Fungus the Bogeyman (2015) s01e01 Episode Script
Episode 1
Humans fear the dark.
They fear the night.
They fear the things in the night that go bump that go squeak that go click that go creak.
Daryl.
There's someone downstairs.
Shelves.
Okay.
I'll go.
This is where you say, "Wendy, no, I'll go.
" I'll go, Wendy.
Don't be ridiculous! You're a physical coward and you're afraid of the dark.
True.
I'll call the police.
I will not have people I don't know touching our things.
Mum? What the hell? A creature that softly and quietly reaches out its six long, webbed, scaly green fingers and goes Wakey, wakey.
Oh.
Hey, matey! It's sleepy time.
What are you Okay, squeakify Blah, blah, blah, blah.
Beascreamify Grunt bum! Vicar! Always forget the vicar! Ah.
Whoopsie! Anyone here apart from God? I think he enjoyed that.
This Bogeyman's name is Fungus.
Fungus the Bogeyman.
As the working night draws to a close, the Bogeys leave behind the world of Drycleaners, the bogey term for surface dwellers, i.
e.
You people.
Twenty-three.
What's that for? - What are we going to put on it? - Wendy.
A shelf does not have to support objects in order to have an ontological identity, okay? Oh, look, it's him.
Thingymybob.
- Church bloke, teaches RS at school.
- I've never seen anything like it.
It was bright green and bristly, like a gooseberry, with fangs and mucus.
A gooseberry with fangs and mucus? Christ, what's he on? I know it makes me sound a little bit mad, but I think it's possible that the Devil walks in Daventry, in the form of a monster.
Okay, are we entirely happy that this guy is teaching RS at Lucy's school? Which guy? Oh, my God! It's Juicy Jake! Oh, he is fit.
- Juicy Jake? - Right.
Plans for the day.
I would never have referred to my RS teacher as "Juicy Jake.
" - We know what your plans are.
- He probably wasn't fit.
- She was, actually.
- How about yours? - Unlikely that she'd be called Jake, then.
- Anybody interested in my plans for the day? I am going to the leisure centre, my place of employment as a manager, a job I dislike, but for which I am paid a salary If you speak, I will disembowel you with this tiny spoon.
A salary which just about enables us not to live like pigs.
So you are going to write a grovelling email to Growse and Growse begging for your job back.
And you are going to get on with your revision.
- Oh, God! - And don't say God, it's rude.
Meanwhile, Bogeys descend to their beloved homeland, Bogeydom, where all that civilised humanity holds dear is considered repulsive.
Bright light is vulgar, tidiness is antisocial, personal hygiene, should it ever occur accidentally, is a terrible misfortune, for unlike Drycleaners, the Bogeys relish muck.
They adore eye blistering pongs.
They love filth.
Fungus! Wallow! You get 'em screaming? I had a nice bit of vicar.
Horrorshow.
Always appreciative, your topside vicar.
I like to think I set him up for the evening.
You? Ooh, brace of littlies in a, er, bunk bed.
Two for the price of one.
Slimebags.
Slimebags, like horrorshow and other similar compounds we shall encounter, a casual, colloquial ejaculation meaning, "That's nice.
How lovely.
" Good evening.
Ah, the fug and fester of the old slum.
Oh, the moan away Moon stirring it up again.
Now that reminds me, must get Mildew some really pimple squalor stems for our anniversary.
Mmm.
Scrummy bummy.
Properly fuscous and maggot scum.
Hmm.
Or maybe try and catch a noxious niff at the Odeum.
"Foetid.
Leprous.
Pullulating.
" Hmm, that's right up my blowaga.
Have to get a whiff of that.
Interestingly, it's not always the most extravagant acts of bogeying that have the greatest impact on the surface world.
Take for instance the remarkable chain of events started by a simple falling tile.
Ring renty people for fix roof tile! Look at car! And I tell you this house is jinxed.
What is jinx? Who is jinxing? You are old crazy woman, Harry! Morning, Basienka.
Morning, Harry.
I am so sorry about your car.
If it's any help at all, I can offer you a further 33% off the full leisure centre package.
And how does that help us, Wendy? Well, normally there's a £100 joining fee, but I'm very happy to waive that just for you.
She waive us pounds? Wendy, with respect, love, we've already told you, we're not interested in joining your bloody leisure centre.
Super.
- It's not super, you stupid, toffee-nosed - And it's Wendy.
Hey! Ask them if they want any shelves.
- Boo! - Ooh! Don't touch me with those hands! They're all clean and dry.
Mmm, smells abominable.
What is it, my direling? I'm afraid it's just slobbages again, but they've got a good crust.
Fartwinkle.
You can't beat a crusty slobbage.
Mmm, sputumfester.
Every day you snort your trousers, and every day they're thoroughly marinaded in viscous filth.
Mildew.
You're a reeking marvel.
Be an ogre and pass the lice.
Here.
- Shall I shell the soggies, my direling? - Please, sourheart.
Oh, don't gobble 'em.
I need the slime.
It's just a little one.
Where's the bogeybaby? Fungus, Mould's nearly 100.
He's starting to mutate.
He'll be wanting to lick the boils out of bogey girls' armpits any day now, if he isn't already.
He's in his bogroom, making his homework all grubby.
Ah! It's a project on Drycleaners.
Oh, yeah.
Oh! The Book of Bogeyology.
That's a fine old tome, eh? That particular copy belonged to your grandfather.
- Mind you don't get the pages clean.
- Why, Dad? Well, it's got sentimental value.
What's the point of bogeying in the dark? If the Drys don't see us, how do they know we've ever been there? Well It's The Social Contract.
The Social Contract.
Drycleanerkind and Bogeydom exist in a state of symbiotic harmony.
Humans crave fear.
It is their pleasure to be frightened.
It also teaches them respect for their difficult environment.
Bogeys furnish the necessary terror.
In return, the grateful surface-dwellers collect all their most toxic detritus, rotting rubbish and radioactive slurry, and deliver it to Bogeydom, by burying it in what they call "landfill".
The seepage of these deposits dirtifies our water and empoxulates our food.
- So - Yes, blah, blah, I've read the page.
But why are they not supposed to see us? Ah, the great paradox, Mould.
Look at you.
You're a fine figure of a bogey boy.
Buboes on your chest, and a perennial infection I can smell halfway down the street.
Folk 'round here see you coming, they rejoice, but up there, oh, it's all back to front.
You'd scare the Drys to death.
That is why we only do Drys who won't be believed.
Children.
Politicians.
Vicars.
Well, if no one believes us, what's the point? Your grandmother Fistula.
Oh, bog, she was a damned revolting looking woman.
As a tiny bogey, I'd sit on her lap while she fed me from her middle breast.
Oh, yes, she always saved the really putrid stuff for me, and she'd speak about Bilge, your celebrated grandfather.
- Fungus - She'd say.
your father Bilge is one mighty Bogey.
Every night, when you're asleep and farting in your stinking cot, he puts on his boots and he goes Up Top, where the sky is huge and the air is cruelly clear.
He goes up there for you and for me and all of Bogeydom.
But he also goes for the sake of Drycleanerkind.
But, Mummy, do the Drycleanseses forget us when they are growed up? They forget the Bogeymen, my pus.
But the fear never leaves them.
Oh.
But what if Bilge just didn't go? What if none of you went? What if there was no bogeying? No bogeying? That's madness.
There'll always be bogeying.
And you're going to be a fine Bogeyman, like your grandfather.
- Now, you do your best - Do your best? Is that the best you can do? Right.
Ah.
Right.
Okay.
So, special holiday offer.
First month free, no joining fee, sign up with a friend, you get mates' rates discounts.
Sign up with a friend, what do you get? Leaflets.
No, no, you're handing out the leaflets.
Carli, what do you get? Sorry, I thought you was talking to Carly.
Carli with an "i", what do you get? Leaflets.
Okay.
My direling.
Surprise starter, bubble and squeak.
Oh.
What is that, Fungus? Can you smell? Oh, something's definitely not gone off in here! It's you! Oh, Fungus, your Funk! Your wonderful eye-watering stench! What's wrong with it? I've never had trouble with my Funk.
It's wilting.
Oh.
Quick, my drear, muck me up! Ripe rotting fish-heads! Splash it on! Splash it all over! - Oh.
Ooh.
- That's it.
- Splash of toilet water? - Bucket! Loads! Splash it under! - More under the pits! - Lift them up! Lift them up! That's it! Wallow! Oh.
Tincture? Essential.
Saliva, my drear? Two ticks.
- How's that smell? - Nauseating.
Horrorshow.
- Bogeygents? - These are on me.
You look vile this evening, my drear.
Oh, bog, Livvy! I could sail away on that one.
Two spittoons of your finest slime, please, my drear.
In fact, make them potties, and a bag of Krunchy Kockroaches.
- Cheese and bunion? - Mmm.
All right, snot nose.
But your Funk is not quite as nauseating as usual.
Anything in the paper? Bogey boy found using shampoo.
The skid was drinking it, but still.
That'll be the parents off to the Swamp.
Sludge will have 'em excombogeycated in a sniffy.
Call me Dry-ist, but if you can't bring up your own child to have a decent respect for filth and personal degradation, well, there's no place for you in Bogeydom.
Saliva, you're a hag.
Cheeky! It's true, you know.
About Snotsoup.
She's got a twin sister.
Yes.
Yes.
Matter of fact, I did know that.
Syphila? Sphincta? - Bactoria.
- Bactoria.
Apparently she went topside one night, never came back.
Centuries ago this was, but it explains a lot about old Snotters.
Precisely what does it "explain" about Her Toxicity, Sludge Snotsoup? Officer Clench.
Would you care to join us for a little fartstarter? Am I looking at you? No.
No.
I'll just, er, not speak.
I think, er, what my friend was saying, er, Officer, was that the selfexcombogeycation of Bactoria Snotsoup may have inspired Her Toxicity to the very high standards of vigilance that we so admire.
Your names are going in my scrotebook.
- Thank you very much.
- Yours first.
Fungus.
As in spreading.
Fungus, son of Bilge? I have that honour.
Bilge the Impure, son of Miasma the Swinish, son of Scabies the Besmirched, son of Pox the Unwiped and Richly Warted, and in his turn, father of Fungus and grandfather of Mould.
Bilge bestrode Bogeydom like a colossus.
His achievement was unparalleled.
He so relished bogeying the houses of the humans, that he would continue even into broad daylight.
But not a hair of his snout was ever seen.
A master of his craft.
Hmm.
Phew.
I remember Spasm Clench when he was just a streaky smear in his father's pants.
Say it.
Everyone's gone on holiday.
Why can't we go on holiday? Because it's not a holiday for your mum.
- She has to work.
- All she does is work.
All you do is squeak things with your spanner.
You know, in many ways, you're very lucky, coming from a non-traditional family.
What do you mean "non-traditional"? Well, your mum's the breadwinner and I'm a stay-at-home dad.
Total role reversal.
I bet quite a few of your off-on-holiday friends are actually quite jealous.
Dan's got a dad and two mums.
Lily's got two dads, and Jojo and Marie live with their aunts who are identical twins and one of them's an archaeologist.
I've got a dad who hasn't got a job.
Not exactly Angelina Jolie, are you? I accept the challenge.
Ah.
Five-two, to me.
Oi, you going to throw up? Oh, sadly not.
Don't worry, old scum.
Mildew does a cracking enema - Wrong end.
- Works both ends, believe me.
Oh, she's a damned ugly woman, my wife.
Right.
What's the matter with me? Your Funk! - No! - It's wilting! Is that the best you can do? - Fungus! - Ah! Wherefore could not I produce a burp? I had most need of flatulence and the gas stuck in my throat.
It's just a dream.
My very Bogeyhood is compromised.
That's just the potties talking.
You're the bogiest Bogey I know.
But losing my Funk, and now this, what if it's an indication? Now, come on, grime your face, flush your teeth, let's get you into bogeybed, chop chop.
Who knows, there might be something rancid for you if you get your snakes on.
Come on.
Uppy-puppy.
Mildew.
You are the most septic disfigured harridan I've ever Big glass of cold pus.
Little strokey on your botty beard.
You'll be fast a-bye-byes in a brace of peristaltic convulsions.
I think I'm going to vomit.
See? All's right with the world.
Come on.
So, what do you think? Cucumberface.
Yeah.
Yeah, it's all cucumbery.
Does my skin look all radiant? I did radishes and that 'cause it said it would give me the skin of a 16-year-old, but I'm like, do I look two years older? Oh, my days.
- It's only Dean Williams.
- Oh, my days.
He's so, so year 10.
Is he looking at us? I don't know.
Oh, my God! He looked at me.
He looked at me! Okay, just act really grown up, yeah, and sophisticated and that.
Order a cappuccino.
You don't have to drink it.
Just look moody.
Oh, thanks very much.
This you? Long time ago.
You wouldn't recognise me now.
No, I'm pretty sure I would.
Despite the threat of exposure, shame and excombogeycation, there does exist, in Bogeydom, a certain regrettable, sordid, criminal appetite.
A desire to smell, touch and taste the hideous commodities of the surface world.
It is a perversion suffered mostly by the young.
Like-minded Bogey youths gather furtively to share items of contraband.
Soap is tasted, talcum powder is inhaled, soft furniture coverings are caressed.
In extreme cases, chocolate is unwrapped.
For those not yet addicted, but merely Dry Curious, this is a perilous step too far.
Anything tasty down there? What do you actually want, Dad? I want you to be happy.
Whenever I'm a bit uncertain about things, you know what I do? I lie in a ditch.
I let the filthy water run into every crevice of my body.
- Does that work? - Not always.
No.
But if I climb out of the ditch, all richly basted with scum and I still feel disenchanted, I go pigsticking.
Do you want to give it a go? Bit of adult entertainment.
You're old enough.
One of the few instances in life when smaller is better.
You get a good stick with a little one, you see? Your turn.
Then they slide down, you see.
Last one stuck to the wall wins.
Hours of fun.
I remember this one game with Wallow, back in, ooh Dad, this is tragic.
Is this what I have to look forward to? Son, it doesn't get much better than this.
- That's what scares me.
- I don't understand.
I know.
You don't understand me because I'm not like you.
Mould, you are the noxious grime between my buttocks.
You are the stinking canker beneath my How long can we go on pretending? Dad.
I'm Dry Curious.
That's right.
Your son is a daisy-sniffer.
What are they going to say to that down at King Baugeas? Mould.
Mould! No son of mine Well, maybe, that's it, isn't it? Maybe I'm just not cut out to be your son.
I hope your boots aren't clean, young bogey-mi-lad, I've only just finished scummaging this floor.
Hello, drear.
Off to work.
Just need my things.
- Fungus.
- Can't talk.
Can't talk.
Fathers and sons.
Eternal conundrum.
You think you're leading by example and then you turn 'round and find they haven't even been looking! Total waste of effort.
Makes you downfarted.
Quite frankly, you wonder what's the point.
Oh, what's the matter with me? Work, Fungus.
Focus on the work.
The work will always be there.
Or will it? What if my clients tire of my grisly ministrations? What if I do not do what I do? I would have nothing but the arid consolations of philosophy.
Me putrescent, ergo sum.
"I stink, therefore I am.
" Oh, Harry.
Harry! Harry! What's that? But then, there you see, that happens, and it's like getting into bed and finding a lovely poo on your pillow.
Oh, this silly worry, Fungus, it's the thin end of the bum wedge.
You've got to pull yourself up by your jockstraps, old scab.
Think about Mildew.
Foulest smelling bogey woman I ever clapped nostrils on.
She's never been topside, not once in her whole life, and damn right.
The Surface is no place for a self-respecting slattern like my wife.
Think about Mould.
This is what he wants.
All this appalling tidiness and beauty.
Argh.
I spruced it up a bit.
Oh, bog on a bike! Ah, oh! Ooh! Ah.
Not quite a ditch, I suppose, but in this game, Fungus, you've got to take what life throws you into.
Keep calm and trump on.
Basienka.
Is that it? - Oh.
Good heavens! - What's going on? You are scaredy spooky superstitious, Harry! There was ectoplasm in our bed.
Is what it was, Harry? Ectoplasm? Yes, ectoplasm.
Another set of neighbours gone.
I think we could have really liked them if we'd only got to know them.
Ow! What? Why would you What's the Oh, maybe not.
Bless my rotting thundercrackers! Look at your fingernails.
They're white.
What's the matter with your dinner? Doesn't it smell bad? Oh, my bog! I know this.
That's lavender.
And it's coming from you.
Your Funk, Mould.
That's your Funk.
You going to tell her, or am I? Tell me what? Are you ill? One way of putting it.
Get your coat.
I want to show you something.
Sit.
All rise for Her Toxicity, Sludge Snotsoup, Justice of all Bogeydom.
This court is now in session.
Let the rusty wheels of Bogey justice turn in judderingly inefficient circles.
Describe the sins of the guilty.
The accused, Your Horror.
The accused.
Was there washing? - Yes, Your Horror.
- Wiping? - Yes, Your Horror.
- Was there scrubbing, soaking, swabbing, sweeping, polishing, primping and, or purging? Yes, Your Horror.
Was there chocolate? I regret so, Your Horror.
Then the assembled are all charged with Decency in a Public Place.
Who's she? They're looking at you.
I don't know them.
It is my moist pleasure to exile you all to The Swamp of No Return.
Uncleanliness is next to Bogliness.
Clench, take these fragrant aberrations away, I tire of them.
Move! Off we go.
You're disgusting! Ma'am.
Mmm! At times like this, a Bogeyman has no option but to reach for his crutch.
A classic cockroach tail in a fine glass.
A little slash of toad phlegm, a weeping of cellar-aged discharge, a good retch of turps, fingered, not slopped and get it down you son.
It's all my fault.
Didn't I dirtify him enough as a child? I should have seen the signs.
All that time locked in the bathroom.
He was washing his hands.
What did you say to him? I showed him the error of his ways.
Mould? Mould? Oh, no.
Oh.
Oh, my bog.
Oh, the sky! Ah! Oh, it's the sky! My drear, why do you torment me with this obscene object? Because that is where he has gone! We must report him.
We're not going to report him, Fungus.
We're going to Daventry.
Right now.
Mildew, crepuscular light of my life.
In Daventry, it is day.
There is sky.
I cannot begin to describe the horror of the sunlit sky, my drear If we don't go now, we will lose him.
He's my little boy, my louse, my weevil.
I carried him in my womb for nine months.
Then in my secondary wombsack for 12 months, then in my tertiary birth bladder for six years, then laid him in an egg membrane and gestated "Thou shalt not be daylight seen.
" Fungus! I say this with fierce nasal hair, take me to Daventry or you are not the bogey I picked! You don't want to take it too short.
Is that okay? Oh! Get in! Mildew, if you want to turn back If I turned back I wouldn't be worth the steam off my own discharge.
So, let's go Topside.
Sorry, bit corner-y round here.
Have you seen my driving glasses? Only these are my readers, not my see-ers.
Much obliged, ta.
Oh, my God, you're a monster! Kidding.
I know what you are.
I'm Eve and you're safe.
Welcome to the surface, Bogeyman.
All right.
I'm all right.
That's ground.
So where's the It's above you, my direling.
It's the most terrible colour, and it's much bigger than you could possibly imagine.
But it is held in place, somehow.
You understand? It is not going to fall on you.
Oh, my bog! Mildew? Come back to me.
Come back to me, my direling.
The S-K-Y.
It was on fire! It's not on fire, my drear.
And you must look at it again.
Because everywhere we go, the sky is going to be there.
And we have to go.
See? Nothing to be frightened of.
We're all going to broil! - Mildew.
- Oh! Mildew.
Sermon.
As many of you will know, I had a terrifying experience the other day.
Gathered here in this lovely church of ours, it seems frankly incredible.
Did I really see what I saw? It makes me wonder if I'm a bloody loony.
Sermon.
I am not a loony.
Pause for laughter, won't get any, plug on what I imagined I saw the other day.
Have we met? I think we've met.
Look, just a suggestion, why don't we agree that this isn't happening? Isn't really happening, is it? Scumtastic.
I bid you good day.
That way.
We need to disguise ourselves.
Pig poo.
No, my drear, if we are to move amongst the Drycleaners we need to look like them.
And strange as it may seem to us, they don't wear poo.
You know, don't you? That it is against the law to face-fold? We need to face-fold.
But I don't know how.
Face-folding.
A biological process that exploits the Bogeys many stench bladders, fart pockets and belch sacks.
By redistributing fumes and vapours around the body, the Bogey is able to manipulate his physical form, much like a chameleon, puffer fish or a surface-dwelling bride-to-be.
In times past, Bogey radicals experimented with face-folding, as a form of self-sculpture.
Some iconic images infiltrated topside culture.
Artworks created under the Bogey influence include the Venus De Milo, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and the Mona Lisa.
Naturally, this had to stop.
When it was discovered that face-folding could replicate the hideously deformed features of a Drycleaner, the practise was banned.
The concept is now considered revolting.
Remember, I'm me.
I'm always me.
Fungus? Ta-da! Oh, uh What have you done with my husband? Mildew.
It's still me.
Prove it, eh.
What's my favourite colour? What's my favourite book? What is my favourite smell? Erm Hang on, don't rush me, drear.
It'll come to me, um Well, yes.
Yes, that does sound like the sort of thing Fungus would say.
But I need more proof.
Uh - The - Oh! The fold holds in all the Bogeyniffs and Funk, but if you Ooh, dead badger.
Rotten eggs.
Day old nappies in a heatwave.
Oh, Fungus.
It is you.
Yes, it is, my pus.
Now You're gonna have to be brave.
Braver than you've ever been before.
It's your turn.
Oh, no.
Mum? Yeah, listening.
When you and Dad met, how did you know that he was like, the one? The one, as in the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.
Oh, God.
Anthony, my boss, he's not happy.
How am I supposed to boost the membership when all I've got to boost it with are those cretins Pinky and bloody Perky? Couldn't find their own backsides with a dedicated app.
Sorry, darling, sorry.
What was your question? You said God.
That's rude.
Are you a scientist? I'm an inventor.
Inventrix.
Inventatrice.
I invented Superdooperglue.
Like superglue, only more dooper.
And it's all thanks to your lot and your emunctory effusions.
That's what Superdooper is, see.
Distilled Bogey bogies.
I pick it up wherever I can see it, rooftops mostly.
It's wonderful stuff, really viscous.
Just think the country's best-selling adhesive, and all made from your old grollies.
How do you know about us? Ah, well.
Shoo.
When I was a kid, I felt like I didn't fit in.
I know what you're gonna say, "All kids feel like that.
" You feel like that.
But I really didn't belong.
Anywhere.
I certainly didn't belong in my family.
They couldn't make head nor tail of me.
It's an expression.
Anyway, one day, a bogey runaway came into my life.
She had problems.
She was Drypolar.
I sheltered her.
We learned from each other, and I've spent my life helping Bogeys ever since.
So there you have it.
You're my family now.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh, my goodness.
Oh, sorry.
Oh, not to worry, dear.
Better out than in.
Well, I never.
Freshly cut grass.
- Lemons.
- I know.
My funk's all wrong.
Not a problem here, dear.
That's all behind you now.
Would you mind not watching whilst I'm getting changed? Ah.
Say it.
It's a work in progress.
Try giving it a bit of a wiggle.
Ow! Smack the buzzards, these new feet really pinch We just need to wear them in a bit.
Beetrootflecked diarrhoea, Anne of Green Bogeys, Parisian drain.
Your favourite colour, book and smell.
Oh, sourheart.
Which way? This way.
Ow! Ooh! I reported the matter to your newspaper because I was displeased to find a drunken lout in fancy dress thrashing about in my pond.
The incident is now closed.
Oh, for God's sake.
Oi! What the hell do you think you're playing at? Oi! Oi! Oh, that's just horrid.
I telling you, I check the radiator.
Not the radiator Ow! What? Toolbox.
So? Harry.
Harry! Ew, my guts.
It's not natural.
Try and stay calm, my drear, and not give us away.
Over here.
I am keeping absolutely calm.
Calm, calm.
What are they doing to his hair? That's what they do here, my drear.
Come, look away, come on.
Come on, get in here, in here.
What are you doing? Piddling nostrils.
I'm trying to get a scent on Mouldy.
Have you got him? I have.
It's this way.
Welcome.
What can I do for Ooh, you? Your monster.
Look, I did not use the word monster.
Was it travelling alone? Evidently not.
How many? Two? Male or female? One of each? A married couple? You are a priest! Did they strike you as a married couple? Yes.
Now we're getting somewhere, Father.
So, how many people can you fit in that hall, then? Only needs to fit one.
You all right, girls? What's up? It's her birthday this weekend.
She's got a party and it's like a disco in the church hall with a DJ and everything.
- A disco? - Mmm-hmm.
In a church hall? Unmissable.
Yeah.
It will be.
It's got a theme.
Monster.
- A Daventry monster party.
- What? Cool.
I'll see you there.
Maybe.
Oh, my God.
Oh, my God.
Oh, my God.
Oh, my God.
It goes in here.
Mildew.
Ring the doorbell.
What if someone hears me? That's the point, my drear.
It's a diversion.
Can I help you? Er, I answered the door to you, love.
What can I do for you? Oh, no, no, no, nothing.
I'm fine, thank you.
I'm a diversion.
Oh, are you, now? Okay, I'll tell you what we'll do.
You wait there and I'll go and see whatever it is that you're diverting me from.
Mould! We found you.
- They found me.
- Mould! It's me.
- Mum? - Direling, I've been so worried! Is that my dad? Bog, he's hideous.
Fungus, change back.
Hang on a minute.
Are you sure you want to do that? She should be folding back to human.
That lad should get off the street.
She's got a point.
Get inside, all of you.
No use giving me cleanly looks, young lady.
You brought this on yourself.
What? Uh, Your Horror, unfortunate intelligence.
Dear bog, that's you in a snailshell.
What is it? Puke it up, man.
A whole family has defected, ma'am.
It's, er Fungus.
Fungus of the House of Bilge? Give me my gavel.
- The whole family, excombogeycated.
- Ow! Exile to The Swamp of No Return.
What you looking at? Carry on.
I can't believe it.
Oh, drear.
You're very knowledgeable, madam.
Tea.
Try it.
Doesn't matter how good your fold is, if you can't drink a cup of tea, people will spot you a mile off.
Oh.
Thank you for looking after our son.
It was my pleasure.
He's a wonderful boy.
Mould, would you introduce us to this pox-ridden stinking hag? - Oh, I meant, erm - No, I know.
- My name's Eve.
- She's my friend.
I'm staying here with her.
Oh.
If that's what you want, pet.
I'm afraid, madam, we must be on our way.
I'm staying with Eve.
Mould.
Listen to your father.
- I said - I heard you, Mouldy.
Let's be off.
He can stay if he wants.
Why do you not fear us, madam? We are Bogeys.
Why should I? You're a Drycleaner.
And so's he.
If you'd only let him.
Mould, uh, Mildew, uh I fear we are no longer welcome in this dessicated house.
- But - Don't you say another word.
Daryl, have you been fighting with a very small wolverine? I wear these scars with pride.
Solicitors have taken to fighting with tiny little cake forks, have they? No, I've been gardening.
- Why? - Because I'm a gardener.
Man versus shrubbery.
Get it on.
That is so lame.
You've got a law degree, you can't be a gardener.
Well, actually I can, Wendy.
But not the other way round.
Being a qualified gardener wouldn't entitle me to be a lawyer.
But I'm not just a gardener.
I'm an odd job man-cum-handyman, slash gardener, brackets mainly gardener.
It's my life.
Okay? I do not want to be a solicitor, ever again.
Your life.
Full stop, end of conversation.
So can I have 200 quid? What? Actually, 500 would be better.
Oh, would it, actually? And may we know what you'd like that for? My Daventry monster party.
Costume, make-up, decorations, food, shiny balloons in shapes and a proper DJ.
Yeah.
That'll probably cost 500 quid.
- Ah.
Okay.
- What? And you're gonna earn 500 quid by pruning some bloody bush, are you? Oh, I shall prune unceasingly.
I shall prune with a joyful song in my heart.
- Yes.
- Yay! Yay! I'll tell you something, drear, you should be glad you're not a bogeywoman.
These Drycleaner bras.
They've only got two cups.
- Agony.
- Psst.
Your fold might need a little bit of a tweak, my sourheart.
Psst! I'm taking an almighty punt, here.
But are you Fungus the Bogeyman? Wallow.
Well, well.
So, this is folding.
Can I just Oh, Bog, Fung, that's terrible.
How can you bear it? When I get home, I'm going straight down The King, for a right fourstomachsful.
No.
I'm afraid that's not going to happen.
- Have I been barred? - Worse, old scum.
Snotsoup's had you all excombogeycated.
I'm so sorry.
Don't.
Just tell us what to do.
Fungus, what do we do? We face-fold permanently.
We stay up here, on the surface.
For the rest of our lives.
As Drycleaners.
What else can we do? Oh, my bog.
You look so, scrubbed.
Oh, that's, that's a cracking fold, old scab.
Now, my hungry direlings, the Drys often leave offerings by the roadside, I don't know why.
Spiritual thing, I expect but anyway, I've managed to bag a brace of human baby bum bags.
Should be something worth picking out of those.
Mmm.
Fungus.
We're like soggies without our shells out here.
We can't get by on the occasional human baby bum bag.
We need help.
Surface-dweller help.
From a Dry we can trust.
No! Absolutely not.
I should've put money on it.
You coming back here with your tail between your legs.
Come on, Fungus, spit it out.
Not literally, I've just washed that step.
I have decided on behalf of my family - that we need - Of course you do.
- Your help.
- We? Where's this we? I see one pathetic face-folded ex-Bogeyman, begging at my door.
I can't get the hang of these So you need my help.
Say it, Fungus.
Say, "Eve, after all this time.
"I need you.
" I need you, Eve.
Great little property I've got for you today.
Very special place.
How am I supposed to drink out of that? You have a responsibility to your son.
Do you want my help and my money or don't you? Who are these people? Our new neighbours, they're lovely.
Possibly on a witness protection scheme.
- Milk, everyone? - He wants to milk everyone? You're welcome to milk my wife, but I'm not, erm I'm having a Daventry monster party.
Can I come? Quite frankly, Runny, you are one creepy dude.
Secrets, Fungus.
You keep mine.
And I'll keep yours.
You betray me, and I will hit you so hard, it will kill your whole family.
- Concentrate.
- I'm trying! If you'll let me, I'd like to help.
Do you want to work for me? The Bogeyman is protected.
I need you to help me flush him out.
You cannot take people's bins and tip them out in your kitchen.
I was trying to be Dry, like you told me to for our son.
Are you trying?
They fear the night.
They fear the things in the night that go bump that go squeak that go click that go creak.
Daryl.
There's someone downstairs.
Shelves.
Okay.
I'll go.
This is where you say, "Wendy, no, I'll go.
" I'll go, Wendy.
Don't be ridiculous! You're a physical coward and you're afraid of the dark.
True.
I'll call the police.
I will not have people I don't know touching our things.
Mum? What the hell? A creature that softly and quietly reaches out its six long, webbed, scaly green fingers and goes Wakey, wakey.
Oh.
Hey, matey! It's sleepy time.
What are you Okay, squeakify Blah, blah, blah, blah.
Beascreamify Grunt bum! Vicar! Always forget the vicar! Ah.
Whoopsie! Anyone here apart from God? I think he enjoyed that.
This Bogeyman's name is Fungus.
Fungus the Bogeyman.
As the working night draws to a close, the Bogeys leave behind the world of Drycleaners, the bogey term for surface dwellers, i.
e.
You people.
Twenty-three.
What's that for? - What are we going to put on it? - Wendy.
A shelf does not have to support objects in order to have an ontological identity, okay? Oh, look, it's him.
Thingymybob.
- Church bloke, teaches RS at school.
- I've never seen anything like it.
It was bright green and bristly, like a gooseberry, with fangs and mucus.
A gooseberry with fangs and mucus? Christ, what's he on? I know it makes me sound a little bit mad, but I think it's possible that the Devil walks in Daventry, in the form of a monster.
Okay, are we entirely happy that this guy is teaching RS at Lucy's school? Which guy? Oh, my God! It's Juicy Jake! Oh, he is fit.
- Juicy Jake? - Right.
Plans for the day.
I would never have referred to my RS teacher as "Juicy Jake.
" - We know what your plans are.
- He probably wasn't fit.
- She was, actually.
- How about yours? - Unlikely that she'd be called Jake, then.
- Anybody interested in my plans for the day? I am going to the leisure centre, my place of employment as a manager, a job I dislike, but for which I am paid a salary If you speak, I will disembowel you with this tiny spoon.
A salary which just about enables us not to live like pigs.
So you are going to write a grovelling email to Growse and Growse begging for your job back.
And you are going to get on with your revision.
- Oh, God! - And don't say God, it's rude.
Meanwhile, Bogeys descend to their beloved homeland, Bogeydom, where all that civilised humanity holds dear is considered repulsive.
Bright light is vulgar, tidiness is antisocial, personal hygiene, should it ever occur accidentally, is a terrible misfortune, for unlike Drycleaners, the Bogeys relish muck.
They adore eye blistering pongs.
They love filth.
Fungus! Wallow! You get 'em screaming? I had a nice bit of vicar.
Horrorshow.
Always appreciative, your topside vicar.
I like to think I set him up for the evening.
You? Ooh, brace of littlies in a, er, bunk bed.
Two for the price of one.
Slimebags.
Slimebags, like horrorshow and other similar compounds we shall encounter, a casual, colloquial ejaculation meaning, "That's nice.
How lovely.
" Good evening.
Ah, the fug and fester of the old slum.
Oh, the moan away Moon stirring it up again.
Now that reminds me, must get Mildew some really pimple squalor stems for our anniversary.
Mmm.
Scrummy bummy.
Properly fuscous and maggot scum.
Hmm.
Or maybe try and catch a noxious niff at the Odeum.
"Foetid.
Leprous.
Pullulating.
" Hmm, that's right up my blowaga.
Have to get a whiff of that.
Interestingly, it's not always the most extravagant acts of bogeying that have the greatest impact on the surface world.
Take for instance the remarkable chain of events started by a simple falling tile.
Ring renty people for fix roof tile! Look at car! And I tell you this house is jinxed.
What is jinx? Who is jinxing? You are old crazy woman, Harry! Morning, Basienka.
Morning, Harry.
I am so sorry about your car.
If it's any help at all, I can offer you a further 33% off the full leisure centre package.
And how does that help us, Wendy? Well, normally there's a £100 joining fee, but I'm very happy to waive that just for you.
She waive us pounds? Wendy, with respect, love, we've already told you, we're not interested in joining your bloody leisure centre.
Super.
- It's not super, you stupid, toffee-nosed - And it's Wendy.
Hey! Ask them if they want any shelves.
- Boo! - Ooh! Don't touch me with those hands! They're all clean and dry.
Mmm, smells abominable.
What is it, my direling? I'm afraid it's just slobbages again, but they've got a good crust.
Fartwinkle.
You can't beat a crusty slobbage.
Mmm, sputumfester.
Every day you snort your trousers, and every day they're thoroughly marinaded in viscous filth.
Mildew.
You're a reeking marvel.
Be an ogre and pass the lice.
Here.
- Shall I shell the soggies, my direling? - Please, sourheart.
Oh, don't gobble 'em.
I need the slime.
It's just a little one.
Where's the bogeybaby? Fungus, Mould's nearly 100.
He's starting to mutate.
He'll be wanting to lick the boils out of bogey girls' armpits any day now, if he isn't already.
He's in his bogroom, making his homework all grubby.
Ah! It's a project on Drycleaners.
Oh, yeah.
Oh! The Book of Bogeyology.
That's a fine old tome, eh? That particular copy belonged to your grandfather.
- Mind you don't get the pages clean.
- Why, Dad? Well, it's got sentimental value.
What's the point of bogeying in the dark? If the Drys don't see us, how do they know we've ever been there? Well It's The Social Contract.
The Social Contract.
Drycleanerkind and Bogeydom exist in a state of symbiotic harmony.
Humans crave fear.
It is their pleasure to be frightened.
It also teaches them respect for their difficult environment.
Bogeys furnish the necessary terror.
In return, the grateful surface-dwellers collect all their most toxic detritus, rotting rubbish and radioactive slurry, and deliver it to Bogeydom, by burying it in what they call "landfill".
The seepage of these deposits dirtifies our water and empoxulates our food.
- So - Yes, blah, blah, I've read the page.
But why are they not supposed to see us? Ah, the great paradox, Mould.
Look at you.
You're a fine figure of a bogey boy.
Buboes on your chest, and a perennial infection I can smell halfway down the street.
Folk 'round here see you coming, they rejoice, but up there, oh, it's all back to front.
You'd scare the Drys to death.
That is why we only do Drys who won't be believed.
Children.
Politicians.
Vicars.
Well, if no one believes us, what's the point? Your grandmother Fistula.
Oh, bog, she was a damned revolting looking woman.
As a tiny bogey, I'd sit on her lap while she fed me from her middle breast.
Oh, yes, she always saved the really putrid stuff for me, and she'd speak about Bilge, your celebrated grandfather.
- Fungus - She'd say.
your father Bilge is one mighty Bogey.
Every night, when you're asleep and farting in your stinking cot, he puts on his boots and he goes Up Top, where the sky is huge and the air is cruelly clear.
He goes up there for you and for me and all of Bogeydom.
But he also goes for the sake of Drycleanerkind.
But, Mummy, do the Drycleanseses forget us when they are growed up? They forget the Bogeymen, my pus.
But the fear never leaves them.
Oh.
But what if Bilge just didn't go? What if none of you went? What if there was no bogeying? No bogeying? That's madness.
There'll always be bogeying.
And you're going to be a fine Bogeyman, like your grandfather.
- Now, you do your best - Do your best? Is that the best you can do? Right.
Ah.
Right.
Okay.
So, special holiday offer.
First month free, no joining fee, sign up with a friend, you get mates' rates discounts.
Sign up with a friend, what do you get? Leaflets.
No, no, you're handing out the leaflets.
Carli, what do you get? Sorry, I thought you was talking to Carly.
Carli with an "i", what do you get? Leaflets.
Okay.
My direling.
Surprise starter, bubble and squeak.
Oh.
What is that, Fungus? Can you smell? Oh, something's definitely not gone off in here! It's you! Oh, Fungus, your Funk! Your wonderful eye-watering stench! What's wrong with it? I've never had trouble with my Funk.
It's wilting.
Oh.
Quick, my drear, muck me up! Ripe rotting fish-heads! Splash it on! Splash it all over! - Oh.
Ooh.
- That's it.
- Splash of toilet water? - Bucket! Loads! Splash it under! - More under the pits! - Lift them up! Lift them up! That's it! Wallow! Oh.
Tincture? Essential.
Saliva, my drear? Two ticks.
- How's that smell? - Nauseating.
Horrorshow.
- Bogeygents? - These are on me.
You look vile this evening, my drear.
Oh, bog, Livvy! I could sail away on that one.
Two spittoons of your finest slime, please, my drear.
In fact, make them potties, and a bag of Krunchy Kockroaches.
- Cheese and bunion? - Mmm.
All right, snot nose.
But your Funk is not quite as nauseating as usual.
Anything in the paper? Bogey boy found using shampoo.
The skid was drinking it, but still.
That'll be the parents off to the Swamp.
Sludge will have 'em excombogeycated in a sniffy.
Call me Dry-ist, but if you can't bring up your own child to have a decent respect for filth and personal degradation, well, there's no place for you in Bogeydom.
Saliva, you're a hag.
Cheeky! It's true, you know.
About Snotsoup.
She's got a twin sister.
Yes.
Yes.
Matter of fact, I did know that.
Syphila? Sphincta? - Bactoria.
- Bactoria.
Apparently she went topside one night, never came back.
Centuries ago this was, but it explains a lot about old Snotters.
Precisely what does it "explain" about Her Toxicity, Sludge Snotsoup? Officer Clench.
Would you care to join us for a little fartstarter? Am I looking at you? No.
No.
I'll just, er, not speak.
I think, er, what my friend was saying, er, Officer, was that the selfexcombogeycation of Bactoria Snotsoup may have inspired Her Toxicity to the very high standards of vigilance that we so admire.
Your names are going in my scrotebook.
- Thank you very much.
- Yours first.
Fungus.
As in spreading.
Fungus, son of Bilge? I have that honour.
Bilge the Impure, son of Miasma the Swinish, son of Scabies the Besmirched, son of Pox the Unwiped and Richly Warted, and in his turn, father of Fungus and grandfather of Mould.
Bilge bestrode Bogeydom like a colossus.
His achievement was unparalleled.
He so relished bogeying the houses of the humans, that he would continue even into broad daylight.
But not a hair of his snout was ever seen.
A master of his craft.
Hmm.
Phew.
I remember Spasm Clench when he was just a streaky smear in his father's pants.
Say it.
Everyone's gone on holiday.
Why can't we go on holiday? Because it's not a holiday for your mum.
- She has to work.
- All she does is work.
All you do is squeak things with your spanner.
You know, in many ways, you're very lucky, coming from a non-traditional family.
What do you mean "non-traditional"? Well, your mum's the breadwinner and I'm a stay-at-home dad.
Total role reversal.
I bet quite a few of your off-on-holiday friends are actually quite jealous.
Dan's got a dad and two mums.
Lily's got two dads, and Jojo and Marie live with their aunts who are identical twins and one of them's an archaeologist.
I've got a dad who hasn't got a job.
Not exactly Angelina Jolie, are you? I accept the challenge.
Ah.
Five-two, to me.
Oi, you going to throw up? Oh, sadly not.
Don't worry, old scum.
Mildew does a cracking enema - Wrong end.
- Works both ends, believe me.
Oh, she's a damned ugly woman, my wife.
Right.
What's the matter with me? Your Funk! - No! - It's wilting! Is that the best you can do? - Fungus! - Ah! Wherefore could not I produce a burp? I had most need of flatulence and the gas stuck in my throat.
It's just a dream.
My very Bogeyhood is compromised.
That's just the potties talking.
You're the bogiest Bogey I know.
But losing my Funk, and now this, what if it's an indication? Now, come on, grime your face, flush your teeth, let's get you into bogeybed, chop chop.
Who knows, there might be something rancid for you if you get your snakes on.
Come on.
Uppy-puppy.
Mildew.
You are the most septic disfigured harridan I've ever Big glass of cold pus.
Little strokey on your botty beard.
You'll be fast a-bye-byes in a brace of peristaltic convulsions.
I think I'm going to vomit.
See? All's right with the world.
Come on.
So, what do you think? Cucumberface.
Yeah.
Yeah, it's all cucumbery.
Does my skin look all radiant? I did radishes and that 'cause it said it would give me the skin of a 16-year-old, but I'm like, do I look two years older? Oh, my days.
- It's only Dean Williams.
- Oh, my days.
He's so, so year 10.
Is he looking at us? I don't know.
Oh, my God! He looked at me.
He looked at me! Okay, just act really grown up, yeah, and sophisticated and that.
Order a cappuccino.
You don't have to drink it.
Just look moody.
Oh, thanks very much.
This you? Long time ago.
You wouldn't recognise me now.
No, I'm pretty sure I would.
Despite the threat of exposure, shame and excombogeycation, there does exist, in Bogeydom, a certain regrettable, sordid, criminal appetite.
A desire to smell, touch and taste the hideous commodities of the surface world.
It is a perversion suffered mostly by the young.
Like-minded Bogey youths gather furtively to share items of contraband.
Soap is tasted, talcum powder is inhaled, soft furniture coverings are caressed.
In extreme cases, chocolate is unwrapped.
For those not yet addicted, but merely Dry Curious, this is a perilous step too far.
Anything tasty down there? What do you actually want, Dad? I want you to be happy.
Whenever I'm a bit uncertain about things, you know what I do? I lie in a ditch.
I let the filthy water run into every crevice of my body.
- Does that work? - Not always.
No.
But if I climb out of the ditch, all richly basted with scum and I still feel disenchanted, I go pigsticking.
Do you want to give it a go? Bit of adult entertainment.
You're old enough.
One of the few instances in life when smaller is better.
You get a good stick with a little one, you see? Your turn.
Then they slide down, you see.
Last one stuck to the wall wins.
Hours of fun.
I remember this one game with Wallow, back in, ooh Dad, this is tragic.
Is this what I have to look forward to? Son, it doesn't get much better than this.
- That's what scares me.
- I don't understand.
I know.
You don't understand me because I'm not like you.
Mould, you are the noxious grime between my buttocks.
You are the stinking canker beneath my How long can we go on pretending? Dad.
I'm Dry Curious.
That's right.
Your son is a daisy-sniffer.
What are they going to say to that down at King Baugeas? Mould.
Mould! No son of mine Well, maybe, that's it, isn't it? Maybe I'm just not cut out to be your son.
I hope your boots aren't clean, young bogey-mi-lad, I've only just finished scummaging this floor.
Hello, drear.
Off to work.
Just need my things.
- Fungus.
- Can't talk.
Can't talk.
Fathers and sons.
Eternal conundrum.
You think you're leading by example and then you turn 'round and find they haven't even been looking! Total waste of effort.
Makes you downfarted.
Quite frankly, you wonder what's the point.
Oh, what's the matter with me? Work, Fungus.
Focus on the work.
The work will always be there.
Or will it? What if my clients tire of my grisly ministrations? What if I do not do what I do? I would have nothing but the arid consolations of philosophy.
Me putrescent, ergo sum.
"I stink, therefore I am.
" Oh, Harry.
Harry! Harry! What's that? But then, there you see, that happens, and it's like getting into bed and finding a lovely poo on your pillow.
Oh, this silly worry, Fungus, it's the thin end of the bum wedge.
You've got to pull yourself up by your jockstraps, old scab.
Think about Mildew.
Foulest smelling bogey woman I ever clapped nostrils on.
She's never been topside, not once in her whole life, and damn right.
The Surface is no place for a self-respecting slattern like my wife.
Think about Mould.
This is what he wants.
All this appalling tidiness and beauty.
Argh.
I spruced it up a bit.
Oh, bog on a bike! Ah, oh! Ooh! Ah.
Not quite a ditch, I suppose, but in this game, Fungus, you've got to take what life throws you into.
Keep calm and trump on.
Basienka.
Is that it? - Oh.
Good heavens! - What's going on? You are scaredy spooky superstitious, Harry! There was ectoplasm in our bed.
Is what it was, Harry? Ectoplasm? Yes, ectoplasm.
Another set of neighbours gone.
I think we could have really liked them if we'd only got to know them.
Ow! What? Why would you What's the Oh, maybe not.
Bless my rotting thundercrackers! Look at your fingernails.
They're white.
What's the matter with your dinner? Doesn't it smell bad? Oh, my bog! I know this.
That's lavender.
And it's coming from you.
Your Funk, Mould.
That's your Funk.
You going to tell her, or am I? Tell me what? Are you ill? One way of putting it.
Get your coat.
I want to show you something.
Sit.
All rise for Her Toxicity, Sludge Snotsoup, Justice of all Bogeydom.
This court is now in session.
Let the rusty wheels of Bogey justice turn in judderingly inefficient circles.
Describe the sins of the guilty.
The accused, Your Horror.
The accused.
Was there washing? - Yes, Your Horror.
- Wiping? - Yes, Your Horror.
- Was there scrubbing, soaking, swabbing, sweeping, polishing, primping and, or purging? Yes, Your Horror.
Was there chocolate? I regret so, Your Horror.
Then the assembled are all charged with Decency in a Public Place.
Who's she? They're looking at you.
I don't know them.
It is my moist pleasure to exile you all to The Swamp of No Return.
Uncleanliness is next to Bogliness.
Clench, take these fragrant aberrations away, I tire of them.
Move! Off we go.
You're disgusting! Ma'am.
Mmm! At times like this, a Bogeyman has no option but to reach for his crutch.
A classic cockroach tail in a fine glass.
A little slash of toad phlegm, a weeping of cellar-aged discharge, a good retch of turps, fingered, not slopped and get it down you son.
It's all my fault.
Didn't I dirtify him enough as a child? I should have seen the signs.
All that time locked in the bathroom.
He was washing his hands.
What did you say to him? I showed him the error of his ways.
Mould? Mould? Oh, no.
Oh.
Oh, my bog.
Oh, the sky! Ah! Oh, it's the sky! My drear, why do you torment me with this obscene object? Because that is where he has gone! We must report him.
We're not going to report him, Fungus.
We're going to Daventry.
Right now.
Mildew, crepuscular light of my life.
In Daventry, it is day.
There is sky.
I cannot begin to describe the horror of the sunlit sky, my drear If we don't go now, we will lose him.
He's my little boy, my louse, my weevil.
I carried him in my womb for nine months.
Then in my secondary wombsack for 12 months, then in my tertiary birth bladder for six years, then laid him in an egg membrane and gestated "Thou shalt not be daylight seen.
" Fungus! I say this with fierce nasal hair, take me to Daventry or you are not the bogey I picked! You don't want to take it too short.
Is that okay? Oh! Get in! Mildew, if you want to turn back If I turned back I wouldn't be worth the steam off my own discharge.
So, let's go Topside.
Sorry, bit corner-y round here.
Have you seen my driving glasses? Only these are my readers, not my see-ers.
Much obliged, ta.
Oh, my God, you're a monster! Kidding.
I know what you are.
I'm Eve and you're safe.
Welcome to the surface, Bogeyman.
All right.
I'm all right.
That's ground.
So where's the It's above you, my direling.
It's the most terrible colour, and it's much bigger than you could possibly imagine.
But it is held in place, somehow.
You understand? It is not going to fall on you.
Oh, my bog! Mildew? Come back to me.
Come back to me, my direling.
The S-K-Y.
It was on fire! It's not on fire, my drear.
And you must look at it again.
Because everywhere we go, the sky is going to be there.
And we have to go.
See? Nothing to be frightened of.
We're all going to broil! - Mildew.
- Oh! Mildew.
Sermon.
As many of you will know, I had a terrifying experience the other day.
Gathered here in this lovely church of ours, it seems frankly incredible.
Did I really see what I saw? It makes me wonder if I'm a bloody loony.
Sermon.
I am not a loony.
Pause for laughter, won't get any, plug on what I imagined I saw the other day.
Have we met? I think we've met.
Look, just a suggestion, why don't we agree that this isn't happening? Isn't really happening, is it? Scumtastic.
I bid you good day.
That way.
We need to disguise ourselves.
Pig poo.
No, my drear, if we are to move amongst the Drycleaners we need to look like them.
And strange as it may seem to us, they don't wear poo.
You know, don't you? That it is against the law to face-fold? We need to face-fold.
But I don't know how.
Face-folding.
A biological process that exploits the Bogeys many stench bladders, fart pockets and belch sacks.
By redistributing fumes and vapours around the body, the Bogey is able to manipulate his physical form, much like a chameleon, puffer fish or a surface-dwelling bride-to-be.
In times past, Bogey radicals experimented with face-folding, as a form of self-sculpture.
Some iconic images infiltrated topside culture.
Artworks created under the Bogey influence include the Venus De Milo, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and the Mona Lisa.
Naturally, this had to stop.
When it was discovered that face-folding could replicate the hideously deformed features of a Drycleaner, the practise was banned.
The concept is now considered revolting.
Remember, I'm me.
I'm always me.
Fungus? Ta-da! Oh, uh What have you done with my husband? Mildew.
It's still me.
Prove it, eh.
What's my favourite colour? What's my favourite book? What is my favourite smell? Erm Hang on, don't rush me, drear.
It'll come to me, um Well, yes.
Yes, that does sound like the sort of thing Fungus would say.
But I need more proof.
Uh - The - Oh! The fold holds in all the Bogeyniffs and Funk, but if you Ooh, dead badger.
Rotten eggs.
Day old nappies in a heatwave.
Oh, Fungus.
It is you.
Yes, it is, my pus.
Now You're gonna have to be brave.
Braver than you've ever been before.
It's your turn.
Oh, no.
Mum? Yeah, listening.
When you and Dad met, how did you know that he was like, the one? The one, as in the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.
Oh, God.
Anthony, my boss, he's not happy.
How am I supposed to boost the membership when all I've got to boost it with are those cretins Pinky and bloody Perky? Couldn't find their own backsides with a dedicated app.
Sorry, darling, sorry.
What was your question? You said God.
That's rude.
Are you a scientist? I'm an inventor.
Inventrix.
Inventatrice.
I invented Superdooperglue.
Like superglue, only more dooper.
And it's all thanks to your lot and your emunctory effusions.
That's what Superdooper is, see.
Distilled Bogey bogies.
I pick it up wherever I can see it, rooftops mostly.
It's wonderful stuff, really viscous.
Just think the country's best-selling adhesive, and all made from your old grollies.
How do you know about us? Ah, well.
Shoo.
When I was a kid, I felt like I didn't fit in.
I know what you're gonna say, "All kids feel like that.
" You feel like that.
But I really didn't belong.
Anywhere.
I certainly didn't belong in my family.
They couldn't make head nor tail of me.
It's an expression.
Anyway, one day, a bogey runaway came into my life.
She had problems.
She was Drypolar.
I sheltered her.
We learned from each other, and I've spent my life helping Bogeys ever since.
So there you have it.
You're my family now.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh, my goodness.
Oh, sorry.
Oh, not to worry, dear.
Better out than in.
Well, I never.
Freshly cut grass.
- Lemons.
- I know.
My funk's all wrong.
Not a problem here, dear.
That's all behind you now.
Would you mind not watching whilst I'm getting changed? Ah.
Say it.
It's a work in progress.
Try giving it a bit of a wiggle.
Ow! Smack the buzzards, these new feet really pinch We just need to wear them in a bit.
Beetrootflecked diarrhoea, Anne of Green Bogeys, Parisian drain.
Your favourite colour, book and smell.
Oh, sourheart.
Which way? This way.
Ow! Ooh! I reported the matter to your newspaper because I was displeased to find a drunken lout in fancy dress thrashing about in my pond.
The incident is now closed.
Oh, for God's sake.
Oi! What the hell do you think you're playing at? Oi! Oi! Oh, that's just horrid.
I telling you, I check the radiator.
Not the radiator Ow! What? Toolbox.
So? Harry.
Harry! Ew, my guts.
It's not natural.
Try and stay calm, my drear, and not give us away.
Over here.
I am keeping absolutely calm.
Calm, calm.
What are they doing to his hair? That's what they do here, my drear.
Come, look away, come on.
Come on, get in here, in here.
What are you doing? Piddling nostrils.
I'm trying to get a scent on Mouldy.
Have you got him? I have.
It's this way.
Welcome.
What can I do for Ooh, you? Your monster.
Look, I did not use the word monster.
Was it travelling alone? Evidently not.
How many? Two? Male or female? One of each? A married couple? You are a priest! Did they strike you as a married couple? Yes.
Now we're getting somewhere, Father.
So, how many people can you fit in that hall, then? Only needs to fit one.
You all right, girls? What's up? It's her birthday this weekend.
She's got a party and it's like a disco in the church hall with a DJ and everything.
- A disco? - Mmm-hmm.
In a church hall? Unmissable.
Yeah.
It will be.
It's got a theme.
Monster.
- A Daventry monster party.
- What? Cool.
I'll see you there.
Maybe.
Oh, my God.
Oh, my God.
Oh, my God.
Oh, my God.
It goes in here.
Mildew.
Ring the doorbell.
What if someone hears me? That's the point, my drear.
It's a diversion.
Can I help you? Er, I answered the door to you, love.
What can I do for you? Oh, no, no, no, nothing.
I'm fine, thank you.
I'm a diversion.
Oh, are you, now? Okay, I'll tell you what we'll do.
You wait there and I'll go and see whatever it is that you're diverting me from.
Mould! We found you.
- They found me.
- Mould! It's me.
- Mum? - Direling, I've been so worried! Is that my dad? Bog, he's hideous.
Fungus, change back.
Hang on a minute.
Are you sure you want to do that? She should be folding back to human.
That lad should get off the street.
She's got a point.
Get inside, all of you.
No use giving me cleanly looks, young lady.
You brought this on yourself.
What? Uh, Your Horror, unfortunate intelligence.
Dear bog, that's you in a snailshell.
What is it? Puke it up, man.
A whole family has defected, ma'am.
It's, er Fungus.
Fungus of the House of Bilge? Give me my gavel.
- The whole family, excombogeycated.
- Ow! Exile to The Swamp of No Return.
What you looking at? Carry on.
I can't believe it.
Oh, drear.
You're very knowledgeable, madam.
Tea.
Try it.
Doesn't matter how good your fold is, if you can't drink a cup of tea, people will spot you a mile off.
Oh.
Thank you for looking after our son.
It was my pleasure.
He's a wonderful boy.
Mould, would you introduce us to this pox-ridden stinking hag? - Oh, I meant, erm - No, I know.
- My name's Eve.
- She's my friend.
I'm staying here with her.
Oh.
If that's what you want, pet.
I'm afraid, madam, we must be on our way.
I'm staying with Eve.
Mould.
Listen to your father.
- I said - I heard you, Mouldy.
Let's be off.
He can stay if he wants.
Why do you not fear us, madam? We are Bogeys.
Why should I? You're a Drycleaner.
And so's he.
If you'd only let him.
Mould, uh, Mildew, uh I fear we are no longer welcome in this dessicated house.
- But - Don't you say another word.
Daryl, have you been fighting with a very small wolverine? I wear these scars with pride.
Solicitors have taken to fighting with tiny little cake forks, have they? No, I've been gardening.
- Why? - Because I'm a gardener.
Man versus shrubbery.
Get it on.
That is so lame.
You've got a law degree, you can't be a gardener.
Well, actually I can, Wendy.
But not the other way round.
Being a qualified gardener wouldn't entitle me to be a lawyer.
But I'm not just a gardener.
I'm an odd job man-cum-handyman, slash gardener, brackets mainly gardener.
It's my life.
Okay? I do not want to be a solicitor, ever again.
Your life.
Full stop, end of conversation.
So can I have 200 quid? What? Actually, 500 would be better.
Oh, would it, actually? And may we know what you'd like that for? My Daventry monster party.
Costume, make-up, decorations, food, shiny balloons in shapes and a proper DJ.
Yeah.
That'll probably cost 500 quid.
- Ah.
Okay.
- What? And you're gonna earn 500 quid by pruning some bloody bush, are you? Oh, I shall prune unceasingly.
I shall prune with a joyful song in my heart.
- Yes.
- Yay! Yay! I'll tell you something, drear, you should be glad you're not a bogeywoman.
These Drycleaner bras.
They've only got two cups.
- Agony.
- Psst.
Your fold might need a little bit of a tweak, my sourheart.
Psst! I'm taking an almighty punt, here.
But are you Fungus the Bogeyman? Wallow.
Well, well.
So, this is folding.
Can I just Oh, Bog, Fung, that's terrible.
How can you bear it? When I get home, I'm going straight down The King, for a right fourstomachsful.
No.
I'm afraid that's not going to happen.
- Have I been barred? - Worse, old scum.
Snotsoup's had you all excombogeycated.
I'm so sorry.
Don't.
Just tell us what to do.
Fungus, what do we do? We face-fold permanently.
We stay up here, on the surface.
For the rest of our lives.
As Drycleaners.
What else can we do? Oh, my bog.
You look so, scrubbed.
Oh, that's, that's a cracking fold, old scab.
Now, my hungry direlings, the Drys often leave offerings by the roadside, I don't know why.
Spiritual thing, I expect but anyway, I've managed to bag a brace of human baby bum bags.
Should be something worth picking out of those.
Mmm.
Fungus.
We're like soggies without our shells out here.
We can't get by on the occasional human baby bum bag.
We need help.
Surface-dweller help.
From a Dry we can trust.
No! Absolutely not.
I should've put money on it.
You coming back here with your tail between your legs.
Come on, Fungus, spit it out.
Not literally, I've just washed that step.
I have decided on behalf of my family - that we need - Of course you do.
- Your help.
- We? Where's this we? I see one pathetic face-folded ex-Bogeyman, begging at my door.
I can't get the hang of these So you need my help.
Say it, Fungus.
Say, "Eve, after all this time.
"I need you.
" I need you, Eve.
Great little property I've got for you today.
Very special place.
How am I supposed to drink out of that? You have a responsibility to your son.
Do you want my help and my money or don't you? Who are these people? Our new neighbours, they're lovely.
Possibly on a witness protection scheme.
- Milk, everyone? - He wants to milk everyone? You're welcome to milk my wife, but I'm not, erm I'm having a Daventry monster party.
Can I come? Quite frankly, Runny, you are one creepy dude.
Secrets, Fungus.
You keep mine.
And I'll keep yours.
You betray me, and I will hit you so hard, it will kill your whole family.
- Concentrate.
- I'm trying! If you'll let me, I'd like to help.
Do you want to work for me? The Bogeyman is protected.
I need you to help me flush him out.
You cannot take people's bins and tip them out in your kitchen.
I was trying to be Dry, like you told me to for our son.
Are you trying?