Original subtitles

Lock and load, bitches.

It's Class Wars!

Mitchell, Rem Dogg, corridor. You're the advancing German army.

Right, it's the 27th May, 1940.

Thousands of British troops have been stranded

on the beaches of Dunkirk.

French beach? Is it one of those topless ones?

No, Chantelle. Keep your clothes on, and prepare for battle!

Hey, gang, I'm Mr Schwimer.

Er, where did you come from?

All the way from Harvard University, sunshine state of California,

reporting for duty, sir!

Yeah, we're doing Dunkirk.

Which means you're about four years too early, mate.

You're doing humour. I love British humour.

Corgies with me majesty, m'lud?

Please can I have another crumpet!

All right, settle down, everybody. Take a seat.

Is he fucking mental?

Oi, Dick Van Dyke. What the hell are you doing here?

This is my class.

Didn't Miss Pickwell tell you? I'm here to take over Form K.

Er, no, you're not, these are my pupils.

Sorry, hombre. Not anymore.

Well, actually, yes, any more... hombre. I'm in charge around here.

I've got their respect. I'm like a God to them.

Sieg heil, Bastian Schweinsteiger!

What? Dunkirk was at sea.

'Welcome to Radio Frase. The chat quota of LBC,'

but with a host who was loved as a child. Avengers, Assemble-y!

Last one there gets a detention, unless it's Rem Dogg.

First announcement on the new Tannoy, check.

Felt weird without any trousers on.

Note to self - fake tan and white slacks don't mix...

The Tannoy's still on, isn't it?

'Just to clarify, I am wearing underpants. '

Oh, God!

Have you seen Pickwell?

God, when I see her, I'm going to give it to her with both barrels.

Dick.

Maybe a change will do you good?

Yeah, you would say that, cradle snatcher.

Alex is three years younger than you. We're happy.

Get over it.

Did you have a fun weekend?

We went for a lovely, romantic meal.

A Happy Meal, was it? What toy did she get?

If anyone's a child here, it's you. Great.

Well, that means you can set me and Alex up on play dates.

Well, she does have some very fun toys.

Oh!

Hello, willkommen and awooga!

Item one. The school's got a couple of new furry friends. And I'm not

talking about the pair of puppies Erica Tinkler's recently acquired.

Woof woof! # Who let the dogs out? #

Um, puberty let the dogs out.

It's normal for your bodies to change and grow.

In fact, the other day, I thought I found a lump.

Don't worry, nothing cancerous,

turns out it was just a knot of dead skin in the old pork purse.

Rats. We've got rats.

Rats are really just big black mice, like Rastamouse.

So, don't be scared of them,

and please, please, please don't tell your parents.

Item two. The PE teacher has quit to become a tree surgeon. I know!

Email from his lawyer saying something about

operations on a yew tree. Good luck to the guy.

Luckily, we've got a new signing, who's going to be taking over

the school's worst performing class, Special K...

um, Form K.

As the Archbishop of Banterbury, I hereby ordain thee, Brother Schwimer.

Explosion, shrapnel.

That handshake is the best thing that's ever happened to me.

So, a little about me.

I just got back from Malawi, Africa,

where I was helping the victims of a savage civil war.

But I am sure as heck pretty darn excited to be here now

in Watford, United Kingdom.

OK, so I'm going to be teaching history,

and helping out with the gym class.

So I guess you're wondering what qualifies this guy to teach gym?

Yes.

Well, I did make a brief appearance at the Olympics

here in London, England, on Team USA.

Whoo!

What do you want? A medal?

I won gold with the coxless four.

Now I want to give you guys a taste of the good old US of A.

But I will leave the school food to you.

I'm not saying my students back home were chunky or anything,

but I could catch them skipping class on Google Earth.

Let's hope they keep the gun culture at home as well, mate.

We all know why they keep their kids so fat. Bigger targets.

High school massacres?

Am I right?

Yeah?

Come on - he's yanking your chain.

Gallows humour.

Throw him in the bloody Tower with Saint Arthur of the Round Lake.

Classic!

Someone lock this guy up in Bant-anamo Bay! Hey. Timberlake?

Oh! Who's with me?

I love Justin Timberlake.

Mr Wickers not with you?

Why, do you want him?

I don't "want" him.

I just thought he'd be yapping around your cankles

like some over-excited puppy that needs a good spade to the genitals.

Just to clarify, because I don't want you misreading any signals,

it may shock you to learn that a sexual carnivore like myself

was, for a spell, herbivorous.

Well, I don't understand a word of what you just said but I'm guessing

it's something to do with the fact I've got a girlfriend?

I understand your surprise now,

but this velociraptor couldn't wolf down the caper bush for ever.

Are you trying to flirt with me?

No! No, no, no. Women cannot live on pitta alone.

I need a little kofte in my kebab.

Well, I'm sure that comes as a relief to many, many men.

I want you to know that I am...

Back on solids.

Phew.

We need to talk about Kevin.

You can talk to me about anything you want.

My door is so open, it's off its hinges.

Yeah, I get it. Very clever.

Why didn't you tell me I was losing my class?

After that fire at the swimming gala,

Pickwell has got my jolly pink giant by the scruff of its neck.

She said either I hire Kevin

or she reports me to various child welfare agencies,

none of which are mahusive fans of Super-F.

Well, I don't care where I have to take this fight -

I'm getting my kids back.

Oh, BT dubs, if you're planning a Fathers for Justice-style protest,

I've got wide a variety of superhero costumes you could borrow.

The only one I can't lend you is the Superman one.

Why not?

How long have you been wearing that?

Every day for four years. In case I need to save the school bus.

Buttons, buttons... Where are the buttons?

Right, look, you can't just give my class away.

Can too. Can not.

Can can, can can. I can do the can can.

Yeah, well, I've spoken to them and my class want me back.

They would take a bullet for me.

Ha! I find that hard to believe.

What the hell is that?

OK. Right, you are aware this isn't Hogwarts?

Mr Wickers, meet Rumsfeld. Rumsfeld, meet Mr Wickers.

Why is there an owl on your arm?

Well, Mr Fraser's attempts to eradicate the vermin

have, thus far, been unsuccessful, so...

An owl is the solution?

Well, I wanted to use mustard gas, but some precious Red Tape Susan

said that sulphur-based cytotoxins and children are incompatible.

Hence, Rumsfeld and I are hunting rats...

Oh, and there's one in particular that's so grubby,

even turds retch as they glide past him in the sewer.

OK, well, I assume I'm that rat in that little pooey analogy of yours.

But let me tell you this, there is

absolutely no way on Earth that I'm going to stand by and watch you...

Cheep, cheep, cheep. Would you like to meet your new form now?

Fine.

I'm teaching 2J?

Putting me in there is like putting Justin Bieber

on the main stage at Reading. They'll murder me.

Remember - don't look them in the eye.

Oh, and the smell of urine? They're just marking their territory.

As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...

I take a look at my life and realise there's nothing left

Cos I've been laughin' and blastin'

so long that even my momma thinks that my mind is gone.

I didn't know you were a Coolio fan!

It's the Bible. Psalm 23.

Whatever. It's definitely Coolio.

It's a tune, though, I'll give you that.

Oh, I forgot to mention, they're studying this.

Right.

Listen up, you little bastards.

Before we begin, I want to make one thing crystal clear.

I could kick the shit out of you in a fight.

And don't think that I wouldn't just because you're smaller than me

and some of you are little girls.

Any questions? No. Thought not.

Beowulf, chapter one.

In hildy-fildy pildy harque-wun pur-pon diddly dee di

diddle-um dee didly dom...

Six minutes, 17 seconds.

They're monsters! They're 11.

Just think of it as babysitting. I'm not a babysitter.

No, of course you're not. They are babysitting you.

I see visions of me dead. Lord, are you there?

The Bible? Tupac.

No, please!

A little orphan looked up at me and said...

Nicola Berti's been stabbed!

Don't worry, I know first aid.

She's bleeding out by the school gates. Go, quick!

Go. Go.

Okey-dokey, time for a little chat.

Is Nicola going to die? Nicola?

Oh, no, that was just something I said to get rid of Kevin of Nazareth.

Gullible! So not LOL, sir.

What's that?

Mr Schwimer ran the New York Marathon for Protect the Rhino.

Protect the rhino? They're basically dinosaurs!

I think they can look after themselves.

I have been thinking long and hard about how I'm going to get you back.

I have considered every possible option -

and I'm going to need one of you to say that Kevin touched you.

A little fiddle. Anyone?

Oh, God, you guys are so square!

Joe?

Your new haircut's given you a kind of choirboy vibe.

They tend to dig that look.

No way.

I just want my class back. What am I going to do?

Cut and run? Take me to France, sir.

Overnight ferry, shack up in Bordeaux, let the man-hunt begin.

Come and get us, Interpol.

I've got a plan to get rid of him, sir.

Shoot. Right!

We're going to need a van, some cable ties and an alibi.

Oh! Mitchell, we're not re-enacting your parents' honeymoon.

We have to get rid of Kevin somehow. He's such a dick.

Isn't he?

Well, the thing is, sir, Mr Schwimer's actually pretty rad.

Rad? Who are you?

Look, what has this guy got that I haven't?

Timetables. Abs. Dress sense. A penis.

Mr Schwimer went to college with Ashton Kutcher.

So what? Give a shit? I've got celebrity friends, too.

My friend Atticus Hoye was on Total Wipeout.

Mr Schwimer's a pro skater, sir. He invented his own trick.

What else has he done? Turned water into wine?

He's teetotal.

Jesus! As if he couldn't get any creepier!

Kids, if I can teach you one thing about life,

never trust a man that doesn't drink.

Has Kevin just been peacocking all morning?

Has he actually taught you anything?

The English kings and queens.

All of them? That's impossible.

Five, six, seven, eight...

Willie, Willie, Harry, Stee, Harry, Dick-John, Harry three,

one two three Neds, Richard two, Harrys four five, six, then who?

Edwards four-five, Dick the bad, Harrys seven-eight, Ned the Lad,

Mary, Bessie, James the Vain, Charlie, Charlie, James again,

William Mary, Anna Gloria, Four Georges, William and Victoria,

Edward seven next, and then George the fifth in 1910,

Ned the eighth soon abdicated then George the sixth was coronated,

and if you've not lost your breath, give a cheer for Elizabeth.

Meh! When would you actually use that?

I teach you transferable life skills,

like the rap from Fresh Prince of Bel-Air!

In West Philadelphia, born and raised...

Please, not again.

Stop it.

Oh!

Please help me! I hate 2J!

One of them made me... fellate a Pritt Stick.

My mouth's still gluey.

Why don't you seduce Miss Pickwell? Flirt your way out of it.

You can practise on me, if you like.

Please, Chantelle!

I would have to try literally everything

before I resorted to flirting with Pickwell.

Hey, Izz. You're looking pretty fit today.

How do you get that lovely natural glow to your skin?

Pumice and bleach. What do you want?

Just wanted to ask you a question.

Are you from Tennessee?

Cos you're the only ten-ah-see.

Plans tonight? Me, you, my crib,

turn my onesie into a twosie?

Hey, was your dad a thief?

No, he was a butcher in East Kilbride.

Because he stole the stars and put them in your eyes.

Was your father a surgeon, because he stole the brain of an ape

and put it into the body of a hairy little girl.

Come, come, Iso-bel, there's no need to be like that.

Oh, silly me.

30 minutes. Me on top.

Penetrative.

Those are my terms, Mr Wickers,

should you wish to screw your way out of this.

Oh, and biting.

Lots and lots of biting.

# Look at me, I just can't believe what they've done to me

# We could never get free

# I just wanna be I just wanna be

# Look at me, I just can't believe what they've done to me

# We could never get free I just wanna be

# Look at me

# I just can't believe

I just wanna dream, dream...

Yo, alpha male!

Hey, you know Kevin DJs? He's coming round mine later.

I'm gonna play my mash-up of Chaka Khan and Chaka Demus and Pliers.

It's called Chaka Chaka Demus and Khan. Are you in?

Oh, God, no, I can't.

I've got to go home tonight and run a bath to slit my wrists in

because someone gave my class away to some stupid American

that they've all fallen in love with and I'm stuck with shitty, horrible 2J.

Why have you got a recorder?

Well, I read this article

written by a freelance pest control expert in Germany.

From what I could gather,

his method for drawing the rats away from the villagers was this...

The Pied Piper?

Yeah, the Pied Piper! You know him? Hm!

Mitchell, what are you guys doing?

I'm going to get Emo Elliot to lend Mr Schwimer his skateboard.

Oi, catch the rugger ball, Jonathan Wilkinson.

Here, surprise, sir. Do us a trick?

Er, I can't. No, I mean, with my knees!

I mean, they're just in super real bad shape, you know,

after the marathon.

Don't be a pussy, sir! Yeah, go on, sir!

I bet you're amazing at it. I'll do a trick.

Well, yeah! Yeah, Mr Wickers will do the trick!

Can you skate? Tony Hawkes, intermediate.

Gaming don't make you a skater, you melt.

Rooney plays FIFA, so eat a bag of shit for breakfast, Mitchell.

Just give me the board, dickhead.

And stand back, kids -

this school's insurance policy doesn't cover blown minds.

Hash-tag this shit gonna be cray.

This shit gonna be 50 shades of cray.

Wick-ers, Wick-ers, Wick-ers, Wick-ers!

Oh! Oh, shit!

You OK, buddy?

Am I dead?

Oh, Mother Theresa, where did it all go wrong?

Sir?

Oh, hey, Jing, where are the others?

Mr Schwimer's friend from the British Museum

lent him some weapons and armour.

They're all outside doing a Civil War re-enactment.

Class Wars? Is nothing sacred?

I need to talk to you about something.

My Dzenga? Do you remember when

we used this to run through 9/11 conspiracy theories?

See? Still got the FBI dynamite on it.

Look! It's all the Jews that didn't go into work that day.

Take it. Something to remember me by.

You're not dying. -Inside I am, Jing.

But it's all right. I understand.

I have to let you go.

Just promise me this.

Don't ever let that man patronise you.

Look! My suffragette glove puppets! "Please give me the vote. "

"Watch out for the horsey!"

Listen. Mr Schwimer isn't who he says he is.

Jing, I get it. I'm shitty old Alfie,

he's Mr Perfect Good-Teeth Junior the Third.

But he isn't perfect!

Look at this photo. Something's not right.

Look.

Oh, my god. The jogger behind him has a semi.

No, Mr Schwimer.

Mr Schwimer's got a semi?

The hand!

That's a wedding ring - and it's a ladies arm.

Mr Schwimer isn't married... or a lady.

I knew there was something wrong with him from the start.

It's his eyes, right? Too close together. No!

He said he went to Harvard, California,

but Harvard's in Massachusetts.

And did you see how reluctant the pro skater was in doing a trick?

Why are you helping me, Jing?

Because I love this class. It's just not the same without you.

You're an idiot, but you're also a nice, kind man.

Let's destroy this bastard's life.

It's mash-up time, dedicated to my new best buddy,

two time Superbowl winning champion Mr Schwimer.

And one of my ancestors actually fought in the Battle of Agincourt.

Oi! Kevin.

Yo, G.

Mr Wickers to you, mate.

It's time you confessed.

Let me see your arms.

My arms?

Oh, mi lud, stick a shilling up me chuffer!

This is another one of your dry, British irony jokes, right?

Stop trying to rape Mr Schwimer, sir.

Shut up, Mitchell!

Are those your arms?

Yes.

They look pretty feminine to me.

I have slim arms.

Slim, hairless, married ladies' arms?

Yes. Oh, funny that,

cos didn't you win a gold medal in the Olympic rowing, right?

Um...

The US team won bronze, and you weren't in it.

I don't even remember saying that.

You're not a pro skater, or a DJ.

Oh, and that horrible war in Malawi.

Don't bring the war into this! You weren't there, man.

No, I wasn't. No-one was. Because there wasn't a civil war in Malawi.

You're a pathological liar.

So, come on, Kevin, what have you got to say for yourself?

Spit it out. We're all ears.

Sure, I exaggerate a bit. I didn't mean to hurt anyone.

I just wanted you to like me.

Oh, God, a teacher craving his pupils' approval?

Pathetic. Go on, piss off.

So it was all lies?

You never won the Superbowl?

You don't know Ashton?

I'll never meet Demi.

It's all fake.

The stories, the Harvard education, this stupid plastic armour.

What? Yeah, these shitty little toy guns.

Please be careful! Those are actually antique.

Ooh, my name's Kevin and I've got a buddy at the British Museum!

Argh!

They were loaded! Are you insane?

They weren't supposed to be fired!

You shot him in the arse! Brilliant!

Oh, my God! Oh, my God!

Don't worry, Joe, it's just a little flesh wound.

HELP! HELP!

Someone go and get help. Does anyone know first aid?

I do. Really?

No. Oh, Jesus!

Sir, you're meant to suck the bullet out.

No, you idiot, you're meant to piss on it.

That's jellyfish, you tit! Wait - that is jellyfish, right?

Lie on your front.

No. No, Jing, it's fine. I'll do it, I'm desperate, anyway. No, sir!

Joe, just a quick one.

You know the way your mum's not a massive fan of mine,

if she asks about this - she might not -

could you maybe tell her that you sat on the bullet? Argh!

Wrong moment. Help! HELP!

Sir literally gave him a new arsehole.

Why is no-one coming? Pass me the other gun!

Gonna put him out of his misery, sir?

No, distress signal. Give it here.

Oh, shit. Rumsfeld!

Shit, shit, shit! Please don't be dead, please don't be dead.

One two, one two.

Come on, Rumsfeld. Don't fly towards the light.

Pickwell's coming. Oh, no!

Right, if anyone asks, Kevin fired the guns.

Yup. Sure. Definitely. That's a lie!

Is it a lie? Or am I just exaggerating?

My baby!

I heard gunshots!

The man of steel is here to save the day.

Are you OK, sweetheart?

My bum hurts.

Not for the first time.

Keep pressure on the wound. What have you done?

It wasn't him, Miss Gulliver. I fired the gun by mistake.

See, you told me my kids wouldn't take a bullet for me, but...

Joe's a hero, miss. He threw his arse in front of the bullet!

Yeah, his bottom was like Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard.

Forget about the boy! Rumsfeld!

This man has lied about everything!

Except for the bit about shooting Joe. I'm a fraud.

But what about my mash-ups? You said you liked them?

I didn't really.

You're dead to me.

When we confronted him, he freaked out and turned the gun on Joe.

And then he reloaded to shoot your pigeon.

I have a problem. I can't help lying.

I say one thing and then it just spirals.

I'm not even from America. I'm from Birmingham.

Not even Birmingham, actually.

Dudley, near Tipton, you know, off the A4123.

Sorry, everyone.

Now I've been honest, can we be buddies? I've got a jetpack.

I flew to France on it, all the way... Brrrrrr!

D'you want to have a go?

I'll have a go.

He's lying again, isn't he?

If you ever set foot on these premises again,

I will personally send you back to Dudley piece by piece.

Starting with these.

Does this mean we get Mr Wickers back?

I think it does.

Yes!

That's right, kids, Daddy's back for good.

And I will never, ever let you get put in danger again,

because I am here to protect you children.

23rd October, 1942. The tank battle of El-Alamein.

Rommel, ready?

Monty, ready?

Three, two, one!

Oh, fuck!

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