MUSIC: Cracklin' Rosie by Neil Diamond
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.
_
♪ Set the world right ♪
♪ Find us a dream that don't ask no questions... ♪
Sync & corrections by emeline-whovian www.addic7ed.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.
(HE CHUCKLES)
- 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.
- (STATIC) - Fancy an eyeball, Elf?
- (STATIC) - Hey, Elf, ignore these prairie dogs,
let's knock it up 10 for a one-to-one.
- (STATIC) - I've got no trousers on.
Eventually she hooked the big one.
(STATIC)
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.'
(SHE LAUGHS)
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.
(THEY LAUGH)
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.
(HE SOBS)
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!
(DOOR SLAMS)
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.
(HE GRUNTS)
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.
(PHONE RINGS)
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?
(CHEERING)
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?
(THEY CHUCKLE)
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.
(HE LAUGHS)
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.
MUSIC: Enola Gay by OMD
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...
(HE SNORTS)
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.
(APPLAUSE)
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.
(CHEERING)
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.
(ANDREW LAUGHS)
Well, that's the magic of live television, I guess!
Maybe next year we don't give a table to Alcoholics Anonymous.
(LAUGHTER)
I'd just like to say I'm very honoured
and appreciative of this award. I'd like to start by thanking...
(BRIAN LAUGHS)
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.
("SHARON" VOICE:) 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.
(HE LAUGHS)
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!
(SHE SOBS)
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.
MUSIC: Waiting For A Girl Like You by Foreigner
(SHE SOBS)
♪ So long ♪
♪ I've been looking too hard I've been waiting too long ♪
♪ Sometimes I don't know what I will find ♪
♪ I only know it's a matter of time ♪
♪ When you love someone ♪
♪ It feels so right, so warm and true ♪
♪ I need to know if you feel it too ♪
♪ Maybe I'm wrong ♪
♪ Won't you tell me ♪ ♪ if I'm coming on too strong? ♪
♪ This heart of mine has been hurt before... ♪