Original subtitles

Butler Art Restoration, this is Laurie. How may I help you?

Sally from... Yeah, hi.

Hi. Yeah, long time.

Yes.

What's up?

OK. What kind of work?

Yes, I can't do right now, but I could do this afternoon.

Yeah, there's a pub near where I live. Shall I send you the address?

Okay. All right.

I'm so sorry.

That's all right.

How may I help you?

Yes, can I have red lentils noodles, please? Yes, some noodles.

It's eight unfinished canvases.

Would have been nine.

Fuck off, Barnaby. Should have been nine.

I forget why there aren't nine. Seriously, Barney, fuck you. She tried

herself. Whatever.

She nicked one. Hang on. It's actually why we're not allowed round there. I

a photo. Barnaby.

Whatever. It's only a three million pound dump she took. Yet they weren't

fuck all.

Yet.

Look, there are theories of barely finished canvases with Polaroid stuck on

them. There were nothing. Of which nothings, we have eight from Dad's only

remaining good period which he abandoned.

And these are the third series of Christmas?

The point is, he's not going to be here much longer. And if, when he passes,

they go through his third floor storage, which he doesn't open and never will,

and they happen to find that he's finished a previously undiscovered

All the original brushes, all the original paint... ..on original canvases

literally, if someone checked, contain molecular traces of his DNA.

They can actually do that?

I'm aware.

So?

You said this was a restoration job.

It is.

It's a forgery job.

No, no, no, God, no, no. What we're trying to get you to do is merely

them. By forging them? By forging through them until they're completed.

Laurie, though, does it even matter?

What are you talking about?

Of course it matters.

Doesn't it, though, actually?

My dad has his assistants complete his paintings all the time. Yes, but these

he's hardly even started.

How do you know he didn't already have them all mapped out in his head, Laurie?

Two months ago, a piece from dad's first set of Christmas sold at a Russian

auction for three million plus.

A piece from the second set, 3 .5 in China.

His style, as I'm sure you found out, is unique and quite hard to replicate.

You can, though.

I don't know about that.

Central Saint Martins, week one.

Our very first assignment.

Come up with a series of works in the style of the artist who inspired you the

most. I saw it, Laurie, with my own eyes.

Yes, that was a very long time ago.

And since then, well, you know, you've seen what I've said about him.

Didn't you guys meet once? Am I remembering that rightly, back when we

college? We know why you hate him, is the point.

Think of this as a way to get revenge. Do the numbers, Laurie. Everybody knows

what one original Julian Sklar from that period is worth.

I love you.

I'm not.

Antanas. Is that the name?

It doesn't even matter, as it's unpronounceable and there's violence to

So I shall call you Tony.

And for your birthday, Tony, imagine me drawing you a tiger,

upon which you are gallantly perched in your sleeveless Tottenham Hotspur

shirt, which is 48. You're far too old to be wearing that.

And I am Julian Scar, and here I am signing off.

Tea? Coffee?

Water?

Oh, uh, thank you.

Water would be great, actually, yes.

Well, be a dear, and grab me one as well, just by the front door.

Jeremy.

Jeremy, you can...

Elisa, Julian Sklar here.

Your mother would like me to tell you not to quit art school.

Seriously, though, do.

Those clowns at Camberwell will poison you with their Sainsbury's Isles of

ideas.

Processed, packed in plastic.

The stay list up front so that you buy into those first.

Grow your own, I say. Go organic.

Although, I hear that's all rubbish, too.

Do you know how much plastic we eat in a week?

A credit card's worth. It's in the water now. It's... Oh, Bruce.

So, happy birthday.

Stay in school, blah, blah. I'm Julian Scar.

And here I am, as I always am, signing off.

£149.

2 .49 if I sign.

Thank you.

Never get old.

Oh, I'm sorry.

Oh, um, Laurie Butler, I guess.

Never get old, Laurie Butler.

It's been

a while since I

interviewed an assistant.

Sure. Tell me about yourself. However, if you are a painter, I don't want to

know about it.

I do dispense with the big fan.

You were with me through whatever drudgery life's journey has taken you.

Heartbreak, blah, blah, grieving.

Because we both know that's a lie, as I've done nothing but shit in 30 years.

Nothing at all, and 20?

You made me want to be an artist. No, my dear, you're fucked up. Childhood made

you want to be an artist. I'm just what you tripped over as you scurried to

freedom.

Glory, is it?

If you claim to be a fan of that hideous reality show Art Fight, you may

show yourself up.

Even the creators of that pandering pig slop.

weren't fanned.

And I realize this makes it challenging to find a compliment that doesn't read

like your secrecy.

Listen to that, you'll have my sympathies.

Because don't get me wrong, I like my flattery, I just need to believe it.

So, for now, I'll take I am a woman and I don't hate you, Julian.

They hate me, the women, even more than the men.

I was bisexual, Laurie, when it actually cost something, sir.

Are you any good with humidifiers?

I'm sorry?

Well, I'm told that I would benefit from the use of a humidifier.

And the infographics, they burn a shadow on the retina,

arrows into screw holes into arrows into

whatever shapes those are.

Would you like some help in assembling your humidifier?

Although I hesitate to take you up on your very kind offer.

Begrudging. Thank you.

So, we've established you are not an artist and you aren't a fan.

And you may or may not be bisexual.

Oh, which reminds me.

There are recent editions on the Wikipedia.

Quotes taken out of context. And one in context, but spoken.

while inebriated, and thus I can't be held accountable.

However, what I said was true.

Over 75 % of enrollment in the art school is women. And my question was

question, why then are women not in 75 % of museums?

Laurie.

You didn't say it was Laurie.

On the subject of Laurie, what did the tell you about this job.

They?

My offspring, the Dud, Barnaby and the Harridan Sally.

Yeah, they said you were hiring assistants to help catalogue some of

things so they can be valued by the HMRC or something like that.

And they recommended you Heidi, which is quite the work. I'm a bit suspicious.

I must be reminded not to carry things.

Oh.

That's according to my host, you know.

A smallish man named Cyril.

Interesting tidbit about Cyril. He smells of radishes.

Why?

This isn't about the unfinished Christmas, is it?

So you must tell me.

Because I won't pick them. I can't pick them. And please don't ask. Please don't

even speak of them.

Yeah, I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.

Well, my children are obsessed with them, and I wouldn't have put it past

if this had been somehow about that.

Oh, they're not even clever, those two. They're reps.

She, a train wreck, utterly off the rails.

And he, a shipwreck, sunken and waterlogged. Blame their mothers, not

nothing to do with them.

I would not be surprised, Laurie, if this was not so that HMRC may quote...

assess the value of my state, but so that my children could get intel on

I was truly leaving them nothing.

Ah, she is risen.

My most dearest Esme, who is a gift from the heavens.

Well, I apparently have been mistaken for someone else. She is here at the

insistence of Cyril the Ravish, who says I must be kinder to my joints.

It's all a faff, you know.

HMRC adore me. I haven't paid taxes in a decade, but they've still got one of my

garbage twelves in my lobby in Parliament Street.

At last, here it is.

A life to be summed up, itemised.

Julian Scar, the spreadsheet.

I don't even know what's up there in the room above us.

And the doors have been locked for decades and I shan't know even going

should there be any forward left.

Yes, to the great displeasure of the buzzard Barnaby and the hyena

Sally, I have outlived the actuarial prediction of even the direst of those

foolish enough to ensure me.

At one point that had been the goal to live forever and I should have liked to

have... bequeathed that task in my art, but sadly my art, not unlike my talent,

departed this life long ago when apparently I was not paying attention.

Excellent interview.

I'd like to worry about that.

What about tomorrow?

At the crack of noon.

Great.

Well,

12 p .m. tomorrow.

Well, I have no idea. I don't know what it's like up there. I don't know if

they're open there.

Well, I would need the keys for it first, wouldn't I?

Well, I know.

Sally, I will call you when I know if he even has paintings.

Perhaps it's simply the reason my therapist chose early retirement number

seven.

And next time I dare you to express yourself, why don't you nip down to

and get yourself a pencil and a notebook?

It's a lot cheaper.

What I can't stand about painting is you paint from the heart, from the soul,

you give yourself to everything you can, you pour it onto the canvas, and then

some bloody agent comes along and takes 45%. Well, no more!

Well, they're quite a bargain. I do believe someone has walked away with a

potentially £2 million painting for £1 ,100.

How do you feel about that? It would be a bargain of £2 million, but whatever

they pay, I'm happy with. Thank you. Well, they are all...

Stunning. Thank you very much. Of course, the question on everyone's lips

will the Christophers be making an appearance on the pavement today?

The Christophers?

No, they're indoors somewhere. They're private matters, private affairs.

Coming in.

Do you mind me in my dressing gown?

Actually, yeah, I do.

Oh.

Okay.

Weinstein has ruined the room for the rest of us.

You needn't have worried.

I can't bear the sight of it open myself.

Even when I'm alone.

Oh.

Studio.

This way.

The locksmith. We shall take the scenic route.

Yep. If he can't find a key for what's up there, he'll have to change out the

whole third floor door lock.

Uh -huh.

I'll get him to make you a...

Copy as well?

But no copies for the kids.

However hard they beg.

Oh, now that was once an entire dinosaur.

Only had room inside for three, as it happened.

The fact that Ringo found out the hard way.

And, oh, not the Ringo you're thinking about.

No.

This one was French.

Right.

Yes.

So what is other?

Laurie, am I allowed to ask if she has a boyfriend?

I mean, no.

No, she doesn't.

No, you're not allowed.

Noted.

Why not, though?

Well, firstly, we're at work.

Nonsense.

It's not like we cease to be ourselves, simply by crossing some conceptual

boundary. Here I am at work, and here I am at home, ask away.

At work, oh, don't you dare.

All yours.

You can't ask me in either place, because you are my employer, which means

hold the power.

And I shall use it to ask.

If you have a partner.

If you'll explain its relevance?

The relevance is that I'm curious.

And who wouldn't want to bring their life into their work?

Unless, well... Right.

Well, never mind. You said that you weren't an artist.

Actually, you said that. Well, I swear that we had that conversation yesterday.

Well, you know, they were speaking, if that's what you mean.

Did I not ask questions?

My children say that I don't ask questions.

And actually, by definition, did I not ask questions is a question my children

are idiots.

I've no problem with questions, Laurie.

It's the answers that I can't be bothered with.

Now, you remember that I told you that you were never to speak of the

Christophers.

Well, apparently I lied. You are to speak of them once when you tell me that

they are no more.

No more?

The canvases are buried deep in the back of the third floor and you are to bring

them down here and shred them to bits.

I'm to shred the Christophers?

What are they not, Christophers?

They are musings and ideas that could have been Christophers and you are to

obliterate them and destroy the stretchers and then bring me the

because I shan't go near them myself.

OK.

Would you like me to leave them here when they're shredded?

Yes.

It's not that I don't trust you, Laurie.

No. The box cutter.

It's just that I don't trust you.

Ah, that'll be the locksmith and the facialist, whom I find to be nothing

than a 90 -minute endurance test. However, it has to be demands that I am

to my skin, so I shall brace myself.

lockbox is sorted, spare front door key and third floor set to go with

a new door lock.

I've changed my mind.

They shall not be shredded.

OK, OK.

They shall be burned.

All right, yeah, sure. I will sort it.

It is sorted.

We shall do it together, which is to say, you shall do it and I shall watch.

It's a bit early for you, though, isn't it?

Well, I have been up all night.

And I shan't sleep until there are smouldering ash.

Ash.

I'm curious what kept you awake.

Cascading memories of wrongs done to me since my childhood.

They came as from a kinetoscope.

Look it up. It's with a K. Now to the fire pit.

Follow me or I shall burn them myself.

Have you ever been betrayed, Laurie?

Oh.

I mean, hasn't everybody?

Could be quite painful, can't it not?

No matter what the relationship with the betrayer.

And how were you betrayed, Laurie?

I, uh, I once had a partner who left me.

Oh, my.

God, your generation does whine about everything.

Left me for my other partner.

You're still my beating heart.

Was this a struggle?

It was a consensual relationship between three adults, yeah. Oh, my, oh, my, oh,

my.

You know, I was once in a struggle, back when it was merely called infidelity.

No, never mind.

Right, you toss them on.

Oh, you seem hesitant.

Uh, yeah, I mean, they're Julian's class.

Oh, please.

May I... Ask what's going on. Oh, the great what's going on. Yes, what's going

on? That is the question of the day. In the fire pit.

Now, please.

Right. And now we need the turpentine and matches, so crack on, Laurie.

First, we have a little chat.

Sit, if you would.

And on the subject of what is going on,

perhaps you'd like to tell me something.

Why are you here?

I mean, to pay my rent.

And why did you seek and then take this job?

You did tell me not to mention if I was an artist or a fan.

But I thought maybe I'd learn something by being in your vicinity.

Really?

Learn what, exactly?

Perhaps how a man, once a paradigm of progressive politics,

could morph into the apotheosis of everything that is currently wrong with

everything artistically and economically.

Or how a bloated ego in yesterday's barrier could...

squat on property unaffordable and hence uninhabitable for generations to come,

whose only outrage at so -called cancelled culture came once he had been

justifiably cancelled himself.

Justifiably, says his future assistant.

On January the 3rd, 2022.

And she goes on, obloviating.

She says, in the voice of the very thing, not just his work, but his entire

being so vociferously railed against during his once impressive ascension

preceded the artistic immolation and subsequent crash and burn into the

junk heap of irrelevance reserved for those who have exploded our culture

and imploded their legacy.

And will his work even?

Last or will it go the way of the lava lamp and the letters shoot and if it

doesn't shouldn't it

Never

underestimate

internet prowess of a man who spent decades googling himself.

So why are you here?

I was hired by Barnaby and Sally to complete the unfinished Christopher's.

Really? Yeah.

Why?

So they could have something from you, I guess.

When you die.

You mean to sell?

Yeah. Just to sell?

So the idea would be... I would

return them to the third floor, where they would sit.

Until I died.

Yeah. And you know them, huh?

Sally and I met in art school.

She went by a different last name, but we all knew.

Well, the school knew. She would never have got in on her talent.

She said that she and her brother had a job for me.

Well, it's the smartest thing they've thought of in decades. I'll give them

that. And you're cut.

A third.

And what makes you think that you could do it?

Well, they said that you were never up there.

No.

What makes you think you could actually do it? Do it!

Well, the original brushes are...

All up there.

The paints, the palette knives, the linseed, the rags.

Those Kendall plushes have been dead stock for decades. The microfibres alone

would fit huge.

Well, you must know that your very premise that it is the correct equipment

which makes the work the work is.

Bollocks.

I guess that's where the art of it comes in.

That's the part I am most interested in, I guess.

The art of what?

Becoming someone else.

Oh, poor.

Get yourself your own mindset, Laurie Butler.

You inhabit that. You don't squat in mine.

It takes guts.

It takes blood. It took my blood, and don't you think you can bleed for me?

Oh, and it seems that you're not the only person in this room who wishes that

you were someone else.

I understand.

I'm going to go.

You are in my home. You have lied to me. You have betrayed me.

And you are, at least for the time being, still in my employment. So do an

obloviating, bloated ego a kindness and grab a stretched blank

canvas from upstairs.

Any size.

You've seen yourself through a dozen.

Why?

Because I want a question for you, and believe me, I should pay particular

attention to your answer, and after that, by all means, you are free to

I'm there.

My question.

You say you can paint in my style.

Do it.

That's not a question.

Will you paint what you believe I would paint?

Were I whoever you think I was, whenever you think I was, whatever you think I

was?

No. No, because you can't!

Case closed. I'm not going to do this.

Thank you for the joke, and I'm sorry.

How would you know how I would have painted them when even I

don't know how I would have painted them?

Ashley, I'm truly sorry.

The first Christopher series, 1994 and 95, have a very distinct trajectory, in

my mind.

The marks on number one are tentative.

There's a delicacy verging on a kind of inadvertent pointillism, at least in the

undercoat. The colours warm with each successive layer.

The bottoms are all Prussian blues, cherry reds, but as the layers rise, the

reds get rustier.

You even used ochre, a shade you told David Sylvester was sentimental slop.

In the third and fourth, the light got denser and the oil thickened.

There was a liftedness, almost like you were dancing.

The paint was literally coming off the canvas and there was more light around

his face as his look moved more and more to the centre, towards his creator.

What are you saying?

You were falling in love and for the first time you were free.

I believe you came out then, at least publicly.

But in the second series, 1997 -98, it shifted.

By the fifth in series two, you can see the hesitation in the line.

The pressure becomes uneven.

Heavy darks start to appear up top, patches of blank.

And Christopher's gaze drifts further and further off the canvas again.

And you started retouching.

Sometimes eight layers.

Ten. Like you were trying to grasp an image that wasn't there.

Number six looks like it was restarted 12, 13 times and by eight there's a

wooden quality.

Almost as if you were painting by rote.

And the blanks spread like they were metastasising.

Thomas McEverly said they had a joyful, lightness -spirited lyricism.

McEverly was wrong.

Graham Dixon was wrong. Maria Vesey was wrong.

The lightness was forced and the joy was a lie.

It was obvious in the seventh, and by the eighth, it was glaring.

It was over.

It wasn't very good, that last one.

No, it isn't. Some sap in Chicago paid two mil for it during COVID, I heard.

Yeah.

Well.

Hence... Here we are.

Here we are, then.

Grade robbers.

crawling through the mud to exhume the trinket from some already rotted coffin.

And this third series, am I, sorry, I, to have painted

them recently, or?

Back then was the thought.

Of course, when they were actually worth something.

And then I'm to have buried them up there.

Didn't want him seen would be the story, I guess.

Painful.

Something like that.

Yes, the breakup was hard.

It wasn't. I'd done with him.

Sure.

I had.

Fine.

I must say, I found your prep impressive.

I've got to give you that.

There was no prep.

That could be some bloody package I've forgotten I've ordered.

Oh, they're so impressive, Thomas.

Oh, Wallace.

It's part of it.

Unless... Oh, Christ.

It's Sally, too.

Oh. Oh, fuck me, it's both of them.

Hello!

Hello!

Buster, don't look. Buster.

Hi, Dad.

I know what you said, but may we come in, please?

Why? We need to speak to your assistant.

Oh, I forgot what her name is.

Do you know? I can't recall either.

Barney, any ideas?

Lisa, maybe?

Yes, Lisa, maybe.

Why?

We just got a form that she urgently needs to fill out.

Tax -related?

Very.

They're very tax -related.

Yeah, we've been trying to call her, but she's not been picking up, so... So, is

she here?

Yes, this baby is here, so do come in.

As there's something I need to speak with you about as well.

The cryptopoops.

The... Sorry, Dad, which are those?

Oh, have I got the name wrong?

Oh, my gosh. I mean, you've painted so many. Christopher?

Christopher? Why am I so fixated on that name, then?

Which was the one... Perhaps you can recall this. Which was the one that you

took a whack at at some point last year, accidentally thinking that it was not,

in fact, an egregious act of dishonesty and betrayal?

Oh, right, yes, those.

Dad, what about them? Well, I have asked Lisa, maybe, to destroy them.

Wait, why?

She can't, Dad.

Oh, I already have.

What the fuck, Laurie?

Yes, that's her name, Laurie.

And she has been... Shredded.

She's shredded them. Fuck off. Bullshit. Even he knows you're bullshitting.

Yeah, where are they, then?

Hang on.

Dad, you can't.

Well, apparently I did.

But they're not yours.

Meaning that they are the world. The world of art.

But not, of course, yours.

No, no. Further things from our mind.

Well, you should get out and give them to the world.

And to do that, you should get out now.

And get started.

You stupid, stupid man. Get out of my house now.

Great. Now, you've shredded each other, so I hope you feel very good about it.

Shredded each other?

What does that mean?

Nothing.

Nothing?

Nothing.

And these?

What are these?

These are fakes, which I shredded.

The real ones.

The ones you were about to incinerate are outside in the fire pit.

Right.

So?

So, let's go.

As you are still, for the moment, my employee, I'm ordering you to come out

the fire pit and burn them.

Well, as your employees now quit, I wish you good luck with that.

I'll go and do it myself then.

Really? Really.

Crack on then.

How's the bonfire going?

What did you mean?

I'd imploded my legacy.

If you was to ask my cousin who Julian Squire is, he would say the guy that

yelled at kids and housewives on Art Fight.

Well, they got off easy.

I was the one being tortured.

I was waterboarded by a deluge of kittens.

I eat one more hideously adorable than the next, all popping at yarn in

a criddly watercolour, watercolour line.

What?

No, I did them a favour.

Did you?

Yes.

I saved them.

From a lifetime of heartache and rejection and grasping at something that

would never achieve and, worse, clawing back at something that they would never

recapture because success, Laurie, is worse.

OK.

OK. Let's... Let's stop this, sir.

What are you doing?

You're not going to burn these.

What? I most certainly am.

There is a reason you've kept them for 25 years.

If you really didn't want them, you would have sold them for shit at your

jumble sale.

Oh, my sidewalk seller.

That was a bugger off to an industry who needed someone to say it to them. It

was a move that gave you cover to pretend it was you who was in control of

downfall.

No, I'd done with them, Laurie. Because they were done with you. It was a

corrupt industry in a corrupt world.

Investments and tax shelters and trophies for the billionaire boys' club.

So, I left.

No, you mean you quit.

No, I left. You gave in. I left on my own terms.

And how do you know if it's even art now, any time?

It's all online.

Oh, you get nothing when you stare at something through a screen.

You know, I get yelled at now from passing cars.

They call me a hack.

A pity.

Offended, somehow.

We've got some sort of personal relationship.

You don't think it's a personal relationship?

Art? No.

It's a man, alone in his room.

Me in this room.

I have a relationship with the canvas.

And when I've said what I've got to say to it, then it goes.

Where do you think it goes?

Do what you want.

You can take them out, you can burn them again.

Don't leave me.

Why did you even care? And you were so limited with me

and those writings.

Why?

I was 12.

It was pissing down rain.

I ditched school and snuck into what happened to be a museum.

Yes?

Yes, what show?

It was the one with the famous artist's work from when they were kids.

You saw Enfant Terrible?

There was one you'd done my age that was the easiest to copy.

By which you mean it was the one that hit you most profoundly in your soul?

By which I mean it was literally called Anyone Can Do This and Call It Art.

Mrs Hanley.

She failed me for that.

Oh, this is nothing but a spiral of words, Julian.

You have desecrated the canvas with everything that the assignment is not,

said, yes, because it's more interesting.

You know, the second piece of yours was a drawing from when you were six.

Boy and a Cloud? Boy and a Cloud.

And using the excretion of Maudlin Cheek for that title.

You were six.

And did you find that easy to copy as well?

Not at 12.

Mm -mm.

You were... lookable.

But...

I quit, is that what you're saying?

Please, God, don't feel sorry for me.

To be honest, I'd rather have your rage than your pity, and I should excuse me.

I need to pay for tonight's meal.

You're a quitter yourself, you know, Laurie.

No one goes to art school to become a restorer or a critic.

I came in early this morning.

Yeah. Really?

Yeah.

4, 5am?

Mm -hm.

Well, I'm sorry if such industrious assistantism was wasted on what turned

to be an errant, if dramatic, misfire.

Well, it told me... Excuse me!

Good morning, Mario.

Now, you told me that you want me to paint something appropriately romantic

for your fiancée, and I presume I appropriately

that you want me to paint it in vanishing ink.

Laurie! Oh, my God, what?

I am not going back there.

But you have to.

Because? Because you need to start them from scratch.

You've still got old canvases and paints and brushes up there.

Yeah, that's not going to happen.

Well, we think it is.

Here's the door, Clannan.

1927.

Sold for £25 ,000 in that Kent art house in 2017.

Split between that corrupt gallerist and the person opposite me.

Maybe you shouldn't write angry notes to exes.

Especially those who still speak to other old college friends of yours.

Sometimes people say things.

I'm curious if the person who paid the £25 ,000 might be interested in knowing

it's a fake.

Well, when you find out, let me know.

I don't think you want to challenge this.

Yeah, but you may need to.

Because you know, and I know, that no one benefits from that being exposed.

Not the gallery, not the artist, and certainly not the person that bought it.

Was that a confession we just heard? No.

But this is.

I forged that painting.

And I forged Attlee's in between.

And I forged Panagatanga's six shapes in red.

All of that was a long time ago.

So you'll do what we say, then?

No.

Well, then perhaps we'll see you in court.

Yeah, because perhaps, Laurie, we've been recording this.

And does that include your fraud bit before my confession and your blackmail

after? Because you'd need both for context.

We'll give you £10 ,000.

In advance.

Wow. But no.

15. No.

Oh, come on, mate.

20. 20 grand, OK?

But that's it. We can't go higher than that.

Do you even have this money?

Yeah.

Really? Yeah.

How? Because.

It doesn't matter.

200 ,000.

Pounds!

We haven't got that sort of money. The number's 200.

I love you, Laurie, but this is piggish.

200 ,000. You are being a cunty pig cunt.

200 ,000. £21 ,400, right? Please accept this.

That's all the money we have. Please, please, Laurie, please. It's really,

really important.

Oh, my God.

You've sold them already.

What? No.

This is, um... Fabulous.

The answer is no, and definitely not for 21 ,000 quid. He's dying, Laurie.

It's called a plastic anemia.

Katie's been refusing treatment for years.

Our time is running out.

Everyone's is.

The answer is even more no.

You forget something?

Can you close the door? I believe your dignity is along there and you'll find

your pride upstairs somewhere.

Close the door.

I've just googled a rare blood disease called a plastic anemia.

Ah, yes.

Well, much to the impending dismay of the heirs abhorrent.

A genius instructor that has re -ionized my stem cells.

And that's like everything else that used to be inside me.

It's amounted to nothing.

The only thing dying, I'm afraid, is the dream of Lord and Lady Boucher.

Well, they've sold them already.

Sold? The Christophers.

They took a down payment of a million quid last year.

That's why Sally tried to do it herself.

Oh, how glorious it is.

Well,

for what it's worth, of that, they only have 21 ,000 quid left.

I'm surprised they've got anything.

How many paintings?

All nine.

Even Sally's. Oh, yes.

To a fan.

To a 28 -year -old tech bro who's going to donate them for the tax credit.

Oh, to the Royal Academy.

Well, at least.

Maybe.

To a place called Museum of the Desert, just outside of Las Vegas.

Oh.

And this tech bro doesn't even know who I am or what.

I'm told after some Googling.

And I assume my children want you to resume your task of seeking

these somehow.

Same plan. New old canvases.

I think I should do it.

You paint them.

Yeah.

Paint them?

But very, very badly.

Imagine

the

look on the tech bro's face when he sees what he's bought.

Oh, it's almost worth staying alive for.

And I shall be alongside you for the entire time as your assistant.

You going to...

Be my assistant.

Yes, and I'll be a very good one too.

Now, my first task is to assist you in getting paid.

And there's an art shop on Bronson Street, which is quite dreadful.

on this particular occasion, I shall be able to help you in person, as I'm not

allowed in, due to a thin -skinned proprietor and an overreaction to a

statement of fact.

Okay.

I'll get this one then. All right, and while you're out, shall I rustle us up

something? A little omelette?

You're going to make me an omelette?

Don't sound so surprised.

All right, then I'll have a cheese omelette. Cheese omelette?

That's an omelette with cheese?

Yeah.

Actually, how do you introduce the cheese into the omelette?

I'm just going to pick something up for us, yeah?

Excellent tea, Mark.

I thought you might enjoy this as a kind of inspiration piece.

Is that Sally? Yes, I keep it in her old room to ward off future visits. It's

affixed to the wall along with garlic and a wooden cross.

That's crazy. She's actually improved since art school.

Yes. Well, that's another first. An instance of where a child of

mine has actually

Inspired me.

Right, and this shall be your metric.

Can you top it?

By which, of course, I mean, can you go under it? This is fun.

It's this thing. Oh, this is delicious, Roy.

Consider me poor but happy.

Okay.

This was to be his.

Well, it ought to be his.

As a matter of fact.

His?

Christopher's?

Oh, was I a blustering fool?

Messages on the answer, Miss Juno.

Gifts, gifts, gifts.

Let me paint you one more time, Telfer, and all this shall be yours.

Nothing.

Actually, let's start with a different one.

I made him. I literally created him.

It was the boy who did my stretches.

I gave him his life, his fame. Everyone knew who Christopher was. He was invited

everywhere, and then one day...

He

never came back.

I actually did want him to have them, even after all of the mess. I should

liked to have lasted in his mind.

That's the thing, isn't it?

To last in the mind of others.

First instincts, Laurie.

I never joined the Royal Academy, you know.

I refuse to play that game.

The others were rabid about it. Every last one of them more competitive than

next, but not me, Laurie. I was the least competitive of them all by far.

are you staring at me?

I don't think you want to do this.

I am ordering you.

logic buffer to desecrate that painting with that brush. Well, as my assistant,

you don't get to call the shots.

Very well, then.

I resign as your assistant. Okay, okay, okay. You win. You win. You win. You

win. Look, I will do it. I'll do it.

But let's pick a different one.

That's right. Pick a different one.

It's already dreadful.

Oh, now this is a monumentally hideous salve.

Glue.

Yes,

glue and then feathers.

No, no, no, we'll have glitter first.

And then feathers.

That!

Take that!

Feathers.

You were thinking 85.

I would know you can't throw feathers.

Have you called my children?

Not yet.

Oh, well, you must. You must, because these...

Christopher Three's will hang in the pantheon of the worst art of all time,

along with dogs playing poker, Velvet Elvis, and all of Warhol.

Yes. I shall have masking tape.

You see, there should be a through line of awfulness, each one worse than the

rest. As if the... As if the

destruct was the construct.

I can't... Oh, no, no.

I... Something's

happened.

Are you OK?

I'm struggling. I'm struggling to make this dreadful.

It's physically impossible to make it back.

Yeah, you're right.

It is not uninteresting.

Keep going.

So who, though?

Well, you seem like you're having a good time, so why not just keep having a

good time?

Because why?

Because it's fun for you, isn't it?

Because I'm fun for you.

Julian? So here I am. Yes, I am the entertainment again, am I?

It's just what you wanted all along, isn't it?

To wind up the old fool and have him clatter about and bang his cymbals.

Oh, was it interesting being Jane Goodall to the old dancing monkey in his

natural habitat?

And how am I faring as the anecdote you tell all your laughing friends about

later?

This isn't what I meant when I talked about living in...

The minds of others.

Julian, where is this coming from?

Well, where are you coming from? Oh, it's not uninteresting. How would you

that?

To judge art, you must possess the very skills it takes to make said art.

Do you really think you possess those skills?

Well, I don't.

And why not?

Because of three words.

Untitled, number seven. I saw it on your website.

And I didn't need to see it because I'd already seen it. And when I say I'd

already seen it, I might as well have because it rang with the familiarity

of all those other faux existential

impressionistic dance skits by all the other wannabe

artists.

I think...

I think maybe, Laurie, it was a healthy thing that you quit.

I will take £21 ,000. You can keep the £400, but I get 50 % of the final sale,

including the down payment.

£50.

£50. £50.

Good.

I'll call you with a plan.

I was right.

You can't judge art by looking at it online.

This is good.

Untitled number seven.

There's a power to it that I missed on your website.

So you came in to tell me you were right.

Yes. About many things.

including having seen that before, which explains, Laurie, why

I thought that I'd seen it before.

I got a hunch when I looked at you, just as you were leaving, that

I'd seen that specific look before on your specific face, and I remembered

you.

Artifact. So I looked up.

Season 3, episode 5.

And I was right.

You must have been what?

21? I was 19.

And the truth is, at the time, I'd really only glanced at the painting.

I was merely thinking up my next joke while I was telling the last

joke.

Did I cause you...

To quit.

I haven't quit.

I just quit showing.

I'm a broken man, aren't I?

I believe I always have been.

I didn't know it wasn't you that I was mad at earlier.

I know.

It was... What do you mean?

You know.

Seriously.

Who am I kidding?

All the lies that I've been telling myself my whole life.

It's exhausting.

I didn't give Christopher his life. I gave him mine.

I suspect I ruined his. I know I ruined his.

When you think of me, Laurie, I should like that you remember me as the person

you thought I was who did that very first drawing.

Who gave you the courage to start.

Not the man who you actually know me to be.

Why are you here, Julian?

Because I want to have an exhibition.

And if I do actually get a show...

It could be called...

Julian

Squire. I can't tell whether this is revived or reviled.

Exactly.

Is this a retrospective?

Oh, no, they've been new.

And people can judge them however they judge them.

And I would be grateful, Ronnie, if you'd be so kind as to perhaps just

be there while I try.

Yeah, it is.

Yes, of course. Yes.

Okay. Crack of noon.

Precisely. Oh, except...

No, I've got Esme, and she's been insistent that I do council last minute.

Oh, we could do 2pm. What if we did Monday?

Julian.

I'd like... I think I should like, actually, to just dream about these,

actually.

For a week, tops.

Yeah, all right.

Fine. Yes.

Yes.

Okay.

Thank you.

This is where you live?

Whose is this?

It's mine, sir.

It's absolute shit.

Julia?

Thank you very much. Thank you very much indeed.

Welcome back to Art Fight, the show where everyone's a critic.

Particularly Julian.

We've got Laurie Butler, and she studies at Central Saint Martins. A

lot to go. And she is showing us today her painting, Untitled

No. 7. Julian, what do you think?

Untitled No.

7.

Well, it's a fitting name, given there are no actual words to describe what

exactly it is I'm looking at.

And, oh, please, oh, oh, God, don't tell me. I'm going to have to look at the

previous thick in order to understand this one.

It's not a painting, Laurie.

It's a cry for help from the paint itself. Why am I here?

Perhaps there's a title.

Laurie, and perhaps it's simply the reason my therapist chose early

I understand.

Hello, I'm calling for Owen Appleton, please.

Personal.

Okay, can you please tell him that I have something he may be very interested

in?

Thank you.

Hi, I'm looking for Mr Appleton.

I'm Owen.

How can I help you?

I'm Laurie Butler.

I told you on the telephone I don't want to talk about any of that.

I understand that.

And I respect that.

But I wouldn't have come all the way here if there weren't some things that I

think you might want to hear me out on.

All right.

First I have a question.

Why did he call you Christopher?

I mean, these are technically ours now.

Well, they're literally yours.

Everything in there, all yours.

Sort of weirdly feels like a Julian Squire museum.

Such a good idea.

This whole floor could be the gift shop.

This stays exactly as it is.

Even this?

Exactly as it is? You want to keep this?

Yeah? Just keep this here?

Maybe that could be the poster for the museum?

Blow it up on the side of the... no?

It's the bathroom at the back.

Oh, my God.

Did you do these?

Barney. Tell me, tell me now, honestly. Laurie, if you did these, we will

fucking fry you. Barnaby, does it even matter?

Of course it matters. If she did them, they're worth fuck all again.

And if I didn't, what would they be worth then?

Schedule C1. I, Julian Sklar, hereby confirm that the eight artworks

below, herein referred to as the Christopher Series 3, consisting of

watercolour, glitter, feathers, axle grease, masking tape, are all

authentic artworks that I have created and gifted to... ..recipient Owen

Christopher Appleton.

Christopher was his middle name.

Julian told him that Owen sounded like the pained bleat of a mooing cow.

You've forged this, haven't you?

Why would I do that?

Well, let's think, you know, to maybe, I don't know, stop us from having them.

Plus, you called me before Dad died and said that you would forge the eight

Christophers as long as we shared 50 % of the profits with you.

Okay, sorry, let me just get this straight. You are accusing me of forging

legal note from him which would give me 50 %

of nothing.

Now, why on earth would I do that?

Bonnie. Hi.

Sally. Barney.

Fine, you won.

Congratulations.

Dad is famous again.

Yay. Evelyn, you've got to tell us.

Who painted this?

Really? The truth?

Really? Does it even matter?

Not in the romantic

Good.

Really captured the weapon.

Esme? Hi.

I tried to get this to you at the memorial, but you left so quickly.

When I found him, I also found this.

It belongs to you. No, no, this isn't mine.

I took it because I didn't want you to know who to see it.

Okay.

Thank you.

Good luck, Laurie.