"Well, a lot's changed since the last series of A Bit of Fry and Laurie." "That's right." "When A Bit of Fry and Laurie last appeared on our screens, we looked something like this." "Oh, dear." "It's hard to believe we could get away with noses like that, isn't it?" "You're the one on the right, Hugh." "–Oh, right." "Anyway, we thought it might be interesting to chart just some of the changes that have gone on in this United Kingdom since that time." "That's right." "Then we thought perhaps it wouldn't be interesting." "That's right." "And so we decided not to." "Mmm." "Instead, we've each written a song that sums up our feelings about what's gone on in the last hectic one and a bit years." "My song first." "I've called it, quite simply, The Years That Fell Away." "This is it here." "There it is." "Yes, my song is called, rather more complicatedly, Time, Where Did You Go?" "♫ Time, where did you go?" "♫" "That's all I had time for, I'm afraid." "♫ Time, where did you go?" "♫" "Stephen, what are you doing?" "Ah, well, I'll explain, Hugh." "A year and a bit ago I was flabby, overweight and, it grieves me to say so, deeply unattractive." "Erm, since then, a friend put me on to "dancercises"." "I won't tell you who this friend was but if I drop the hint that it was a prominent quantity surveyor" "I think you'll probably guess." "He put me on to dancercising." "And I think it was probably the most valuable thing he's ever done in his otherwise futile and squalid life." "The key to dancercise is the rather ingenious coupling of the word "dance"" "to the word "circumcise."" "Let's now pretend that I am a prominent quantity surveyor and Hugh is Geoffrey Cavendish, a client." "You'll see that I'm able to work, and while I work, able to build in all kinds of strengthening and toning movements." "Morning, Geoffrey." "–Morning, Dennis." "Do you have any quantities for me to survey this morning?" "Yes, I have got one quantity I'd very much like you to survey, yes." "–This quantity here?" "–That's the fellow." "Right." "Well, that's got that quantity surveyed." "Any others?" "–Not just now Dennis, no." "All right, but you will let me know?" "Dennis, if I have any more quantities for you to survey you'll be the first to know about it." "–Great." "–Oh, and by the way... –Yes?" "–..." "love that body." "Thanks." "It's mine." "I thought so." "See this?" "You could eat your dinner off this." "Sex is nothing to fax home about." "Ah, yes, we took the caravan down to Dorset this summer and pushed it over a cliff." "–Yeah?" "–Er, you got any grollings?" "–Beg your pardon?" "–I need a dozen grollings." "–Flushed or galvanised?" "–Flushed." "There you go." "That the lot?" "No, have you got a copper flange pipe?" "–Flange pipe." "–Two jamborees and seven nipples." "–Do you want the nipples greased?" "–Greased nipples, yes." "–Erm..." "–There you go." "Let's see what we got here." "Five olive-spantles, jigged and onioned." "–Right, 12 or 17 mil?" "–12 mil." "Erm, metre of fleeling wire, coaxial." "Fleeling wire, there you go." "Twenty cock-grip shafting sleeves... and a parping couplet." "–Parping couplet." "Do you want male or female?" "–Male." "All right." "–Actually, on second thoughts, one of each." "–Okay." "Do you want the male parping couplet standing proud?" "No." "Embarrassed, I think." "–Right." "Right, there's your female, there's your embarrassed male." "Six sheets of gruddock paper." "–Parkinised?" "–No." "There we go." "Nearly there." "And four felching pens and a bevelled spill trunion." "Yeah, I think we've only got one felching pen left, as it happens." "Got some frotting pencils, though." "Will they do?" "Well, you know the thrush-plate?" "–Yeah." "–Yeah?" "Well, you can use the frotting pencil on that, you see." "Rude to the look-out valve on the fumpspoke, and cut out the felching altogether." "Provided you remember to rim the satchel-arm properly first." "Oh, right." "Well, I'll have the frotting pencils, then." "Four frotting pencils, right." "Two, three, four." "–All right." "And the bevelled spill-trunion." "Bevelled spill-trunion, beg your pardon, yes." "Certainly, right." "Great." "That's the lot then, is it?" "–Yep." "Yeah, you've already got a triple-nob-joint with snatch membrane, have you?" "Should I have?" "–Well, are you going straight or curved?" "–Straight then curved." "Should be okay as long as you remember to suck the clenching lobe tight to the bulb thrust." "–Yeah, obviously." "–Yeah." "And whatever you do, don't forget to lubricate your sliphole before any grip-jigging." "–How dare you?" "–I'm sorry, I'm... –Damn it, Peter." "–John!" "Damn it four times around the car park and back in for another damn it!" "Do I get the feeling that something's on your mind, John?" "Come on, Peter, you know what the hell I'm talking about." "At a guess, I'd say this had something to do with the DDL Enterprises takeover bid." "Y'know, it's funny, Peter." "Ha!" "Four years!" "Four hard years I put into building up this health club and now, now I've gotta sit back and let some group of wet-arsed college kids just slide in and take it away from me." "I know, John." "Makes me vomit just to think of it." "If only..." "If only Marjorie hadn't left the way she had." "Oh, come on, John!" "You can't go on blaming yourself for that!" "You and Marjorie had..." "Had?" "Had what?" "A marriage that was no more than a bad joke and not even a very good one?" "You made some mistakes, John." "That's all." "You and Marjorie just had, well, what can I say, different ideas about where the company was headed." "End of story." "But, damn it." "Marjorie was good, Peter." "As a wife or as a business partner?" "Is there a difference?" "I hope so, John." "And now, while we're up to our arses in our worst ever takeover scrap, she's sunning herself in the south of France." "South of Wales, actually, John." "Well, wherever the blue-rinsed hell she is!" "Listen, God damn it!" "This is no time for you to start feeling sorry for yourself." "But damn it every which way but one, Peter." "John, do something for me." "Come up here to the window." "Take a look." "–What is this?" "Some kind of game?" "–No game, John!" "Tell me what you see." "I see a car park." "Well, that's funny, John." "Because, you see, the last time you looked out of that window you saw an idea." "Don't you remember?" "Yes, I remember thinking, "That would be a good place to put a car park."" "Damn it, John!" "You're not listening to me." "I'm talking about the big idea." "The dream that you and I shared!" "The dream of a health club that would put the town of Uttoxeter on the goddamn map once and for all!" "Yeah, well, maybe..." "–Maybe?" "I don't believe I'm hearing this!" "What the hell happened to the old John?" "We pulled it down when we built the car park." "Damn it, John, you're not hearing me." "–Damn it, I— –No, don't you "Damn it, I" me!" "We've got that close!" "And you're just gonna, you're just gonna lie down and walk away?" "Peter, don't harrassle me, I'm tired!" "Oh, tired, be damned!" "A man..." "A man's got to know when he's licked, Peter." "I know the feeling." "I've been licked before." "Jesus and all his Lord's saints preserve us." "Did I ever tell you about the time Marjorie licked me?" "Oh, yeah." "She licked me good and proper, and I've got that feeling again, and it's sore, Peter." "Maybe it's time I moved on and just..." "John, I'm gonna look out of this window now and tell you what I see." "What is this, Peter, more games?" "Same game, John, different rules." "I see, I see Tom, Sally, Debbie!" "Sally?" "But Sally called herself in off sick with the flu." "Exactly, John!" "Exactly!" "But she came in here today because she believes in you." "God knows why!" "Because she believes in what you're trying to do here in Uttoxeter." "And you're telling me that you're just gonna walk away from these kids, and just turn your back on..." "Oh, damn it, I'll make no apology, a vision?" "–Damn it, Peter." "Maybe you're right." "–You're damn right maybe I'm right!" "Damn double damn and an extra pint of damn for the weekend." "Damn!" "Get a fax over to Cliff at Harlinson's, EGM, 3:00 tomorrow." "Uh, find out where Janet is and pull Martin in from—" "Where the hell is Martin?" "–High Wycombe." "Right." "And get Sarah in here now!" "We've got an agenda to work up." "Welcome back to the fight, John." "Sorry if I was a little rough on you back there." "–Hell, I deserved it, Peter." "I was acting like a damned amateur!" "Oh, and John, if Marjorie should call..." "If Marjorie should call, tell her I'm busy." "–Damn!" "–Damn!" "–All right, are we ready?" "–Yeah, anytime." "I was standing here and this guy— –No, I was just talking to the cameraman, okay?" "–Oh, right, sorry." "Yeah, okay." "–All right?" "Now, basically, I'm just gonna ask you to tell, in your words, precisely what you saw." "Yeah." "I was standing here and this guy came haring round the corner— –No, no, no." "–Can you wait?" "Can you wait until..." "–Oh right, sorry." "All right?" "I ask you a direct question." "Okay?" "Right." "I was standing here and this guy came haring round the corner." "I thought he was gonna hit that wall there." "–No, no, no." "Can you wait until I've asked you a question?" "–Oh, right." "Sorry." "Yeah." "Yeah, sorry." "–All right, now... –I was standing here and this guy came— –Wait a minute!" "Oh, sorry, sorry, yeah." "–Right." "–Right." "–Brian, are we ready?" "–Yeah, ready." "–Okay, then." "I was standing here and this guy— –Shut up!" "–Oh, right." "Yeah." "–Please, do not say anything until I have asked you a question." "–Oh, right." "I get you." "I get you." "Sorry, sorry." "Yeah, okay." "–Good." "–Right." "–Thank you." "–Now..." "–I was standing here and this guy came haring round the corner..." "Wait until I have asked you a question!" "–Okay." "–Right!" "I was standing here and this guy..." "I was going through my grandfather's old hairdryers the other day, when I came across this, wedged in the filter of a Pifco Ultramatic Ready Tress." "Erm, it's a letter written to my grandfather by the then Secretary of State for Housing, Ernest Dalloway." "Later, of course, Lord Dalloway of Sharples." "Erm, I'll read it to you, actually, 'cause it's quite interesting." ""Dear Sir, your letter to the Home Secretary has been passed on to me," ""as minister in charge of urban development." ""I dream of covering your upturned face with a 1,000 burning kisses..."" "Well, there's a lot more like that." "Oh, yes." "Here we are, here we are." "Now, this is a good bit." ""I would direct your attention" ""to Section 17, the Housing Act, urban 1916, paragraph 5," "" 'Where a local authority has given no other sanction,'" ""you furious ball of shining beauty..."" "Blah, blah, blah." "Yes, " 'The entitlement to grants under the scheme" "" 'will come mandatorily into operation.'" ""Please, please let me stroke your lovely thigh..." ""I hope this answers your inquiry in the matter of 14 Stanshall Avenue." ""I yearn to drink clarified butter from your armpits." Etcetera." "Blah, blah, blah." ""Ernest Dalloway."" "Fascinating little glimpse of history there, I think." "My father was a Conservative." "My mother voted Labour, so I suppose, by rights, I should be a Liberal Democrat." "But in actual fact, I'm a Nazi." "Ah, Mr Arthur Meddlicott, is it?" "Yes, you, er... you look a bit young to me." "Still, I suppose you'll do." "Right." "Well, that's nice." "So, now, I shall be calling you Arthur, if I may?" "You may not." "You'll call me Mr Meddlicott." "And don't simper!" "Very well." "So why are you here, Mr Meddlicott?" "Well, why do you think?" "You're a psychiatrist, aren't you?" "I haven't come here for dancing lessons or free sex," "I've come here to be cured!" "Cured?" "Of what?" "Oh, for heavens sake." "Am I gonna have to teach you your job?" "Of madness, of course." "I'm slightly mad and I want you to cure me." ""Of what?"" "You're mad?" "Am I gonna have to say everything twice?" "No, just, just get on with it, if you wouldn't mind." "I'm a busy man and I'd be grateful if you'd get a move on." "Right." "Would you like to tell me why you think you're mad?" "What is this, some sort of game?" "Do you imagine I've got time to waste walking around thinking that I'm mad!" "I am mad!" "Just take my word for it, will you?" "And let's have a little less lip." "Right." "So how does this madness of yours manifest itself?" "For heavens sake, watch closely." "You take off your shoes and you put a piece of bread in each one." "I know I do!" "What is your problem?" "So, what happens next?" "I take the bread out of my shoes and hide it in my secretary's handbag." "Then I take it out of her handbag and throw it in the bin." "Well, you won't be doing that today, will you?" "Because your secretary isn't here." "Oh, give the man a bloody medal!" "So, that's it, is it?" "Oh, well, I'm sorry." "I'm sorry if it's not enough for you." "I'm sure you'd rather that I went around wrapped in bacon rind and pretending to be Florence Nightingale." "Well, I'm sorry!" "I'm as mad as I am but no madder!" "I see." "So, what are you gonna do about this madness of mine?" "Nothing." "I don't think you're mad at all." "Oh, oh, you..." "Oh, you think it's perfectly usual, do you, to put a slice of bread in your shoes, on a daily basis?" "That's normal practice, is it?" "In your foul part of the world." "Well, you're welcome to a second opinion, of course, but I don't think you're mad." "Eccentric, certainly." "This is what we pay our psychiatrists for, is it?" "Well, well, well, well, well." "Yes, I shall be writing a very stiff letter to the Daily Mail about this." "Now, cure me of my madness or I won't put my shoes on ever." "You write letters to the Daily Mail?" "Not exclusively the Mail, no." "Sometimes, The Sun or the Mirror." "–And they're published?" "–Well, of course." "Just a moment." "Is this one of yours?" ""A good way to stop" "–"your money being stolen is to keep it..." "–Is to keep it... –"... in a special pocket sewn inside your coat." –...in a special pocket sewn inside your coat." "–You're June Ellis of Stockport?" "–Of course." "What about this one?" "–"Why can't bus conductors..." –Bus conductors be more friendly?" "A smile a day keeps the doctor away, and it's free, too." "–Chest size?" "–42." "Wait here, I'll get your straitjacket." "The lengths you have to go to, to prove you're mad." "Yeah." "I went around to her primary school 'cause it had that end of term thing and they show all their paintings." "All the paintings they'd done in her class, they show them all around the wall." "They were crap!" "As we look down now on this glorious July afternoon, what a splendid sight it is, Peter." "It's an absolute picture, isn't it?" "The sun beating down now." "Beautiful day." "The crowds..." "Not a seat to be had anywhere." "–Packed house." "–Absolutely packed." "And the grass looking so lovely." "–Green as anything." "–Green as you like." "Absolutely as green as can be." "–Grass has never looked greener." "–Yeah, what a scene, what a scene." "–Marvellous scene." "Oh, I say!" "Look, there's a bus." "Oh, yes, look." "There's a beautiful old English..." "What is that?" "Is that a number 29?" "–It's a 29 bus, yes." "–Beautiful English 29 bus." "Yes, what a marvellous scene." "Grass, sun, bus, marvellous." "Yes, and that bus making its way now along the Garboldisham Road." "–Garboldisham." "Beautiful village there." "–Oh, an absolutely delightful village, yes." "–Garboldisham, what a lovely name." "Oh, lovely name." "Lovely English name." "Yes." "–Hello, there's some people getting off the bus." "Oh." "Oh, look out!" "They're off to enjoy good old English strawberries and cream." "Oh, English." "Yes, yes." "Watch out for those German strawberries!" "–Yes, not the same." "–No, not the same thing at all, no." "English strawberries and cream, 29 bus going down the Garboldisham Road." "–Grass." "–Cream." "–Garboldisham." "–Crowds." "–The South Downs." "–Ovaltine." "–Cream." "–Heaps of cream." "Cream and lawnmowers." "Oh, summer holidays in creamy Cromer." "Vaulting over a stile in a country lane." "Catching sticklebacks in an old tin can." ""Honestly, Nanny, I never touched them."" "Piano lessons with Mrs Duckworth." "Father's hands on the steering wheel." "–Sit up straight!" "–We're all going faster and faster!" "–Locked in the cupboard!" "–Oh, for being rude to Mrs Howlett!" "–Take the Wolseley for a run!" "–Oh, England, Elgar." "–South Downs!" "–Bath Olivers." "–Oh, play the game!" "–Elbows off the table!" "Who's a brave soldier, then?" "Oh, nanny's hands all steamy and starched!" "–England and cream!" "–Creamy old England!" "–Custard cream!" "–Strawberries and cream!" "–Strawberries!" "–English cream!" "–Creamy England!" "–England!" "–Cream!" "–The roast cream of old England!" "–Oh, oh!" "–Oh!" "–Oh, I say." "–Oh, I say." "Oh, my word." "–Oh." "–Oh, dear." "And Eric Bristow steps out onto the oche now." "Well, the thing..." "Oh, Christ, I've left the iron on." "Hello, Control." "Control?" "Are you all right?" "You appear to be taking your pulse." "I'm a Russian spy, Tony." "That's what I am." "–I beg your pardon?" "–I plan to overthrow the Queen." "Control, this is a bit of a surprise." "All the more so because you're actually the head of British Intelligence." "I aim to undermine our entire Western way of life." "Hmm, well, before you do that, Control," "I'd better go and telephone the relevant authorities." "And as a precaution, please don't open any more letters." "Tony, I'm not really a Russian spy." "Well, now, Control, you mustn't say that just to spare me the paperwork." "No, honestly, Tony, I'm not and you were right." "I was taking my pulse." "Well, I thought so because you appeared to be gripping your wrist lightly but firmly and counting to yourself." "You see, the Americans have come up with a new machine called the lie detector that helps you find out whether somebody's telling a fib." "Surely that would be quite useful for people in our line of work, Control." "Exactly." "It's based on the well-known scientific principle that when you tell a fib your pulse speeds up." "Gosh, how ingenious." "But at the same time, how quite simple." "Sadly enough, the machines are rather expensive to buy." "Oh, dear." "Our American counterparts do often seem to have more money to spend than we do, don't they, Control?" "But, Tony, I often say," ""What we lack in money, we more than make up for in British know-how."" "I'm not quite following you, Control." "At a fraction of the cost I've come up with this lie detector." "Of course, a stopwatch." "It cuts out the need for expensive and cumbersome equipment." "That's quite right." "I was telling a deliberate fib when I told you that I was a Russian agent." "Ah!" "You wanted to see if your pulse got faster." "–That's right." "–Did it?" "No." "Oh, dear." "If your pulse didn't speed up, that must mean..." "Yes." "When I said I was a Russian spy I must have been telling the truth." "So, on the very first try of this technique you've discovered that you, the head of British Intelligence, are actually a Soviet agent." "Yes, and Tony, the Minister will be ever so pleased." "Don't you think we ought to test the technique again, just to make certain?" "Yes." "It wouldn't be a very good idea to go around the place boasting that we've discovered that I'm a top Soviet agent if we weren't absolutely certain." "My thoughts exactly, Control." "Right." "You tell me a fib this time and I'll see if your pulse speeds up." "Right." "I've got to think of something that isn't true." "Oh, yes." "I know." "My name is Susan Donovan." "Well, that seems to prove it." "–Really?" "–Yes, Susan." "Really." "–Hmm." "Control?" "–Susie?" "Why don't we go back to our old method?" "–You mean— –Yes." "The good old British Secret Service way of finding out if someone's telling you a fib or not." "–All right." "You first." "–Right." "Is your name Tony Murchison?" "Yes, Cubs' honour." "Right." "My turn." "Are you a Russian spy?" "I am not a Russian spy, cross my heart and hope to die." "–Phew." "–Well, I'm glad we got that one sorted out." "–Hmm." "Tell you what, Control." "–What, Tony?" "I'm going to bring you a cup of nice coffee now." "And, Control?" "–Hmm?" "That's the truth." "Bo!" "Ladies and gentlemen, this is a very exciting moment for me, and indeed for everyone here on the show." "It's a real honour to be able to welcome a man who, perhaps more than any other, can lay claim to the title "Superstar"." "Ladies and gentlemen, will you please welcome, Michael Jackson!" "Michael, thank you very much indeed for coming on the show." "It's a great pleasure." "Great pleasure." "'Cause I know you must be frantically busy at the moment." "Things are a bit hectic just now, yes." "'Cause I believe you've actually got a new album coming out." "Absolutely right." "A brand-new album." "Even, even the little hole in the middle is new." "I love those clothes, by the way." "Oh, thank you." "Yes, this is a pretty plain Irish Thornproof, actually." "I mean, it's very hard-wearing but I've had it for years." "Right." "I bet right now there are kids all over the world desperately trying to copy that look." "Well... perhaps." "Now, Michael, you've been in the music business for..." "Well, most of your life." "–Nigh on." "–Michael, I have to put this to you." "This is difficult for me but there have been allegations over the years that you have, with the aid of plastic surgery, set about altering your appearance." "Yes, well, that's just the newspapers, isn't it?" "You know." "So you completely deny this?" "Well, I don't think it's even worth denying really, you know." "I think, what it boils down to, is people being, perhaps, jealous of my success." "And, you know, they'll print anything." "Right, right." "Now, we have actually got a photograph of you here." "This is when you just signed to Motown." "It's an early publicity shot." "It has to be said, you do look quite a bit different there." "I was eight years old, for goodness sake." "I mean, we've all changed." "–Yes, right." "Well, Michael, I hope that's answered your critics." "And now, I believe you're actually going to do for us a song off the new album." "That's right." "It's called, Move It On Out Girl." "Ladies and gentleman, Move It On Out Girl, Michael Jackson!" "♫ Move it on out, girl" "♫ Don't leave it where it is, girl" "♫ Put it somewhere else, girl" "♫ But don't you move it on in" "♫ If you move it on in, girl" "♫ I might have to find another girl, girl" "♫ So don't give me no trouble, girl" "♫ So, please just move it on out ♫" "All right, girls." "So, erm... is there a problem?" "No, no, no, Michael, that was very enjoyable." "Very enjoyable." "I love that body, by the way." "–Oh, thank you." "I dancercise." "I thought so." "Yes." "No, no, it's just that I..." "Well, I'm sorry to have to put this to you, but I could not help noticing that you were miming." "–No, I wasn't." "–Yes, you were." "No, I wasn't." "Now, you see, I just think this is so disappointing." "It's so hard for the kids nowadays to see an artist do a live performance." "Look, I know some people do it but I promise you that miming is simply not the Michael Jackson way." "It's tragic really, isn't it, ladies and gentlemen?" "Anyway, there you go." "Goodnight."