All language subtitles for White Gold 1x03 - Close Encounters (English)

Excuse me...

Hello?

Excuse me.

Excuse me. Are you the homeowner?

- That depends.
- Depends on what exactly?

On whether you're here to tell
me I've won the pools or not.

Not quite. I'm looking
for Mr Vincent Swan.

- Oh.
- I take it that's you?

No, sorry.

And you are?

The gardener.

Well, if you could pass this on
to Mr Swan and tell him that

Miss Barnes from Her Majesty's
Inland Revenue stopped by

to discuss his tax affairs.

Will do. What's he done?

It's more what he's not done,
really. As in pay any tax.

Hm.

Do many people on this council
estate have private gardeners?

No, I'm a luxury few can afford.

Tell Mr Swan I'll see him soon.

Oh, I will, sweetheart.

"Nothing is certain in life
but death and taxes."

You know who said that?

Some fucking loser.

It's defeatist bullshit designed to
make the feeble feel

better about their tragic lives.

Death and taxes?
I plan on avoiding both.

Sync & corrections by emeline-whovian
www.addic7ed.com

Mm. You look handsome.

And flammable. Have you got any cash?

- I need to pay for Robbie's school trip.
- Wallet's in my pocket.

Jacket pocket.

It's all right, I think I've found
what I've been missing.

Sam, I don't have time.

That's not what Mr Winky is telling me.

He seems very pleased to see me.

Oh, that's not fair.

I think it's more than fair,
Vincent Swan.

It's been ages since we've
had any fun together.

Oh, Jesus, that feels good.

All right, let me get out
of these trousers, yeah?

No, no, no, you keep them on.

I want you like this, Mr Big
Shot Salesman. In his suit...

Mm, let's close this deal, Vincent.

It's business time... I'm on my knees,

begging for all of your product...

That's it. Mm, close the deal.
All over my fingers.

- That's it. - Oh!
- There we go.

Mm.

Shit.

I'm going to have to change now.

Well, let that be a lesson to you.

And I swear I'll make you ruin
every single pair of trousers

in that wardrobe until you give
your family some proper attention.

But Sam wasn't the only
woman yanking my dick

that particular morning.

You've got to be shitting me.

He'll probably be here in five
minutes. Come in, wait inside.

Pick up the phone, shitheads.

He won't be long.

No-one move, I'll get it.

Cachet Windows and Doors.
How may I help you?

Carol, this is Vincent.
Listen. Don't talk.

That woman is from the tax
office, she's after me.

How'd you know that?
Is this magic, like Paul Daniels?

Stop fucking talking. I'm over
the road in the phone box.

Don't look.

Jesus Christ!

Oh, sorry, I'm very suggestible.

Look, I need you to calmly put
the phone down and tell her

I do not work there and you
have never heard of me.

I've never heard of Vincent Swan.

So, why did you just invite me in

and say he'd be along in five minutes?

I thought you said...

Winston...

Ston.

Winston Ston?

OK.

Neither of you gentlemen would
happen to be Vincent Swan?

- No, sorry.
- Well, is either of you the business owner?

No, I just work here in sales.

"Work" is debatable.
He sits there and looks pretty.

- I'm the salesman.
- Pointless comment.

If you'd like to speak to Tony Walsh
he's the business owner,

- he's usually at the factory.
- Do you have the address handy?

- Here's his card. - Thank you, for
being more than just a pretty face.

Erm, thanks.

If you do happen to run into Mr Swan

please do let him know
that I stopped by.

Will do... I mean, I would do...

if I could, but I can't.

Cos I don't even know him
and he's never worked here. Bye.

Lavatory couldn't wait to grass you up.

Don't be a cock. I was trying
to get her out of the showroom.

You and your student comrades
might want to go and live in Russia

but, here, in the free West,
we try not to inform on our pals.

Brian, will you just give it a
rest for two minutes while I try

and figure out how to get this
fucking bloodhound off my scent.

Here's an idea, why don't you pay
your tax like the rest of us?

Because unlike you, I'm not a mug, mate.

Paying tax is like paying your
TV licence fee, you only ever

- do it when they catch you.
- Which she has done.

No, she's just knocked on my door.
All I have to do is hide

under the sofa until she moves on
to the next sap.

- Wouldn't it be easier to just pay them?
- I can't, mate.

I conscientiously object to taxation.

On what grounds?

On the grounds that I tried it once
and I didn't like it.

Luckily, it wasn't bad timing
for an enforced sabbatical from

the business as I'd recently
branched out

into movie distribution.

Can you believe people will pay 20 quid

a pop to get their own copy of
this boggly-eyed little cunt?

This all started with a visit from our
friendly neighbourhood loan shark.

Ronnie Farrell had recently acquired
some electrical goods and

needed a safe place to store
them for a few weeks.

Stay in the van, I mean it.

Just until the paperwork got sorted.

Anyway, these goods turned out
to be a batch of state of the art

video recorders and camcorders.

Which was handy because as well as
crushed dreams, the music industry

had given Lavender a basic knowledge
of recording equipment

so when I got hold of an illegal VHS of
the biggest movie on the fucking planet,

we set up our own dubbing suite and
entered the pirate video business.

Piss off, will ya!
Turn that bloody thing off!

God, the little boy's sick now.

And the alien.

And talking of illegal aliens,
meet Brendan, our Irish fitter.

It turns out I wasn't the only
Cachet boy looking to branch

out into showbusiness.

Martin, you've been to university,
you can work a camera, can't you?

I need some photos done.

Yes, I can work a camera, Brendan,
not because I've been to university.

You just press the button on top.

Will you take the fucking pics or not?

Yeah, yeah. Seeing as you're asking
so nicely. What are we shooting?

Donna, get your arse in here!

I need somebody to take some
topless shots of Donna for this

Page 3 competition
they're running in The Sun.

500 quid first prize.

Obviously, I'd do it
if I weren't her Da.

- Jesus, Brendan. How old is she?
- 16.

It was my birthday on Sunday.

Many happy returns, love.

Was it a toss up between
getting some roller boots

or getting some tit shots done?

No, she got her roller boots, too.

Right. I want no part in this.

Typical. I suppose Comrade Lenin
didn't approve of tits?

I wouldn't know, I'm not a communist.

- I just think Page 3 is degrading to women.
- Course you do.

That's the problem with these
Trotsky types, Brendan.

Dare to show a bit of
entrepreneurial spirit

and they want to piss
all over your dreams

- from their lofty moral high ground.
- It's not political.

I just don't particularly want to
see Donna's or anyone's tits

splashed across my newspaper.

Careful with that smart mouth
of yours, boy.

- I'll take the pictures, Brendan.
- Cheers. Here's the camera.

If you'd like to just follow
me upstairs, Donna.

I'll be back in an hour, love.

Don't be late cos I've got
majorettes at six.

There's something wrong with you.

Come on, loosen up a bit. Try and
look a little less... dead eyed?

It doesn't matter.

I just want to get this over with
and get my 500 quick.

Well, if you want to be in with a
chance of winning the money

we've got to get a shot that
doesn't look like it should come

with a ransom note.

Are you saying I might
not get paid for this?

It's a competition. Only
the winner gets the money.

- It's not Reader's Wives.
- I don't know what that is.

No, of course you don't.

It's an erotic magazine
where consenting adults

send in nude photos.

A grot mag?

Yes.

And they get paid?

Yeah. 25 quid a shot...
I've... someone... I've heard...

Lavender told me.

Well, let's just do that, then.

Yeah all right, then,
but don't tell your dad.

That's better.

Meanwhile, hiding from the
tax Nazi gave me the chance

to score some brownie points
with Sam and the kids.

Hands up who thinks I'm the
best daddy in the world?

- Well, hands up who wants
the day off school? - Yep!

That's better.

Right. The Swans are
having a family day out.

I see they're thinking up new ways
to make Page 3 even creepier.

There's the latest.

"Cute little Karen Clarke was
a topless beauty at an early age

"but she's a big girl now
all right, and every inch a lady."

She sure is. What's wrong with that?

Just everything possible, I suppose.

They've even lined up
her two-year-old self

so she's looking directly
at her 19-year-old breasts.

- Do you honestly think that's all right?
- Course.

Look at little Karen there,

she looks pleased as punch
she turned into such a stunner.

Oh, hello, love. Just head upstairs,
get yourself ready.

Don't call me love.

- What are you up to?
- None of your beeswax.

All right. Maybe I'd better ask
Brendan when I see him.

All right. I'm just helping Donna
make a little bit

of extra pocket money.

If she's going to immortalise
her bangers on celluloid,

she might as well get some mullah
doing it, her words not mine,

before you start labelling me "sexist."

Hello, Brian. Are we OK to leave
the car out the front?

No, the warden round here's a Nazi.

Just swing it round the back
of the showroom.

Who was that?

Those gentlemen are local artistes
who've expressed an interest

in honing their nude,
still-life photography techniques.

They look like the sort of men we
were warned not to speak to

on the way home from school.

As they're paying 200 quid
for an hour's studio time,

me and Donna are more than
happy to speak to them.

You just stay down here
staring disapprovingly at tits.

Now her genies were out the bottle,
Donna wanted quick, easy money and

Fitzpatrick was precisely the kind
of degenerate to help her find it.

Elsewhere, the Swan family Beano
was underway and nothing says

quality time like a visit to
the spot where it all began.

It's so creepy down here.

- We're not lost, are we, Vincent?
- No-one's lost. We're nearly there.

- Do you know what that is, kids?
- What are we looking at?

More boring trees.

No, that's the spot where
you were conceived.

- Jesus, Vincent.
- Right up against that big tree.

- You actually think this is all right?
- Urgh.

- I want to go back to school.
- What's conceived mean?

You're going to have to do much
better than this, Vincent.

OK.

Fitzpatrick's photography class was
soon exploring all the classical

poses, naughty school girl,
sexy tennis player, slutty nurse.

And while a picture paints
a thousand words,

- turns out a video was gold dust.
- Do you ever record these sessions?

- Come on, mate, don't take the piss.
- How much?

- Another �200.
- Each.

Shit, really. You're both in?

- Donna?
- Yeah.

All right wait here.

All right, look, it's got auto focus
so all you need to do

is point and shoot.

And then making copies is pretty
easy. You just put the master copy

into one machine, press play.
Then take a blank tape and

put it into the other machine
and press play and record.

There you go. That's it.

If you film it and run off
a couple of copies,

there's a 20 in it for you.

Hm, let me see.

My dignity and self respect
versus �20, that is a tough one.

Come on, Donna doesn't give a shit.

It's all tasteful Page 3 stuff.

Yeah, Page 3 isn't really
tasteful, though, is it?

Oh, your KGB pal is back for more info.

Tell you what, try and resist
the urge to grass this time.

Hello. Miss Barnes. Don't tell me?

You liked our windows so much
you're back for a free quote?

Unfortunately, I'm here
on official business,

though you could sell me anything
with those puppy dog eyes of yours.

Any sign of your colleague Vincent Swan?

I don't think I have
a colleague called Vincent Swan.

Nice, very good.

The problem is our investigators
have evidence that Mr Swan

has been an employee of Cachet
Windows for the last eight months.

And yet no-one who works here
seems to remember him.

Isn't that strange...

..pretty face?

That is strange but, like I said,
I can't really help you...

The thing is Mr...

Call me Martin.

Thing is, Martin, we could continue
this charade for weeks until

I eventually catch him,

or we could investigate other avenues

for making all of this
unpleasantness disappear.

I'm sorry, other avenues?

Let's just say I'm more inclined
to believe an individual when

they're trying to be accommodating.

Right now, I can see great potential

for how accommodating
you might be to me.

Oh, my goodness.
Is that the time? I must fly.

Tell Mr Swan I'll be back tomorrow.

- They look evil.
- Dad, I'm scared.

It's freezing, Vincent, can't
we just eat these in the car?

Don't be daft. Look around.

This beats any al-fresco dining
experience on the planet.

Is al-fresco Italian
for bleak and terrifying?

Oh!

All right, look, we're not going
to let a couple of seagulls

ruin our moment.

They're predators, they won't attack
if an alpha stares them down.

I'll bog them out,
you finish your dinner.

Right, you thieving little bastards,
stay away from my family.

Really?

He's obviously practised this before.

All right, maybe we've all had
about as much Vincent time

as we can handle.

- Whoa! - Mum! - Right. Car. We're
getting in the car this instant.

- Right, your dad can do better than this.
- What are you doing?

Run!

What I really wanted to
show you was this creation.

Would you like mine?

We have to go on this!

Go. Let's go, let's go.

Let's go, let's go, run, run!

Thank you.

- They really needed that.
- I enjoyed it.

Good. So, are you heading back
in tomorrow?

No, I thought we could
all go up to London.

We can't keep them
off school another day.

Besides, it's Robbie's
school trip tomorrow and

I said you might chaperone him,
if you were around.

Where are they going?

Is that a yes?

I'm thinking about it.

Right, well, it's Joseph And His
Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat

in Basildon Civic Centre.

You're going have to make me spunk
in a few more pairs of trousers

- before I agree to that.
- Well, that can be arranged.

You two are disgusting.

We weren't the only ones
having a productive day.

Right. I'll run off a few copies.

Brian, can you tell them
to hurry up, please.

Bollocks. Erm... blank tape.

- _
- Bollocks.

Erm...

The next day, after Sam had
persuaded me several times over,

I agreed to take Robbie
on his school trip.

Right, wait here,
I'll be back in a minute.

But before that my other demanding
children required some attention.

- Morning, arseholes. - All right?
- Right, I haven't got long,

I've got to get on a coach with 35
snotty-nosed teenagers in half an hour.

Ah, sweetheart. Some coffee
and some toast, please.

There we are.

Thanks for doing these.

You're welcome.

Shut the lid, will ya? That fucking
thing gives me the creeps.

You're happy to sit in a room full
of sex offenders taking tit pics

of a teenager but lovable old ET
gives you the creeps?

That was business.
This is different, innit?

- I just don't trust his kind.
- His kind?

What, special effects puppets?

You know what I mean. Fucking
aliens. What is their game?

I'm not sure they exist,
let alone have a game.

If they want me to be less suspicious,

stop shining blinding
white lights in my face.

And speak through your mouths, don't
send messages directly to my brain.

That's fucking freaky.

Most of these concerns
appear to be based on

Close Encounters Of The Third Kind.

Speaking of close encounters,

did our friendly neighbourhood
tax inspector pay a visit?

Yes, she did, and the good news
is I might have found

a way to get her off your back.

The bad news is I think it involves
me sleeping with her.

It sounds like disastrous news. For her.

A bit of, erm, good old-fashioned
sexual harassment. The sly minx.

So, look, what's next?

I don't feel comfortable asking
you to sleep with her.

Although I'm definitely going
to insist he does exactly that.

Lavender wasn't the only one holding
the shitty end of the stick.

When I'm old and you even think
about putting me in a home,

reflect back on this day, young Robbie.

These are the sacrifices.

Morning, girls.

Is that your teacher?

Yeah. Please don't
embarrass me today, Dad.

- I wouldn't dream of it, I'll be on
my best behaviour, son. - OK.

Morning, Miss Lyndsey.

No need to run, Robbie.
There's plenty of spaces left.

- Vincent Swan, Robbie's dad.
- Oh, hi. Thanks for coming.

Your wife wasn't sure
if you could make it.

Wouldn't miss it for the world.

In my day, it was always
the naughty boys that sat

at the back of the bus.

Well, it still is, although
it's not only the boys

- that get up to no good.
- Certainly not in my experience.

Now, where would you like me,
Miss Lyndsey?

I think up front where I can
keep my eye on you.

Dad, saved you a seat. Dad. Dad!

Oh, no. Quick, there's paper towels
out in the toilets. Go out there.

- I should go with her, really.
- Nah, she's all right.

It's just through the door.

Malteser?

Thanks.

Right, Robbie, you're going to need
to walk home on your own.

What? I thought you were taking me?

I gotta get back to work, mate.

- OK. - I'll see ya.
- See ya.

Need a lift anywhere, Miss?

Yeah, all right.

Can I let you into a secret?

I hate musicals.

And I hate kids, so we're
a pair of martyrs.

Before you rush to judge,
I'd just sat through

three hours of Andrew fucking
Lloyd Webber. I deserve a treat.

Later that evening, Lavender
was taking one for the team.

As abuses of power go,
it was hardly Watergate,

but he was still terrified it
might end with a deep throat.

We're not that dissimilar,
really, are we, Martin?

We both get paid to go door to door,

asking people if they'll hand over
cash they don't want to.

Not exactly. Our customers get
a great product for their money.

Our precision-engineered
windows and doors are...

Fucking hell I'm starting to
sound like Vince... Winston.

Oh, yeah, good old Winston Ston.

Come on, we're outside
of business hours now,

you don't have to keep the guard up.

Frankly, it's weird enough
we're doing this anyway.

This isn't that weird.

I'm not usually this impulsive,
there was just

something about you that made
me throw caution to the wind.

Possibly the pretty face?

Possibly.

Another drink?

No, thank you, I think I'd
better be going actually.

I've already crossed
enough lines tonight

to lose my job several times over.

OK, I'll walk you to your car.

The thing is, though, Martin,
once you've crossed the line...

..you might as well make
damn sure it's worth it.

That was one thing at least that the
tax office and I could agree on.

I'm going to need you to put
your fingers inside me.

- What, here?
- Well, obviously here.

But, I mean, it's quite public.

Just do it. Oh!

Now...

..Martin, tell me

- your National Insurance number.
- What?

Your National Insurance number.
Give it to me.

And keep on doing that. Oh...

- Erm, it's NCW...
- Oh!

- ..21, 55... - Oh!
- ..764... - Mm!

- I think.
- Now, slowly...

..your tax code. Sing it out.

- It's 5, 7...
- Mm...

7... 3... M... 1.

Oh, yeah, emergency tax code.
Yes, I'm almost there.

Taxable income...

for the last... tax year.

- Seven thousand... - Oh!
- ..eight hundred big ones.

Oh, Martin.

That is fucked up. She
didn't want to screw you?

Nope. After that she said goodnight,

shook my hand and told me she
wouldn't be around any more.

She did leave this fucking great
bite mark on my shoulder

- as a memento, though - Ouch. Might
need a rabies shot for that, mate.

Don't push your luck, mate.
I've basically whored myself

- to clear the coast for you.
- You know I'd do the same for you, mate.

Here. A token of my appreciation.

Quite literally the wages of sin.
But I'll take it. Cheers.

- How long, chef?
- Five minutes. Where are the kids?

Inside watching ET.

MUM! MUM! TITS!

- Like this? - Yeah, hold it like
that. Squeeze them together.

Right, turn this off!
Kids, go upstairs. Go on!

I want a word with your father.

Can I shift this leg now?
I've got pins and needles.

Will you turn this fucking thing off?

I seriously had no idea how Donna's
twin peaks ended up in Spielberg's

second act but I was pretty fucking
certain who was to blame.

I can explain.

Right, you're going to get out there
and recall every fucking copy

I've sold before someone else's
kids discover ET stands for

- Extra Titties.
- Straight away. I'll take care of it.

Shit, boys, you'd better look at this.

However, someone in the West Essex area

has been selling pirated copies

on poorly branded VHS tapes like these.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

Universal Pictures are offering
a �1,000 reward

for information leading to an arrest.

Now, these pirate recordings do not
only feature the lovable alien,

there's also a rather bizarre
intermission featuring

a conventionally pretty young lady.

Maybe you know the young lady involved,

or maybe you recognise the room
where she's modelling...

Holy Mother of God!

Hello? Stanford 4163.

Sorry, he's out, Walshy.

You'll have to calm down, I can't
understand a word you're saying.

Walshy was on the warpath.

He'd seen Police Five and was threatening
to sack us all first thing Monday.

So, not only did I have to torch

the entire fucking pirate ET stock,

I had to call Ronnie Farrell
and explain why

he had to collect
his equipment immediately.

He took it reasonably well,
for a dangerous sociopath.

200 I've already paid you,
plus 100 for the inconvenience.

Fair enough.

And finally there's a hire fee
for using my equipment

without my permission.

Sorry, what's that?

Another 200.

But, somehow, come Monday
morning we still had our jobs.

Right, what the fuck
has been going on in...!

What are you going on about?

What? I saw Police fucking Five.

Have you been out in the sun
a bit too much this weekend, Tony?

Tony, your wife called. I told
her you were busy hunting

for topless models. But she said
call her back immediately.

Looks like someone should "phone home."

I'll take it downstairs.

I know you pricks have been
up to something.

Oh, this came for you, Martin.

Oh, the conniving little shit!

- She must have done a background check on me!
- What's happened?

It's a demand from the tax office
for unpaid national insurance.

230 quid!

Ha, that'll teach ya.
There's always hidden costs

when you finger-bang
old grannies over the bins.

Really, you should be
paying this, Vincent.

Oh, I would, mate, but I've told you, I'm a
conscientious objector when it comes to tax.

Where's that weaseley wee cunt?!

Is that Fitzpatrick
you're after, Brendan?

Listen, I will pay your tax bill, OK?

Just don't tell him I'm up here.

I'll pay it myself, mate,
this'll be a lot more fun.

He's up here, Brendan!

Nobody makes money out of my
daughter's tits except me.

- Come here! I'll kill you,
you thieving bastard. - No!