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I can't hold it in.
I really need to go, Dad.

- I'll pull over.
- No, I don't want to go in the bushes.

We're miles away from a pub,
so you're going to have to.

- Please, Dad!
- All right, try and take your mind off it.

- Ask me a question.
- Like what?

- Anything you want.
- OK.

How do you sleep at night?

What is that supposed to mean?

Mark Wilson's dad asked me.
He said you rip people off,

selling them expensive windows
and getting them in debt.

Well, the next time you see him,

tell him your old dad sleeps just fine

and he can go fuck himself,
the jealous prick.

Really? Excellent.

Actually, don't say that, all right?

Is it true, though?
Do you get people in debt?

Look, Rob, I sell windows,

and a lot of fucking windows,
I might add,

to people all over our town.

I don't put a gun to their head.
They want to buy from me.

Can they always afford it?
Probably not, but as far as I know

it's not illegal to sell things to
people just cos they're too stupid

to know if they can afford them.

I think that is illegal.
I saw it on World in Action.

- Really?
- Yeah.

Dad, I've got to go now!

All right, let me pull over.

What's here? Why are you stopping here?

- Just nip in that hedge.
- But it's a poo.

No-one's coming, Rob,
they're not going to see you.

What about wiping my bum?

Here you go.

Dad, what are these?

Better than Andrex.

_

Sync & corrections by emeline-whovian
www.MY-SUBS.com

I'm arriving at base now, Gremlin,

but if you could keep an
eye on that traffic for me

it'd be much appreciated. Over.

There's a Kojak with a
Kodak on the A13 flyover.

Thanks, Gremlin. I've got some
earwiggers on the horizon

so I'm out for now, good buddy.

Roger-rodge. 10-10.

Here he is. Smokey and the Bum Bandit.

Morning, Rubber Ducky.

Yep, very good.

OK, let's do this properly,
who or what is a Gremlin?

He's a mate.

And his name's actually Gremlin?

No, that's his handle.
It's like a CB nickname.

And your handle is...?

Nice try, but save your breath,
I'm not embarrassed about this.

Good for you. And your handle is...?

Widow Maker.

That is superb.

- So is this a new CB radio?
- Obviously.

Treated myself to a rig for the car,
Tri-Star, dual bandwidth,

48 channels, complete with
mag-mounted DV27 antennae.

Basically it's a monster.

You said that like we're
supposed to give a shit.

Yeah, well, you should.
Pretty soon you'll be wondering

how you ever lived without
one of these babies.

Other than for pretending
you're in the Dukes of Hazzard

I'm struggling to think
of a single use for it.

Pre-ordering a prossie to murder
at the next truck stop?

Two uses.

Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Luddites.

Aw, don't be like that, Widow Maker!

Come on!

He was right about one thing,

we couldn't live without
one of those babies.

So we got a cheap rig, secretly
installed it in Walshy's office

and roped in Carol,

who as well as being
Britain's lousiest receptionist

had a genuine talent for mimicry.

Breaker breakers, this is the Sexy Elf.

Any takers?

Is that all right?

Now, your average CB enthusiast
is male, lives with his mum and

is about as likely to drive a truck
as he is to have lost his cherry.

As soon as the Elf hit the airwaves,

they were practically rutting
one another for her attention.

- 10-2, Sexy Elf, this is Wheelnut
reading you wall-to-wall. - Wheelnut!

Where've you been all my life, Sexy Elf?

This is The Beastmaster
sending out 3s and 8s.

Fancy an eyeball, Elf?

Hey, Elf, ignore these prairie dogs,

let's knock it up 10 for a one-to-one.

I've got no trousers on.

Eventually she hooked the big one.

Afternoon, Elf, this is the Widow Maker.
What's your 10-20?

10-20... Location.

Hi, Widow Maker. I'm approaching
Chelmsford town centre, on a bus.

- You're on a bus?
- Fuck me.

It's called improvising.

I'm driving a bus.

A bus driver. You sound
like my kind of sexy elf.

And you sound dangerous, Widow Maker.

Really?

As in mysterious. Not like a rapist.

After an hour of some
fairly horrific flirting,

the Widow Maker finally worked up
the bottle to ask the Elf on a date.

Tri-Star, 48 channels. Dual bandwidth.

Ooh! Impressive kit.

I'd love to see it.

'And after that maybe I'll
show you my CB radio too.'

I'll show you mine if you show me yours.

I'm up for an eyeball if you are?

Eyeball? Eyeball...

That's a meet-up. Jackpot.

That's a relief. I thought I was
going to have to flash my chuff.

Yeah, why not, Widow Maker?

They fixed up to meet later that
night at Thorndon Country Park.

This is The Widow Maker.

I'm 10-8 at the 10-20. I think
I can see you, Sexy Elf.

Widow Maker, meet the Sexy Elf.

Fancy seeing you here, good buddy.

Now we'd lit the fuse,

it was time to stand back
and watch the fireworks.

You cunts!

Only Fitzpatrick didn't explode,
it was far worse than that.

Oh, God!

Look at me.

It turns out that Fitzpatrick's
home life was a living hell.

He'd married his childhood
sweetheart, Maureen, when he was 18

but over the years
she'd put on a tonne of weight

due to an underactive thyroid gland.

This, combined with the realisation
that she had to live with

Fitzpatrick for the rest of her
miserable life had made her

clinically depressed and, lately,
even physically abusive.

Why don't you just do everyone
a big favour, yeah, and fuck off?!

Go on, fuck off!

- Go on, fuck off down to the shed,
you little sad bastard. - Maureen!

- The neighbours!
- Your jumper's shit!

The closest thing he had
to a social life was us

and the complete tools
he befriended on CB radio.

Breaker breaker,
this is the Widow Maker.

I can't leave her. I'm all she's got.

Man, that's rough.

I feel terrible now, Brian.

Can I give you a hand job
at least, to say sorry?

Jesus, Carol.

No, you're all right.

Now it was awkward and weird.
To be perfectly honest with you,

I'd actually forgotten he was married.

And not solely because he'd barely uttered a
word about Thyroid in the year I'd known him.

It was more down to
the fact that whenever

I laid on treats for the team, he
went at it like a man possessed.

Oh, yeah! Oh, Mummy.

Frankly it was off-putting
for the rest of us

That's top quality.

Oh, I'm going to sell even more
fucking windows next week.

Anyway, after the CB awkwardness,

I had to placate Fitzpatrick
in the only way I knew how.

Only this time he was exiled
to conduct his nasty business

behind closed doors.

In this instance, Walshy's office door.

That's it.

It still sounded like someone was
mating a gorilla upstairs,

but that was a vast improvement on
actually seeing his ratty little sex face.

Yeah, oh, woman.
Big Brian needs woman. Oh, yeah!

Unfortunately this venue change
for Fitzpatrick's depravity

didn't go unnoticed.

Vincent, you cunt!

- You're not going to...
- Get up here!

Just excuse me one minute.

You disgusting pig, Vincent!

I've got a meeting in 20 minutes.

I've got a bum stain on my desk and
a rubber Johnny in my fucking bin!

Much like the derriere that
left its mark on Walshy's desk,

I didn't mind taking a pounding for
the sake of Fitzpatrick's morale.

Whose bum is this, for Christ's sake?

Morning, homo sapiens.
Emphasis on the homo.

So unnecessary.

Pretty soon Fitzpatrick was back
to his cocky, old unpleasant self.

Now that's what you call man management.

And seeing as I'd already taken
a bollocking for the misuse

of Walshy's office, I figured
I might as well commit the crime.

Come here, you.

I do hope you're going
to brush your teeth

before you teach my second born.

You're unbelievable.
Do you talk like that to Sam?

OK, let's get one thing straight.
You don't mention her name.

What, so you can make jokes about me
teaching Robbie, but she's off limits?

It's only been 20 seconds
since my dick was inside you.

It's too soon. Don't make
a big fucking deal about it.

Oh, so when is it acceptable
to mention her, then?

I need some guidelines.

Half an hour after a shag?

Ten minutes after a blowie?

Five for fingering?

OK. I'm sorry for being touchy.

Just... don't mention fingering.
You know it turns me on.

No, we can't, I'm late enough.

I've still got to prepare
the classroom, and floss my teeth.

Oh. Hello, Miss Lyndsey.

Oh, hi, Mrs Swan.

Shouldn't you be somewhere else?

Sports day training this afternoon,
so I get a long lunch.

Having said that, I'd better dash.

Bye.

Hello, gorgeous. What a lovely surprise.

I want a word with you. Upstairs. Now.

Yeah?

What's she doing here?

Getting her hair cut. What do you think?

She wanted to speak to
someone about windows.

- On her lunch break? - It certainly
beats dragging the whole class

down here during lesson time.

Don't get fucking smart
with me, Vincent.

I've already had Boring Anne from
next door take great fucking pleasure

in telling me how she saw you two
driving through town together.

And now this. You'd better not be
screwing our son's schoolteacher.

Jesus, Sam, calm down. I didn't
even know you were being serious.

Of course I'm not fucking
Robbie's teacher.

If I find out you're lying to me...

I'm not lying to you, baby.

Look, I gave her a lift home
from the musical. One time.

She started telling me about how
her mum wanted a new conservatory,

I said pop in. That was it.
I was chasing a lead.

Well, just fucking think about
how it looks before you start

gallivanting around town with
our son's pretty, young teacher.

Miss Lyndsey, pretty?

I hadn't noticed.

You're such an arsehole.

Come here.

One sec.

Yeah.

Vince, some bird's on the line.

Says she's the editor of the local
paper. She wants to talk to you.

You'd better stick her through.

Vincent Swan speaking.

Hello, Mr Swan?

Please, call me Vincent.

Now guess which handsome
silver-tongued devil

has just been shortlisted for
a prestigious business award?

That's the editor of the
Essex Chronicle on the phone

giving me the good news.

In their infinite wisdom, her
readers have nominated yours truly

as their Entrepreneur of the Year.

I've always taken great pride in my
rapport with my clients but this...

Well, it's an honour.

I think you should try and
attend the awards ceremony

later this month.
Seats are £100 a head...

Well, I think we'll take
a whole table, then, shall we?

I wanted the whole team there
to witness my finest hour.

I even invited
Fitzpatrick's miserable wife.

And bring Thyroid.
She could do with a night out.

- Do you mean Maureen?
- Oh, yeah, sorry, Maureen.

This palatial abode is the house
that Vincent Swan paid for.

Unfortunately, it belongs to Walshy.

Ironically the more money
I make for him, the less time

he spends doing any actual work.

Walshy, my old mucker.

This can't be good fucking news.

Tony was his usual bountiful self.

- Bollocks.
- The publicity alone will be worth it.

Do me a favour, the publicity's free.

You've already delivered me that.

What you're asking is will I shell
out 800 quid on a steak dinner

to watch you being an
unbearably smug wanker?

Errr... No.

Well, if that's your attitude

I'll pay for a table myself,
you tight prick.

Close the gate on your way out.

I spent the next few weeks making
sure that as many people as possible

knew about my impending glory.

_

I even laid out another 500 quid
on this understated advertorial.

You have a lovely day.

No, no, the pleasure's all mine.

All right, ta.

You look like the cat that got
the cream sucked out of his balls.

That was the editor of The Chronicle.

She said it wouldn't be a terrible
idea if I started preparing a speech.

How about, "Dear mentals
in charge of voting,

"thank you for collectively
losing your minds."

It sounds like you're a shoe-in, boss.

It certainly fucking does.

_

My big night arrived, the
Essex Prestige Awards dinner.

Although looking at my fellow
attendees, you'd have thought

I'd wandered into a convention
for the Boring and Ugly Society.

Everywhere you looked
there were horrors,

fat, sweaty messes of men
with bad hair, bad suits

and tired-looking wives.

With one notable exception.

Sam looked absolutely stunning,

like a Hollywood film star
from the '50s.

A film star who'd accidently
been dropped off

at a two-star hotel function
room somewhere in Essex.

Sensational, isn't she?

I get a boner just knowing
every man in here would crawl naked

over broken glass smeared in leopard
shit to sniff the sweaty nutsack

of the man who
takes her to bed every night.

Ah, Vincent Swan.

Who did you pay off at The
Chronicle to get an invite?

No-one, as you'll find out later.

Have you met my gorgeous wife Sam?

My pleasure. I'm looking,
but I don't see the white stick?

Yeah, well, my sight came back
a year after we were married

but by then it was too late.

So how do you boys know each other?

Old golfing buddies.

Vincent applied for a job with me
but it wasn't a good fit.

A bit like that suit.

Must be hard being between
children's and grown-up sizes, eh?

Well, it was a pleasure
meeting you, Sam.

If you ever need a job, give me a call.

We're always on the lookout for the
right type of people at Millman Young.

And who's this beauty?

I take it you paid her
to be your escort for the night?

Very good. No, this is my wife, Belinda.

Belinda. Lovely to meet you.

And here's my card.

If you ever need a man that isn't
three inches shorter than average

in every department, give me a call.

See you later, little prick.

- Vincent! - Sometimes you gotta
call a little prick a little prick.

Do you want to go and join the
others? I'll be over in a minute.

Yeah.

Hi, Carol.

Ah, Mr Mayor. Vincent
Swan, Cachet Windows.

Now I do hope Grandad hasn't
been boring the tits off you...

So, what did you do before
you joined Cachet, Martin?

I was in bands. Do you know Paul Young?

Sorry, not really.

Neither does he any more.

He got dumped from his band
before they had a number one hit.

I wasn't dumped. I left.
To get a proper job.

And now you work for Tony?

No, it's fine. Performing
to millions on Top Of The Pops

didn't really appeal to me.
I much prefer the high-octane thrill

of an awards dinner in a Ramada
hotel on the edge of Chelmsford.

I don't meet many ex-musicians.

Technically he's not an ex,
he's a failed musician.

He can still play an instrument,
it's just no-one wants him to.

And technically
you're a bell-end, aren't you?

Right, does anyone apart from
Fitzpatrick want a drink?

I'm just going to the bar.

I'm all right, thanks, love.

Can I have a snakebite, please?

Classy. Thy... Maureen?

A double.

A double of...

Of... anything that will
take the edge off.

Righty-ho. Sam?

No, I'm good, thanks.

I'll have a pint, please, Lavatory.

Good to know. You can get it yourself.

Come on, if you're going.

I'm going, but just
so that you're clear,

I'm definitely not
bringing you back a pint.

Don't be a dick!

So, Maureen, How did you and Brian meet?

I can't remember.

Really? Well, I remember
exactly the day I met Vincent.

It was nine months before Nat was born.

Really, it was!

I think you call that a hole in one.

I don't know how you find the time
to raise kids and teach.

Oh, I'm not a teacher.

Oh, sorry.

I could've sworn Brian said
you were your son's teacher.

My mistake. Must've been
talking about another Vincent.

Actually, you know what?

I think I do fancy that drink
after all. Excuse me.

Still here?

Hello. Hello? Mate, sorry, could I?

- Two pints of lager, please.
- Yeah.

Mate, come on,
he's literally just got here.

There's got to be some
semblance of an order?

Hi, could I get a pint of lager
and a glass of red wine, please?

- Make it a large one.
- Cool.

Just taking the piss now.

Cheers.

Oh, hi, Sam.

Yeah, sorry, I'll get these.

Yeah, I know you will.

I'm just making sure we get
served before last orders.

Yeah, good call.

Turns out I've got the bar
presence of the invisible man.

So this must seem a far cry
from hanging out with pop stars.

I was in the band of
an "about to pop" star.

It wasn't really that glamourous.

You must miss it, though?

Yeah, a bit,
especially on nights like this.

There was a stage I was
playing to a room this size,

now I'm making small talk
with Fitzpatrick and Thyroid...

Sorry, Maureen.

Thyroid?

She had a thyroid problem,
it affected her weight.

Sorry, that sounded mean.

Yeah, that's quite mean.

But no need to apologise.

I can't stand the rude, fat bitch.

She is a charmer, isn't she?
Why, what's she said to upset you?

Nothing I can't handle.

Ladies and gentlemen,
please return to your tables.

Dinner will be served in five minutes.

Right, well, better get back, then,
before Thyroid swipes our starters.

Shouldn't you be sitting
next to Vincent?

Oh, sorry. I could always move
Thyroid back if you'd rather?

- Nah. More wine?
- Yeah, please.

I think there's been a mix-up.
You're supposed to be over here.

I'm all right where I am,
thank you very much.

Babe, I want you over here, next to me.

And I want you to be less
of a shitbag husband

but we can't always have
what we want in life, can we?

Right.

So, Maureen, it looks like
you're my neighbour tonight.

So where's Brian been hiding
you this past year, eh?

He's ashamed of my size,
so he pretends I don't exist.

And I'm disappointed with his choice
of profession and sexual impotence,

so it swings both ways, doesn't it?

Please, Maureen.

Right, who wants some bubbly?

Oh, yeah, before we get stuck in

can we just establish how
we're splitting the bill?

I'm not really a champagne drinker,
so I might as well get my own.

It's all right, Scrooge McFuck,
this is my treat,

a thank you to everyone who
made it all possible, and you.

Excuse me, sweetheart, who do I have
to suck off around here to get

a bottle of your finest champagne?

Oh, and a snakebite, please.

Ta.

Thyroid continued to be the
life and soul of the evening.

Even though we couldn't have kids

I always knew Brian would be
a very disappointing father.

Excuse me.

That is overdone.
All right? Take it away.

I want to eat it, not
re-sole my shoe with it.

Don't take this the wrong way, Carol,

but you remind me of a dog.

Eventually I excused myself
from the feast of fun

and went to prepare for
my acceptance speech.

Thank you for this unexpected honour...

I hadn't actually prepared a speech,

but after a quick session with
my favourite aide-memoire,

I felt certain I could find the words.

Ladies and gentlemen,

can you give a warm welcome to your
host for the awards this evening,

managing editor of The
Essex Chronicle, Miss Sharon Webb.

Good evening.

Or should I say, good year,
for what a year it's been

for the companies and business leaders
of Essex gathered here tonight.

Without further ado
we're moving straight onto

tonight's opening category,
Entrepreneur of the Year,

sponsored by Mr Rossi's
Ice Cream of Southend-on-Sea.

Mucho grazie, Mr Rossi.

Now, the first winner of this award
is someone who's taken

a fledgling sales team in southwest
Essex and recorded record profits

in their business's
first year of trading,

a man whose employees have described
as an inspirational leader,

his clients have called him impressive,

trustworthy and charming.

Ladies and gentleman,
please give a huge congratulations

to the winner of
the Essex Prestige Awards'

first ever Entrepreneur of the Year,

Mr Andrew Davies of
Millman Young Publishing.

Sorry, Sharon, it looks like someone's had
a bit too much sauce with their steak.

Has anyone lost a child? He's on
stage if you'd like to collect him.

Sorry, who are you?

Vincent Swan. Entrepreneur
of the year. Keep up.

I think there's been a mix-up.

This is our Entrepreneur of
the Year, Mr Andrew Davies,

from Millman Young Publishing.

Please leave the stage.

I think someone had a bit too much
icing sugar on their profiteroles.

Let's keep this dignified.

Well, that's the magic of
live television, I guess!

Maybe next year we don't give
a table to Alcoholics Anonymous.

I'd just like to say I'm very honoured

and appreciative of this award.
I'd like to start by thanking...

What's so fucking funny, Brian?

That... That went better
than how I imagined.

What went better?

I'm really sorry, Vincent.

I didn't think he'd take it this far.

Wait. You had something to do with this?

Vincent Swan, meet Sharon Webb.

Hello, Vincent.

You cunts.

Who's the king of pranks now, then, eh?

You were never up for an award,
you silly tosser.

Do you know how much
I've spunked on this table

and that fucking advertorial?

Yeah, well, if you play with
the big boys, them's the stakes.

For the record, I had no
idea about this, mate.

Never mind, Vincent, at least
we had a nice steak out of it.

Cor blimey! If I'd known it was
going to be this entertaining

I'd have paid for dinner myself.

Shut up, you wally!

You're fired.

All right, let's call a truce
on the pranks now, shall we?

No, read my lips. You're fucking sacked.

Whatever you say, boss(!)

Walshy will finish up
with you next week.

It'll be minus whatever the fuck I've laid out
feeding you and Little Miss Sunshine over there.

Seriously?

All right, so you can...

You can dish it out but you can't
take it? Is that what this is?

Walshy, he can't sack me
for that. Tell him.

Yeah, look, maybe we
should all calm down

and pick this up in the morning, eh?

No, you make a decision right now,
Tony. It's me or him.

Well?

Sorry, Brian. This isn't down to me.

Unbelievable.

It was only a joke.

Right. Come on, Sam.

Sam, tell him it was a joke.

I didn't know he was going
to go on the stage.

They didn't even call his name out.

Ah, Mr Swan! It's Miss Barnes
from the tax office.

- Not now. - Congratulations on
your meteoric rise from gardener to

award-nominated sales superstar.

- Not now! - The funny thing is,
I'd completely given up the ghost

until this shameful piece of
self-promotion landed in my lap.

Vincent, who is this?
What's she talking about?

Why don't you save me the
Lieutenant Columbo bollocks

- and do what you've come to do.
- I would be delighted.

Vincent Swan, I have here
a demand for unpaid tax

for the last 12 months.

Given that you were kind enough to publish details
of your sales performance, we've estimated

that you currently owe us £50,000
in unpaid tax and fines.

You will find details in this document.

Have a wonderful evening.

Another secret you were hoping I'd
never find out about. Fucking hell.

Don't walk away from me, Vincent.

Vincent!

Are you going to say anything?

I'll sort it.

How? How does it get sorted,
Vincent? Eh?

Are you going to find 50 grand
down the back of the sofa?

Like I always do, on my own.

This isn't a game, Vincent.

It's not another one
of your showroom pranks.

It's £50,000.

We could lose our house, everything.

Will you slow down?

I don't remember you being
so concerned about my tax affairs

while you were out fucking
spending all over the place.

Fucking hell, that is pathetic,
even for a scumbag like you.

OK, will you stop speaking to me like
I'm some sort of a cunt, please?

Well, it's hard not to, Vincent,

when you behave like such a
fucking cunt all the time.

There's a line, Sam, that's
all I'm saying, all right?

There's only so much I can take.

A line you crossed by fucking
our son's schoolteacher.

Fucking hell!

She wanted a conservatory.

We've been through this.
Nothing happened.

I just wish you had
the fucking bollocks to admit it.

I mean, I've always known
you were a fucking piece of shit,

but what's Robbie going to think, eh?

What kind of father does that make you?

All right, fine.

I am sleeping with her.

Is that better?

Why?

Why would you do that to us, Vincent?

Just go inside, Sam.
I can't do this tonight.

You fucking piece of shit.

You fucking useless, fucking cunt!

Just go inside.

Where are you going to fucking go, eh?

You go back to that
fucking whore tonight,

don't you ever come back here, Vincent.

Fuck you.