It screamed in my face.

Watch 'em. That's what they do.

They don't tweet, they don't
quack,
they don't cheep,

they...

99% sure they're saying fuck.

It went, "Fuck!" and I went,
"Fuck!"

It went, "Fuck!" and I went,
"Fuck!"

And it went, "Fuck!"
and I went, "Fuck!"

"Fuck!" "Fuck!"

"Fuck!" "Fuck!"

"Fuck!" "Fuck!"

I wasn't backing down.
This is my house.

This went on for hours.
"Fuck!" "Fuck!"

"Fuck!" "Fuck!"

It did this thing. I don't know
if you've ever crept up on a
bird but...

It's gonna sound so bad
out of context, that, innit?

That's gonna sound so bad.

"How was his observational
comedy?"
"Pretty creepy.

"Pretty sinister, pretty creepy,
yeah."

"You wanna keep an eye
on that fella."

I don't know
if you've ever crept up on a
bird,

but it didn't know I was there
and it turned and went, "Fuck!"

And they do this thing
where they flap at you.

It's really weird. They don't
fly away
because they're hard as fuck,
seagulls.

They just go,
"Oh, you can fuck right off."

And I'm going, "Fuck, fuck!"
And it's going, "Fuck!"

And I'm going, "Fuck!"

And then its feather...
touched my face.

"Fuck! Fuck!"

And I fell back
and I grabbed a hold of my son's
curtain

and I pulled myself back in

and I hit my shoulder blade
off the radiator and I lay on
the floor,

out of breath,
after nearly being murdered,

murdered by a seagull.

Honestly, two floors up,
I'd have fell and landed on the
drive

and I think that would've been
it.

I lay there, and they say
your life flashes before your
eyes

when you're about to die.
It doesn't.

You just get one bit
over and over and over again.

Do you know which bit I got?

The bit where its feather
touched my fucking face.

Yeah? The feather
of a weasel of the sky.

A smackhead with wings.

On my delicate face.

I remember thinking, "If I fall,
I'm gonna have to land on my
face"

"because I need a new face."

Oh!

Ever since that happened,
you'd think,

"I bet there's no seagulls there
anymore.
I bet you've scared them off."

It's the opposite.
It's freaking us right out.

It's the opposite.
There are more of them,

in greater numbers, more
regularly,
and they're louder.

Big gangs of seagulls on that
roof.
Every single day they wake my
son up.

I know what they're doing.

I know what they're up to.
I know how they think.

They're all up there in a gang,
all of them, like that.

In a big line.

"Keep doing it, guys. Keep doing
it.
Keep doing it, guys.

"Keep going. Keep stamping.
Keep stamping, loud as you can.

"Gary, peck it.
Peck it as well, Gary.

"Keep going, everyone.
Honestly, keep going.

"Keep doing it.
Keep doing it, honestly.

"I'm telling you,
the man comes out.

"He's fucking nuts. He's nuts.

"Pops his little head out there.
I nearly killed him the other
week.

"Lads, it's incredible.

"It's amazing, honestly.
Shout fuck at him, he shouts it
back.

"It's amazing.
It's the best thing in the
world."

"Hold on, he's coming.
He's coming."

"Here he comes.
Who won the raffle?"

"Brian, you won the raffle?
You get to touch his face."

So, after my brush with death...

which it genuinely was,
I had an epiphany.

I don't have many of them.

I lay on my son's floor,
out of breath, my back hurting,

and I thought,
"Chris, all you do is worry

"about the future,
about things that haven't
happened,"

"about the world being a better
place,
about people accepting your
son."

"Why don't you do something
about this?"

"Why don't you enact
some change yourself?"

So I decided there and then
to just be a better person,

to give, to help

to just help people
and do things for people

and I thought,
"That's how I'm gonna live my
life."

That passed after about half an
hour,
something like that.

When my back started feeling
better,
I was like, "Fuck that hippy
shit."

I kept a bit of it.
I did keep a bit of it.

I did, so it wasn't a total
waste.

My new mantra is,

if you are needing me
to do something for you,

and that thing you need
is close to me,

and not heavy,

and free,

there's a 50% chance I'll do
that thing.

That's the kinda guy you're
dealing with.
The knighthood is in the post.

The knighthood is in the post.

I put this into action recently.
I put this into action.

I was on a train
on a Friday night at six
o'clock,

leaving London King's Cross.

I'm on the train, coming all the
way
back to Newcastle for the
weekend.

It was packed with business
people
who've been doing business in
London.

Then they come up for the
weekend
and they go back down on the
Monday.

And when I do a TV show,
they'll pay for you to go first
class.

I'm in the first-class carriage
with business people on laptops.

I'm at a table of four. Me on a
laptop.
Bloke opposite me on a laptop.

Bloke next to him on a laptop.
Bloke there on a laptop.

Across the aisle there's a
single table
with one man sitting there.

There's drinks on there as well
when you're on the first-class
one.

They get drinks.
Free drinks trolley.

I had the car at the station
so I didn't need a drink.

Trolley goes past
and I hear a bit of a kerfuffle

between the man sitting there
and the guy with the trolley.

Then it leaves.

The man leans over the aisle
and he taps me on the shoulder.

He said,
"I'm sorry to bother you, mate,"

"but could you do me a favour?"

I said, "Yes."

"I don't want to bore you,
but I was nearly murdered by a
seagull."

"Honestly, you asked us a month
ago,
I'd have told you to go fuck
yourself."

I said, "Yes, mate,
what do you need?"

He said, "I get this train back
every Friday."

"I work in London all week.

"I know all the staff on this
train.
This train's like my night out,
mate.

"They always sort us out a
couple
of extra cheeky vodka diet
cokes.

"But this man pushing
this trolley tonight,

"he is only allowing me
one vodka diet coke at a time."

"So what I'm asking is,
I noticed you weren't drinking,"

"can you, when the trolley comes
past,
order a vodka diet coke,"

"and when he's gone,
slide it across to me?"

I said, "I'll stop you right
there, sir."

"Are you asking me to pretend
I want an alcoholic drink?"

"Are you asking me to act?
I was nearly in a Steven
Spielberg film."

"You've come to the right guy."

I was genuinely excited
because, A, I'm up for giving
him a drink.

Why not? He wants a night out.
There's no harm in that.

And B, this is the closest I get
to being in "Ocean's Eleven".

This is the heist of the century
for me.

I'm buzzing. I'm practising my
lines.
I'm getting excited.

I saw the trolley coming back
and I genuinely went to the guy,

"It's coming back."

"I know. Just chill out. I
know."
I went, "OK."

It came back and he ordered.

Then the guy went to me,
"Evening, sir."
And I panicked. I went, "Yo."

I was practising my lines,
right?
I was genuinely thinking of
them.

And he went, "Would you like a
drink?"
And I went, "Mm..."

I didn't wanna do it straight
away
so I went, "Mm-mm."

"Mm-mm, mm...

"Would I...?"
Don't know what that was.

"Would I like a drink?
Would I like a beverage?

"Do you know what?
I would like an alcoholic
beverage.

"Um, I would like... Hm...

"I would like a vodka and coke."
He coughed so loud.

"Diet! Diet!"

"Diet coke is my preferred coke.
Thank you."

And he looked weird at the guy
and he looked at me but he gave
us it.

And I looked at him and I was
like,
"Sorted, brother. Sorted."

Then something I was not
expecting
happened.

From the silence,
from the stuffiness

of that business-filled
first-class carriage

the man across from me,

from nowhere,
from behind his laptop,

ordered a vodka and diet coke.

The man next to him...

ordered a vodka and diet coke.

The man next to me...

The man next to me...

ordered a coffee.

He didn't. I'm joking. He
ordered
a fucking vodka and diet coke.

And we all sat there and held
them
and I looked at them,

in a little silent look as if to
go,
"Are we doing this?

"Is this what's happening?"
And we all gave each other a
little nod.

And we're looking over to the
guy.
I thought his head was gonna
explode.

He was sitting at his single
table,
shaking like that.

He was loosening his tie.
He was sweating.

And I'm going,
"It is. This is it. It's
happening."

"It's vodka diet coke
Spartacus."

"This is wonderful."

And we all look, silently,
we're looking at the guy.

I looked up at the bloke
with the trolley. He knew.

He knew exactly what was going
on.

And he knew we knew he knew.

That was the best bit because he
knew
we knew he knew we knew he knew.

And he knew we knew he knew
we knew he knew we knew he knew.

And there was nothing he could
do.

"I think you'll find we are
abiding
by your one-drink-per-person
policy,"

"so why don't you just piss off
with your little trolley of
fascism"

"and we'll get this party
started."

It was amazing.

Guys...

We sat there,

us, in silence, sat there,
holding them,
us newly formed band of
brothers,

four band of brothers,
newly formed on that train,

and we silently
and coolly and suavely

handed our fifth brother
four extra vodka diet cokes.

It was incredible.

I'm never part of something like
that.
It was the coolest I've ever
felt.

His table was rammed.
I've seen nothing like it.

He was piling them on top of
each other,
necking bottles to get rid of
them.

He was going,
"Hey, guys, thank you, thank
you."

"Hey, my brother...
Not a problem at all, sir."

And I turn to these guys.
No one said anything.

It was cool as anything.
Every now and then we'd look and
go...

So cool.
I mean, I nearly got a hernia

suppressing my excitement,

suppressing my need to go,

"We should get tattoos."

We sat there. And stuff like
that
never happens in public.

Especially on public transport.
People are always out for
theirself.

But us four, band of brothers,
sat there in silence,

and we watched our fifth brother

turn into the most annoying
drunken knob

you have ever had the misfortune
of sitting next to on a train.

He was fucking unbearable.

He was horrible.
I don't know if he'd had a drink
before.

You know your mate who has one
drink
and is a total arsehole straight
away?

He was like that times ten,

and he wasn't my mate
in the first place so it was
even worse.

He was loud, he was obnoxious,

he was a pain in the arse,
he was rude to the staff.

We sat there, going,
"What have we done?"

"We've created a monster.
This is a nightmare."

Right? He did a few things.

He started drumming on his
table.

Annoying.

He used to be a drummer in a
band.

How do I know? Because he told
us,
seven fucking times,

that he used to be a drummer
in a piss-weak band.

He took his shoes off.

Don't do it. It's not your
living room.
Don't take your shoes off on a
train.

He took his socks off.

He moved his bare feet into the
aisle
and he did that with his toes,

flaky skin falling off them bad
boys.

If that air conditioning
had been on one level higher,

we'd have been in a snow globe.

He whipped his iPad out,
he started watching "Coronation
Street"

with no headphones.

He basically decided the full
carriage
was watching "Coronation
Street".

And I kept looking, going...

He thought I was interested
and I went, "No, no."

"I don't watch 'Coronation
Street'."

He tried to catch me up
on "Coronation Street".

Fifty-nine fucking years
of "Coronation Street"!

York station came,

and the lucky bastard
opposite me stood up,

slammed his laptop closed,
put it in his bag, and said,

"Well, this has been
delightful,"

in a tone that said to me
that this was all my fault

and that the band of brothers
was broken forever

and that we weren't gonna get
tattoos.

I saw him walk down that aisle.

He got off there
and I saw him walk down the
platform.

And I thought, "Take us with
you."

"I could start a life in York.
Fuck Rosie.
I could live with you in York."

"I can't put up
with this man any longer."

That hour to Newcastle from York
was the longest hour of my life.

I got to Newcastle.

I jumped up.
I had my bag ready.

I had my caravan of the hand
ready.
I was ready to rock 'n' roll.

Yeah? All of the staff were
getting off
at the same time.

So I'm running,
trying to get through all the
staff

and dickhead's going,
"Let's go for a Chinese."

"Many reasons why I can't go
for a Chinese with you."

And I jumped off that train
and I sprinted down the
platform.

Someone grabbed my arm.
I turned and looked.

It was the man
who'd been pushing the trolley.

He looked me in the eye and said
to me,
"That's why he only gets one at
a time."

"I'm so sorry.
I'll never do that again."

"I'm never gonna do nice things
for anyone ever."

You might think that sounds
harsh,
never doing nice things for
anyone.

It's not harsh
because the story's not over.

I ran with my little caravan of
the hand

and I got to the machine
where you pay for the parking.

The man in front paying for his
parking
was taking an age.

He turned round.
He looked familiar.

It was the bloke
who'd got off at York.

"You! You got off at York!"

He went, "I didn't. I walked
down
and jumped onto the next
carriage."

I said, "What?"
And that "what" was full of
disdain.

Guys...

You've been amazing.

Thank you so, so much.

I'll see you again sometime.
Good night.

Love you.