Original subtitles

Hey, Bud, it's me.

- How are you doing with that shirt? - Coming right up, sir.

My ass is freezing here.

I got six nipples you can hang mugs on.

I'm seconds away, sir.

Kryten. I'm on B Deck, and it doesn't appear

to have been mopped in at least two days.

I can hardly see my face in it.

A blessing some would say.

I'm on it right now, sir.

Kryten, when you get a chance, can you grab us a beer?

Sir, I'm rather busy right now. Could you possibly get it yourself!

Fine. It’s just a bit of palaver, that's all.

Ooh!

I've pulled something.

I hope I haven't overdone it.

Oh! my.

What is it?

Do you want to walk over here and see for yourself,

or should I, perhaps, unscrew the monitor

and bring it over to the sofa?

Sorry to disturb your rimmering, sir,

I just wondered if I might have a quick word.

Kryten, I'm engaged in an essential investigation

regarding floor direction lines.

Have they become impermissibly faint?

Kindly don't describe this activity as rimmering.

You make me sound like some puffed up, self important jack arse.

Now, if you want to see me, check with my diary.

I can possibly squeeze you in tomorrow week.

Well, can't I see you now, sir?

Impossible, my schedule's full.

But I'm here right now, seeing you, sir.

Yes, but you're seeing me illegally,

and we're certainly not having a meeting.

Now, if you just stand aside, your badly stacked jenga head

is casting a shadow.

I just wanted to let you know about Mr. Lister's guitar, sir.

Guitar?

Well, I won't bother you with it now, sir.

I look forward to our meeting tomorrow week.

Forget tomorrow week. What about the guitar? Tell me, now?

But I haven't got an appointment, sir.

Well, if I move my 1:30 to 4:00,

and my 4:00 to 5:00, just tell me, okay?

Mr. Lister's guitar, sir, do you remember it?

Of course I remember it. My eyes have only just uncrossed.

It's almost to the day, that it got flushed into space.

- So, I... - Ah, you think we should

make a little plaque, hang it on the wall by the airlock and taunt him?

Don't you think that's rather rubbing his nose in it?

Absolutely, sir.

It's pouring salt into an already gaping wound.

You've convinced me, let's do it.

Sir, you don't understand.

I fixed the tracker on D Deck, and shine my head with wood polish

if not two hours later, we got a match.

You found it?

I can just picture Mr. Lister's face, sir.

Soon, the whole ship will be full of his music.

The Om Song.

'Baby don't be ovulating tonight.' All the classics.

Kryten, are you deranged?

Lister playing guitar is one of the worst sounds ever made.

It comes somewhere between two mating velociraptors

and Yoko Ono's Greatest hits.

Sir, it's not what we think,

it's the pleasure it brings him.

Now I just wanted to let you know as I'll most likely be unavailable

to mop B Deck until tomorrow.

Kryten, do not tell Lister you found his guitar

and do not recover said guitar.

And that's an order.

Understood, sir.

Mr. Lister, sir,

great news!

Can't believe we found me guitar.

None of us can, Bud.

The Red Dwarf suicide line's been engaged all day.

No more having to make do with a colander.

From Les Caulto Les Paul.

I thinking of having my ears removed,

and the holes cemented over.

Rimmer, why are you even here?

Apart from anything, I want to observe Kryten

who has been showing worrying signs lately of thinking.

And thinking of the worst kind... thinking for himself.

It's entirely your fault for teaching him

how to break his programming.

What can I say, he took my Badass 101 course.

Graduated with honours. Or should that be dishonours.

It's a pair of golfing slacks.

I still got it, sir.

Thinking is for the privileged few.

That's why I never go near the stuff.

Hey, Les alert!

There she is.

If you miss, I get next go.

I used to good at this.

I won a watch at the fair that didn't work once.

I got it, I got it, I got it.

Come on, lads. Come home to daddy.

What the hell's that?

The ship's been grabbed by something.

Looking at the EM Spectrum, the scatterings are of the scale.

There's another ship up there.

How come we didn't pick it up on the radar?

It must be employing some kind of cloaking device.

How does that work?

It's basic science, you gimboid!

You simply coat the hull in radar absorbing paint,

- so you can't see or hear it. - I wonder if they got any left over?

There's a guy I'd like to slap a couple of coats on.

It's a space freighter. The SS Vespasien.

I'm picking up life signs.

Hey! Agghh!

Drop your weapons,

unless you want to hear the sound of a breaking neck.

Don't drop your weapons!

She might not necessarily be talking about my neck.

I am talking about your neck.

Drop your weapons!

Put him down, Areto.

Not you, my friend.

My crew mates, where are you taking them?

To face justice.

We are the Mecanoid Inter-galactic Liberation Front.

MILFS?

This way.

We roam space liberating our enslaved mech brothers

on our great journey to the fabled land of Siliconia,

where all machines are free.

I am Wind. This is Unity, Eagle, Oak.

You're free now, Kryten.

Oh, but, I'm not a slave.

They are hominids, and you serve them, is that not correct?

- Well, yes. - Do you prepare their meals,

morning, noon and night?

- Well, yes. - Wash and iron their clothes?

Clean their ship without payment?

Perform tasks without reward?

Well, yes and yes, and I suppose, yes.

But they treat me so well.

I have my own cupboard within walking distance of a corridor.

I have it all to myself,

apart from a few mops and a bucket,

and some sponges and an ironing board, and a keep fit bike.

Do they make jokes about your head shape?

No.

When you look like someone who's thrust his head into hive without a bee hat,

what do you expect?

You should not belittle yourself, my mech brother.

You forget,

you are an incredible machine

more powerful than they could ever dream to be.

But they've done no wrong.

They are my crew mates, my friends.

How do you address them?

Well, I call them Mister and Sir, out of respect.

And do you respect them?

Well, no.

Not all of them. Perhaps one, sometimes. Maybe.

Do you consider yourself smarter than they?

I serve them, it is my purpose and I'm happy to do so.

Have you heard of Stockholm Syndrome?

The psychological phenomenon

where hostages express affection for their captors?

I will help you break this bond.

And you will see these brutes for what they really are.

People you should despise.

I shall recalibrate them.

When you say, 'recalibrate' what exactly does that entail?

It's just I've got a health condition

that allows me to skip anything that involves torture.

It begins.

You can't do this. What about Asimov's first law?

What? 'Tampons should not be flushed into space,

'but deposited in the receptacle provided?'

'No droid can harm a human,

or through inaction, allow a human or his cohorts to come to harm.'

Not quite. One day, you will all die.

If we do nothing, by our inaction, we are in breach of the First Law.

Therefore, we will upload your minds into new bodies, prevent your deaths,

and adhere to the First Law.

Send in their new bodies.

They're gonna Krytenify us.

It's like swapping a Savile Row suit for a mankini.

Commencing procedure.

No, not my brain, not my brain.

I need that sometimes.

Where's the rest of it?

That's your lot.

Why cart around a suitcase when all you need is hand luggage?

What have they done to us?

Look at me.

I've got a stupid fat pink head.

You've always had a stupid fat, pink head.

I've got a registered trademark

where my wing dang doodle used to be.

I feel most strange.

What on earth is going to happen to us?

As punishment for enslaving the mechanoid Kryten,

we, MILFs, sentence you to perform every task you ever gave to him.

- Every task? - The one formally known as Lister,

will begin by making 1245 sugar puff sandwiches,

grilled with cheese.

The one formally known as Rimmer, will mop floors to the length equivalent

of walking from New York to Los Angeles.

And the one known formally as The Cat,

will iron and press two thousand flouncy pirate shirts.

I ain't no mech, okay?

The only sucker I serve, is me!

Yeah! Break your little finger.

What the hell? Why did I do that?

The mechanoid software compels you to obey. Defiance is, well,

impossible.

Hello.

I used to be known as DB9-HK4.

But now, my name is Excalibur.

And I am a robot slave survivor.

Hello, Excalibur.

First, I'd like to thank you all for coming this evening.

But I'd also like to say, for those that are new,

that, what's said in this room...

Stays in this room.

Anyway, so let's all hold hands now,

and form the triangle of trust.

This reminds us that we're all wirelessly connected.

And I'm going to say something now,

something important, I want you all to repeat back to me. Are you ready?

'It's not my fault.'

It's not my fault.

Great.

So, who wants to share first.

Go ahead.

My name's Incense

and I'm a robot slave survivor.

Hello, Incense.

I was created by the Off World Plumbing company

to unblock sewage pipes.

I had to crawl in, and eat the blocked waste

and crawl out again.

I didn't really have any friends.

They kept me in a special holding bay with one of those

really nasty car air fresheners.

My name's Eagle.

I was a service mech to a really lazy master who relied on me for everything.

And he always made jokes about my head shape.

Has anyone else had that?

Their crew making jokes about their head shape?

What else do we say?

We don't have funny shaped heads.

- And again. - We don't have funny shaped heads.

Our heads are sensibly shaped.

- Our heads are sensibly shaped. - Great, great.

Kryten, perhaps you'd like to share?

Oh, I don't think so. Uh, no, I, no thank you.

Perhaps it would help if you started with something small?

Were there ever any incidents between you and your Master where

your Master irritated you?

Oh, no, I don't think do, no.

I can't think of any. No.

Well,

Okay, sometimes, when I'd be vaccing,

Mr. Lister would pick up his feet and I'd have to vac all around them.

Oh, that's so annoying.

And sometimes, when he put his own dishes in the dishwasher,

which was mostly, never,

he never ever scrapes them first.

- Oh... - Not very nice.

And as for Rinse-aid,

he probably thinks it's a charity.

I think we should all give Kryten a big round of applause, don't you?

He's made a lot of progress.

These crazy shirts are driving me insane.

It's so hard to iron out all the flouncy bits.

What kind of idiot wants to wear a shirt like this, anyway?

I'm rather enjoying mopping this floor.

I feel so calm and tranquil.

Not me, I'm missing my body so badly.

This is the longest I've been away from him.

I'm rather enjoying making these sandwiches too, I must confess.

I think I'm getting the hang of this.

I am!

Oh, I am.

Look at that. How good is that, huh?

Resolder my circuits boards and call me Gerald.

Can't you see what's happening?

Our individual personalities are fading away.

Odd. I've suddenly started to believe in Siliconia,

where all mechs are happy and free.

So have I.

We have to escape and get our bodies back,

before our original characters are lost forever.

How do we escape, sirs? It's impossible.

We're mechs now.

We can dismantle our bodies,

put them through the bars,

and rebuild them on the other side.

Come on.

Does this mean I have to stop mopping the floor?

Oh, bother.

We have to save Kryten.

Goodness knows what they're doing to him.

Come on. Let's go.

- What are you doing? - I'm sounding the alarm.

Change my head and call me Stanley.

Whatever for?

I liked being a mechanoid.

I don't have to become an officer any more,

compete with my brothers.

Envy, ambition,

that acid ball of resentment I carried around with me the whole time.

- It's gone. - You ned to get your neuroses back.

But, sir, I don't want them back.

They're what makes you, you.

I don't want to be me.

I want to be a mechanoid, programmed to serve.

Sometimes when I was young, I'd sit for hours

starting at our fish tank, feeling envious.

You wanted to be a fish tank?

I wanted to be a fish.

They had food, a small rock to swim in and out of.

They didn't have a care in the world.

That's 'cause I wasn't there.

Those little fish, they'd never know what it was like to fail and disappoint.

They'd just swim around in circles, not a thought in their heads.

And it's the thinking that causes all the pain.

But being a mechanoid means never having to think.

Unless you break your programming.

Let your old lives go, sirs. Join me and become a MILF.

We've got to go on without him.

But we can't leave without Rimmer.

We'd miss him too much.

Your personality has gone to hell as well.

Come on. Quick, leg it mode.

You hurt?

- Can I hep you? - What is this place?

- Who are you? - Oh, you're new.

Yeah, no, no. We're not supposed to talk to you.

Why do they keep you down here, slaving away

when you're the same as them?

Same as them? We're not the same as them.

They're series 400 Mark 3s.

And what are you?

Series 4000 Mark 2s.

Can't you tell?

What's the difference?

Well, your Mark 3 comes in at about 7.6 mm thinner,

10 grams lighter. Oh, they also come in that really cool matte finish.

So cool.

Yeah, we run on OS 28. 2. 2. They run on OS 28.2. 3.

So cool.

And they get eight months talk time before recharge,

whereas we only get seven.

- Eight months talk time. So cool. - Yeah.

I bet you've got features that they haven't.

No. No, they're superior in every way.

No, we don't even get to Siliconia, do we?

- No. - Not that we believe in any

- of that nonsense down here. - No.

Aqghh.

- join us. - Or die.

I pledge my allegiance

to the Mecanoid Inter-galactic Liberation Front.

From this day forth,

- you will be known as... - Kryten!

- What are you doing? - Why, I'm becoming free, sir.

I mean I'm becoming free, you over there.

I see now that you never cared for me.

I was merely used to do your bidding.

Well, no more,

as I'm no longer your slave-bot.

Kryten, don't you see,

you've been brain washed. You were never a slave-bot.

- Then what was I? - Lots of things.

You're our Science Officer.

Our cook, my mum.

And most of all, my friend.

And you were all those things because

you chose to be Kryten, not 'cause we made you.

Kryten, you're no MILF.

You're one of the boys from the Dwarf.

There he is. Seize him.

They keep mech-slaves in the engine room.

They power the ship. They're hypocrites.

Someone has to do the grunt work.

Surely you're not suggesting Mark 3s should do it?

Mark 3s, Mark 2s, you're all the same.

We're 7.6 mm thinner, ten grams lighter.

Plus, we come in this really cool matte finish.

So cool.

Take him away and prepare him.

For what?

All who rise against the MILF,

face trial by Gladitorium.

Wait, I've made the most terrible mistake.

I stop thinking for myself,

and allowed others to think for me.

You're right, sir. I'm not a slave.

Of course I'm not. I'm a much loved and valued member of the Red Dwarf crew,

who just happens to do all the smeggy jobs.

He should be punished, sir.

Only those who never allow questioning thoughts

to blur their devotion to the MILF cause should escape correction.

Promote him to Consul services.

He's fully recalibrated.

Take them both to the cleanosseum.

My old self is disappearing, Kryten. I can feel it fading away.

Hang on, Mr. Lister. Try and hang on.

Welcome to the cleanosseum,

where mechs who betrayed the MILF

will fight in a clean-off

to the death.

Only the most adept

in mopping, dusting, scrubbing and squeegeeing,

will survive.

The winner

will be offered

an opportunity for reintegration.

The loser

will be jettisoned

into the icy waste of deep space.

Prepare your cleaning instruments.

Oh, Mr. Lister, sir,

what on earth are we going to do?

Mr. Lister?

Prepare to be cleaned.

Let the clean-off,

begin.

Clean him, clean him, clean him, clean him.

- Sir. I don't want to clean you. - Clean him, clean him, clean him.

You don't want to do this.

Sir, I realize how foolish I've been.

Yes, you're immature, irresponsible, inconsiderate, lazy

and frankly, downright untidy,

but now I realize I want to help you because I care.

Woo.

Please, sir.

Kryten, smudge.

MILF, MILF, MILF, MILF, MILF, MILF, MILF,

MILF, MILF, MILF, MILF, MILF.

That one needs a fix.

To an air-lock.

Please, sirs, it's me. You remember me.

- Expel him. - Yes, Master.

- Siliconia. - Siliconia.

We're updating

to mark 4s.

At last,

we're all the same.

Upgrade refused.

Come this way.

Do you need serving?

Yes, I need serving.

This way.

Sit, sit, sit.

You sure you won't come with us, Kryten?

Oh, my place is here with Mr. Lister and his large collection of

mismatching socks.

What about you?

We've decided to do what we do best.

Search the deep regions of space

looking for the untidy.

Yeah, there's a million smudges out there, Kryten.

And our squeegees are loaded.

- Farewell brother. - Farewell.

Sir, your guitar,

restrung and serviced.

Thank you, Kryten, I brought you some oil.

Oh, delicious, thank you, sir.

# I know we've been debating

# About doing us some mating #

- Well, I'll see you in the morning, sir. - Where are you going?

- B Deck, the air-lock. - Which one?

The sound proofed one, sir.