All language subtitles for A.Bit.of.Fry.and.Laurie.S04E04.[Dalif]

...find some tissues
in the drawer, there.

Good evening and
welcome to another packed

half-hour of misery
and abject desperation,

a catalogue of
cynicism and emptiness,

and a whole ottoman
full of vapid excuses.

- My colleague would like to add something.
- Ta.

Yes. I'd just like
to say a big hi to

historians of the future,
who may be looking at this show

as part of a higher-education
course in the year 2010 entitled,

Britain: Just What the Bloody
Hell Went Wrong?"

That's probably enough wandering
and talking to the camera for now.

In the words of the Emperor Hadrian,

"Let's expose some
light-sensitive magnetic tape,

"and let's do it now."

- My colleague.
- My colleague.

After me.

Between desire and reality.

A bit.

Between fact and breakfast,

madness lies, lies, lies...

A bit.

I hate you, I hate
you and yet...

I hate you...

As love, rage and
aches of the ear.

Pretension by Fry and Laurie.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

Stephen, here we are again.

Hugh, to my knowledge,
you've only three times

in your life spoken a
truer word than that.

Stephen, of course I can remember the first
two occasions, that goes without saying,

but what was the third time?

Well, you said,

that the BBC's motoring
programme Top Gear

had become
"irritatingly facetious".

Ah, yes. Yes, I remember it well.
Paris, a crisp November morning.

You wore grey, the Germans
wore bleached denim.

You said, and correct me if
I'm over-sexed, you said...

You said, "Why can't they
talk about cars on Top Gear,

- "instead of farting around, trying to be funny?"
- "Trying to be funny."

- Yes.
- I mean, you said, "People don't road-test

"Nissan Micras on
comedy programmes,

- "so, why do they..."
- The latest offering from Nissan comes

in either three, or
five-door hatchback form,

with a choice of the 1 -litre or 1.3-litre
16-valve twin cam engine.

Although the design is,
overall, quite satisfactory,

there are one or two
irritating little niggles.

For example, this boot lid is
awkward and quite heavy to lift.

Imagine trying to
heave the lifeless body

of Kenneth Baker into that
on a wet, Friday evening.

Elsewhere, the car is quite
pleasingly designed...

Well, time now to introduce
some people onto the show.

First out of the guest box is a woman
who's variously been described as

a woman, a risk-taker, a
deal-maker, a heart-breaker,

a gravel-raker,
a baker, a faker,

three-quarters of an acre, and
an iron fist in an iron glove,

with iron bits sticking
out from the knuckles.

Ladies and gentlemen,
please give some muted

and barely polite applause
for Caroline Quentin.

Although the controls
are quite well laid out,

they are often quite difficult
to read while driving at night,

as is A Suitable Boy, by Vikram Seth.

Caroline, it's tremendous to
have you here. Have you come far?

Well, no. I was just over there.

Oh. Oh, well,
that's not too bad then,

'cause you used to live in Cairo,
didn't you?

- No.
- No. I see.

It was a bit of a
wild guess, actually.

Mind you, it would've been creepy
if I'd been right, wouldn't it?

- Yes.
- All right, okay.

Well,
why don't you take the weight off your

feet and transfer it
onto your buttocks,

while I introduce a man
who's variously been tipped

for the post of Minister of the
Interior in the Republic of Chile

until that unfortunate
business of the out-of-date

weekend-away saver daybreak
ticket from Paddington to Reading.

Ladies and gentlemen,

would you please move
your hands repeatedly towards each other,

until they make contact, releasing energy
in the form of sound, for Patrick Barlow.

Another slightly annoying problem
is that the bonnet-release catch

can get a little bit stiff if
it's not regularly greased,

as can A Suitable Boy, by Vikram Seth.

It's right here...

Patrick. A great pleasure
to have you here.

- Well, Stephen, it's terrific to be here.
- Well, there's no need to lie.

No. No, I wasn't. I was just...

Well,
there's no need to go around sneering,

- and telling snide, creepy little lies!
- Well, I...

- I wasn't...
- Oh, shut up!

Just shut the arse up will you?

You! Points out of 10.

Road-holding and economy, seven.

Performance and styling, five.
Overall likeability, nil.

Well, time now for an amusing little
item written by a colony of dragonflies

from Devon in Exeter.

You're a parent.
You have children.

You want those children to become
Premier League footballers.

Well, this is the place for you.

The Dave Wilson School in Ipswich,
in the heart of London's East End.

Now, shake out, shake out.

The name of Dave Wilson will be
familiar to anyone who knows it

and to those who followed the
fortunes of Reading Town reserves

during the dark
days of the 1970s.

Oh, yeah. They were dark. They were...
They were very, very dark days.

I never actually thought they were
dark, but now that you mention it,

they were ever so dark.

Dave played in a total
of two games for the side

before a cartilage
snapped in his head.

Okay, next one...

Following the accident, Dave
tried his hand at many things.;

astrologer, night-club owner, interior
designer, shadow home secretary.

The jobs came and went, but
nothing seemed to stick.

Until Dave turned up one day to watch
his nephew playing for the school side.

Yeah, well, I saw a chance,
you know, to get involved.

Uh, you know, football's
been good to me, I...

I saw a chance to put
something back into the game.

Right, now. Listen!

Okay, now. Football is a
very simple game. What is it?

- A very simple game!
- Right.

Now, what is the object
of the game of football?

- To run into the box and fall over!
- Run into the box and fall over.

Let's try that now. One at
a time. Ricky, off you go.

What I'm really trying to do here is
to teach fundamental footballing skills

at the earliest possible age.

I've actually started teaching
my eight-month-old son.

And, I've got to say, he's a
natural. Falls over like a diamond.

Okay, listen. A lot of you, as you
go, are not getting your head back.

Okay?

Nice and loose in the neck. As you
get into the box, a lot of height.

Goes like this, okay?

You roll and roll. Okay?

The same applies for the static fall.
Right, that's when you run into the box,

you've forgotten to fall over and
you're just standing there, okay.

Nice and loose in
the neck, and...

Okay, then. Limping. Two
lengths of the pitch. Go.

Mr Wilson, found this in the
changing room. What is it?

Never you mind what that is.
Right, you lot. Come here!

Makes you sick, doesn't it?

Right, listen. I'm gonna say
this once, and once only, okay?

Martin has found this in
the changing room. Right?

Now then, I don't want to see any of you
mucking around with these things, okay?

Any one of you sees one of these,

I want you to tell me or Mr
Collins immediately. All right?

You want to make it to
the top? It's training.

No one ever got on in football
messing around with these things.

Right, off you go.

This makes me sad.

Yeah. You see, people just
don't realise how much training

goes into being an estate agent.

Uh... virtually none.

I don't mind growing old. It does
have some disadvantages, I suppose.

I can't stoop to weed the garden
so much as I used to be able to.

And nor can I bend down to
take it from my husband.

No, I think that Virginia Bottomley
is doing the best she can, you know.

It's just a shame it's crap.

Good morning.

I beg your pardon?

I said good morning.

At last!

- I'm sorry?
- After all these years!

- What?
- Welcome, comrade. Welcome!

Sit down, rest
your weary elbows.

You'll take a glass of vodka?
Mr Dalliard! Mr Dalliard!

Break out the false passports
and the rabbit-skin hats.

We are going to Moscow!

Moscow?

What news? Comrade Stalin
in rude health, I trust.

Wait, wait, wait. Wait a minute.

- All I said was good morning.
- Precisely. The code.

- "The code"?
- It is now 27 summers

since Comrade Melinsky stood slightly
to the left of where you are now

and told me that, one day,
a man would come

into the shop and give
notice of his allegiance

with the phrase "Good morning,"

and that,
on hearing those words,

Mr Dalliard and I were
to detonate our relatives

and fly to Dover...

"Fly to Dover"?

...where a man named Smith would
see us safely onto a goods train

delivering livestock to Minsk.

No, no, no. Wait.
Wait. Wait a minute.

When I said, "Good morning," all
I meant was, you know, good morning.

Oh!

That's all I meant.

Ah. Oh, well, in that case, please
accept my green felt apologies.

That's all right. I just
came in here to buy a model.

- A model. A model.
- Yes. Yes.

- A model?
- Yes.

- A model?
- Yes, that's right. I want to buy a model.

With or without plastic struts?

Um, well, I don't know. I just
thought maybe a model aeroplane.

Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm.

Let me ask a different question in the
same way. Who is this aeroplane for?

It's for my son.
It's his birthday.

- Your son? Just your son?
- Yes. Yes.

- Mmm-hmm. And when is this birthday of his?
- Wednesday.

Yes. That's what I
said. When is the day?

No. Wednesday.

Are you stupid or
just plain deaf?

Wednesday.

Oh! You are genuinely
stupid. I do apologise.

I'm sorry,
I thought you were just being deaf.

Mr Dalliard,
command the earth to swallow me up.

I do apologise, sir.
Life must be hard enough

for stupid people, without
tactless old bastards

like that lady over there rubbing
it into your face with salt, widely.

Mr Dalliard, I've
gone peculiar now.

So, in plain-flavoured English.

When. Is. Your.

Son's. Birthday.

The day after Tuesday.

The day after... My word, doctors are
so specific these days, aren't they?

Are you expecting this
boy to be a boy or a girl?

No, it's my son. He's nine. This
is going to be his 10th birthday.

His 10th? Oh, sir, I
feel you're spoiling him.

I was only ever allowed one,

on my birthday usually.

Still, I guess that you
know your own business best.

Just don't come bleating
to Mr Dalliard and me

if this son of yours turns
out to be one of those

drug jockeys we're always
reading about on television.

Um, a glass of water?

- No, thank you.
- A cup of water?

- No.
- A plate of water, then?

No, thank you. I just
want a model aeroplane.

- A model aeroplane of water?
- No, no.

Forget the... I don't want
any water. Forget the water.

I just want to buy
a model aeroplane.

I thought, perhaps, the
Messerschmitt 109E in the window.

- The Messerschmitt 109E in the window?
- That's right.

Fizzy or still?

- What?
- Ah.

That doesn't count. I
had my hand on my head.

Just ignore anything I say
when my hand is on my head.

Right.

- So, the Messerschmitt 109E.
- Yes.

- And I suppose some glue.
- Some glue?

Then your son is
already a drug jockey.

Mr Dalliard and I warned
you on bended legs.

But would you listen?
No. Now look at you.

Hey, ho.

What's this?

A Messerschmitt 109E and a fix for
that degenerate junkie son of yours.

Well, it's already done.

- So?
- Well, the model's ready-assembled.

Well, you can't expect us to
do all the work ourselves, sir.

The whole joy of modelling lies in
carefully scraping off the paint,

soaking off the transfers, taking
the plane apart, piece by piece,

putting each piece into
a small polythene bag,

which is then sealed
and placed inside the box.

An achievement,
something to be proud of.

Rare words, indeed, in these days
of supersonic hedgehog brothers

and ready-sliced golf shots.

That's it. Just forget it, forget
it. I'll try somewhere else.

Mr Dalliard has a gun trained on you through
the curtain, sir. At a single word from me,

he will blow your head clean off

with as much mercy as if you were
a helpless seal pup called Arnold.

What?

I'm so sorry we couldn't help you, sir.
We do try to accommodate our customers,

but not being a hotel, we
find it almost impossible.

Right. Well, all I can say is this
has not been a very good morning.

"Good morning"? Mr
Dalliard! Mr Dalliard!

We've been activated
after all these years!

Strange man.

Ladies and gentleman, some
of you may be thinking,

you know, "Hello, they've
got these guests on the show,

"but the guests don't
seem to do very much."

You know, "The tall one and his

"slightly less tall, less-talented
friend seem to have hogged it all."

Uh, well, that's not actually...

That's not actually true,
because how many people

watching now and here in the
studio tonight actually noticed

that Patrick here was in
that last sketch. Anybody?

Anybody notice that? Well,
that's interesting because

actually Patrick,
in that last sketch,

played the part of my
colleague, Stephen Fry.

Now, you see, Patrick, looking at
that, it is absolutely amazing.

You know, it's hard to
believe it's the same person.

Did you do a lot of
work for the role?

Oh, I did, yeah, I mean,
I basically devoured

all the source
material I could find.

Right, right.

I'm just thinking, in case we've
got any viewers from planet Earth,

it would be quite nice if you
put that into a known language.

"You devoured all the..."

Well, basically, I read
everything I could find...

- You read a lot. Right.
- ...on Stephen and his school years,

- his biography, his novel.
- You read his novel?

- Yeah.
- Did you finish it?

- I didn't, actually.
- No, I didn't either.

And then I started to
concentrate on the walk.

Mmm.

Although, in actual fact, you were
standing still all the way through that.

Uh, yes. Yes, I was. But you've got to
be able to walk before you can stand.

Right, fascinating. Well, Caroline,
I don't want to leave you out.

I suppose some people
may be thinking now,

"Hello, I suppose Caroline
played the part of Hugh Laurie."

But that's not
actually true, is it?

No, no. I played the
wall behind your head.

- Right, I think you can see that now.
- Yeah.

There you are.

Caroline, did you have to spend a lot
of time in makeup for that? Was that a...

- No, no, about 20 minutes, that's all...
- Is that all?

Yeah, a couple of coats of primer and
an eggshell top coat, and I was ready.

- Yeah. No coving?
- We did talk about it,

but I didn't think my
wall would have coving.

Yeah, right. Well...

Well, Caroline, not a very demanding
role, I suppose, having to play the wall,

but here's something that
people won't have noticed,

and that is that, at this actual
moment, Caroline is actually playing me.

Yes, that's right. Underneath
all this makeup, it's actually me,

Hugh Laurie, sitting right here.

Tricks of the trade
there. Anyway.

Now, on with the meaningless
slaughter of migrating birds.

♪ Standing on a bus We
packed shoulder to shoulder

♪ With strangers in my face
I can feel it getting colder

♪ Bus doors open Nobody get out

♪ Look here, a little old woman
Getting on, I start to shout

♪ Say, get up, stand
up Up on your feet

♪ Make space for the
lady Somebody give a seat

♪ She's just standing there
aching Her whole body shaking

♪ She's starting to fall over
This time she ain't faking it

♪ But what? Nobody move
Don't hear a word I say

♪ So I take a deep breath
This time I get my way

♪ Say, please, don't
make me say it twice

♪ 'Cause I'll get you as mad
as hell Let's try to be nice

♪ Be nice

♪ Be nice

♪ 'Cause I'm a
good-ass mother-liker

♪ Get home to my bitch
She been waiting all alone

♪ I put water in a bowl
And I give her a bone

♪ Neighbours come
calling Holding out a cup

♪ So I get out the sugar
And I fill it right up

♪ Be nice

♪ Be nice

♪ 'Cause I'm a
good-ass mother-liker ♪

No, it was the damnedest thing.

I was in this hardware
store about three weeks ago,

buying a 30-gallon drum of car
wax for my daughter-in-law,

when, suddenly,
the door burst open

and 30 coppers came lumbering
in, arrested everyone.

Turned out the
place was a brothel.

Well, they've closed all
the brothels around us.

All bloody bingo halls now.

If you've got a jar of
marmalade in a cupboard, right?

And you take the marmalade
out of the cupboard, right?

You've still got
the marmalade, yeah?

It's not in the cupboard,
but you've got the marmalade.

You've got to put the marmalade
somewhere else, haven't you?

Of course you have,
it stands to reason.

There's the cupboard, no marmalade,
but you've still got the marmalade.

It's the same with sex and
violence on television.

Yeah, you can take sex and violence off
television, but where you gonna put 'em?

Hmm? Tell me that.

Yes, I've had two letters read
out on Points Of View now.

Rather proud of that. They say
that if you can get three read out,

you're automatically sectioned
under the Mental Health Act.

Hello. If you're anything like me, then
you probably wash your hair quite often.

And you probably use a shampoo. You're
pretty tall, you're called Stephen,

and you haven't got
much time for gardening.

Well, I may just have the
answer for you, Stephen.

It came to me yesterday...

Oh, tell a pointless, transparent lie,
the day before yesterday,

when I was standing here,
bent over the wash-hair basin.

Here's a thing, I thought, that we do a
couple of times a week, which utilises

the very same key
nutrients and minerals

that any gardener will
tell you are essential

for healthy plants and gums.

So, Stephen, I've come up with
this new five-minute addition

to my hair grooming and
facial scrub programme

Now, if you're anything like me,

you'll probably like to rinse
after your second wash,

and you'll have a friend called Hugh

who plays with an Etch A
Sketch in your airing cupboard.

Hugh, come on out and help me
explain my new breakthrough in hair.

Righto.

I was just telling the
viewing several there

that after the second wash, I
like to have a thorough rinse.

- No harm in that, if it's done sensibly.
- My point exactly.

Now, it's at this very stage
when my new development comes in.

Here, in my freshly-watered,

protein-enriched hair
are the ideal conditions,

neutral-balanced pH-active liposomes
and gentle cleansing agents,

for a small, but
attractive, town garden.

Hugh, what have
you decided to sow?

Well, I've gone for a mix of dog
roses, begonias and clematis.

No vegetables?

Well,
I thought I might do one or two potatoes

just behind the crown there.

- Uh-huh. So a general utility garden?
- Pretty much, yes.

All right.

Now it's time for me to put my Pifco
Tressmatic onto its lowest setting

and let nature do the work.

Well, let's see how
it's fared, shall we?

Oh, I think that's
come out rather well.

Simple, cheap, effective.

Well done, Hugh, my
"head" gardener.

That's amusing.

Of course, your own hair-garden

needn't be confined to this
limited range of plants.

The sky is very much the limit.

Climbing wisterias, alpines,
runner beans, you name it.

And if you have
dandruff problems,

you might consider the virtues of
a traditional Japanese snow garden.

If you're like me, you'll
be keen to experiment,

and you'll enjoy wearing Lycra
one-pieces, alone, in your bedroom.

- Stephen, what are you doing?
- Hugh, I'm south-facing.

- Well, back to the airing cupboard with me.
- See you next wash day.

- Bye-bye.
- Bye-bye.

Between imagination and desire,

between reality and ambition,

between what is known
and what is feared,

between purpose and despair,
between sense and shite,

between the visible
world and the inner world

that straddles the curtain between what
we know and what we think we suspect,

hangs a dark veil

that waves gently between
the beckoning finger,

drawing us into the
world of what could be

and what never couldn't
be impossible to dread.

Or do they?

Perhaps it isn't. Maybe
we were only dreaming.

Perhaps the answers could
be found in that other realm

that lies between the
foundry of the heart

and the sweating laundry
room of the imagination,

where the only rhythms are the
smiles of the forgotten winter

and the incessant beating of the
frightened human thigh that we call fear.

Or is it?

I'm Gelliant Gutfright, and
tonight's tale must give us pause.

It is called
"Flowers for Wendy,"

but might it rather have been
called "You Have Been Warned"?

No, it might not.

Andrew Beckett is on
his way home from work.

A nice young man is Andrew Beckett, a kind word
for everyone, and everyone for a kind word,

liked by all who come
into contact with him.

Another hard day's work,
another quiet evening in,

perhaps a little
television, a crossword,

maybe he'll finally get round
to cataloguing those... Wait.

What is he thinking of? Not just another
evening. After all, it's Wendy's birthday.

Dinner at Mario's,
but first he should...

Strange, he's never noticed
that flower-seller before,

yet he comes home this route
everyday. Providential.

Good evening, Mr Beckett.

Well, that's extraordinary.

How could you possibly have known that it
was evening? You aren't wearing a watch.

I know most things, Mr Beckett.

How about buying some flowers
for your wife's birthday?

But this is uncanny. That's exactly what
I want. How could you possibly have known?

How about some roses, Mr Beckett?
All the ladies love a rose.

- Well, now, what are these?
- Ah.

Don't want to bother with those,
sir. They are special blooms.

They're rather splendid.
What are they called?

Ranunculus pugnans.

Ranun... what?

Commonly known as "Old
Man's Wrinkles", sir, or...

..."the Fighting Buttercup".

I must say, the smell is very...

It didn't get that name by accident,
Mr Beckett.

What name?

Fighting Buttercup.

They say that the bouquet of this bloom
can bring out all the anger in a person.

- Well, what nonsense.
- That's what they say, sir.

- Superstitious hooey.
- No doubt about it, sir.

- Arse clap.
- As you say, sir.

Rhino bollocks.

- How much are they?
- Five pounds, sir. But I must...

Oh, get out of it.

Poor Andrew, poor Wendy.

A kind thought for a birthday
and a simple bunch of flowers.

But when your life is a perilous
yo-yo eaten by destiny's right hand,

when fate lights the cigarette,

when chance plays the
trumpet not very well,

and hazard deals the cards
from the bottom of your aunt...

Oh, come on!

...then you must
expect the unexpected.

- Andrew, what...
- Jesus, suffering arse, this bloody door!

- I don't understand!
- Don't understand?

Don't understand what, you
hopeless saucer of puss?

It's a frig-mothering door and
it keeps getting vomiting stuck!

That's all there is to understand!
It's not differential calculus!

Andrew!

Ow!

Now look what you've done, you pointless
tart. You've broken the snotting banister.

Andrew, what's wrong?

I'm gonna get a drink. Happy
birthday, you saggy old bitch.

Oh, thank you.

They're lovely

and they smell...

...gorgeous.

Oh, come on, open, you
scrotum-ing dribble of faeces!

That's better.

Ah, that's much better.

After all, it's only a door.

It's not the end of the world.
Nothing to get annoyed about.

- What the...
- Sorry.

- "Sorry"?
- Yes.

Sorry I didn't hit you with a sock full of
gravel, you flabby, drivelling waste of clothes.

- Wendy, darling.
- "Wendy, darling"?

I'll darling your arse with
a rusty lawn sprinkler.

- What... What's happened?
- "Happened"?

Nothing's happened that a Swiss
Army penknife can't sort out.

Now why don't you take these
bottom-wipingly ugly flowers

and stick them into your lungs!

The flowers! Of
course. Listen, Wendy.

I think I know what's happened,
what this is all about.

You see...

And so, Wendy Beckett

sat at her husband's knees
and listened to a story,

a fantastic story, a tale that danced
along the crumbling brim of credibility,

yet never once lost its footing.

A tale of walking
home, and pavements,

and forgettings of
birthdays, and rememberings,

and wantings to buy flowerings,

and discoverings of a flower stalling
just at the right momentings.

And when he had finished,

Andrew Beckett took his wife's
face in his lovely, young hands...

Now, Wendy, do you see? Do you
understand what's happened?

Oh, Andrew, I feel such a fool.

Well, Wendy,
I think we've both been a little mad.

But what matters now
is the future. It's us.

- Oh, Andy.
- Oh, Wendy.

A happy ending, you may think,

loose ends tied up,
the books balanced.

And yet... And yet.

What of our friend, the
blind flower-seller?

Old Man's Wrinkle, madam,

or the Fighting Buttercup.

They say that the
bouquet of this bloom

brings out all the
anger in a person.

- Really?
- And when they've done that for a bit,

they explode.

- How much?
- To you, madam, nothing.

Ooh, thank you very much.

Good night,

if you can.

Well, we come now to
that part of the show

where I say, "Well, we come
now to that part of the show".

Oh, get on with it.

Have you chosen your
cocktail, Caroline?

Yes, I'll have A Quick One
With You, Stephen, please.

A Quick One With You, Stephen,
it will be. For you, Patrick?

Could I just have a
glass of water, Stephen?

Oh, I'm sorry, I'm afraid the answer
is, "No, you can't." I do apologise.

You can have A Quick
One With You, Stephen.

A Quick One With You, Stephen. Now
you may be making this at home,

in which case, what you'll
need is a measure of gin,

two measures of gin,

one of gin,

a measure of gin,

an item of clothing worn by any member
of the cast of Two Point Four Children.

In this case, I'm using a pair of
Gary Olsen's Fruit of the Loom Y-pants

and a measure of gin.

And now, into the cocktail
shaker of my mouth,

I throw these six
magnificent words,

you, please, Music,
Mr, will, play.

I give a brief shake

and I pour out
this golden phrase,

"Please, Mr Music,
will you play?"

Soupy twist.