Walliams and Friend (2015) s01e01 Episode Script
Jack Whitehall
1 Good evening.
I'm the head of the BBC.
Following complaints that our output is too London-centric, we'd like to reassure viewers, who sadly are forced to live outside the M25 that we value you.
You might be sitting on the sofa at home in Norfolk, with your wife and sister, who are, no doubt, the same person.
You might be in Manchester watching this through a shop window, a brick in your hand, ready to make off with some electronic goods.
Maybe you're watching this in a pub in Glasgow, tanked up and stripped to the waist, ready to beat up some students.
Or you might be in Cornwall, where you've only just got electricity, and you're thinking, who's this tiny wizard in the box? Don't be alarmed, it's not witchcraft.
Remember, it's your BBC, wherever you have the misfortune to live.
Enjoy the show.
I'm better than you.
You what? I'm better than you.
That phone, it's the old one, isn't it? Well, came out about six months ago.
Yeah, but they brought out a new one, didn't they? Last week, wasn't it? And I got it, didn't I? Waterproof, innit? That's why I'm better than you.
All right, mate.
I'm better than you.
You said, about the phone.
Yeah, and the trainers.
Well, they look pretty similar to mine.
Yeah, but they ain't, though, are they? Mine have got an air cushion in them.
Got a little window so I can look in, see all the air, check up on it.
See it? See it? Yeah, yeah, I see it, yeah.
That's why I'm better than you.
All right, mate.
I'm better than you.
Oh I'm better than you.
What now? General appearance.
Well, what does that mean? Everything.
My barnet is better than you, my tan is better then you.
Teeth, better than you.
Biceps, better than you.
Triceps, better then you.
Quads, need a bit of work, but still better than you.
Complexion, better than you.
Nasal trimmings, better than you.
Dental hygiene .
.
better than you.
Height .
.
better than you.
Swagger .
.
better than you.
Moves .
.
better than you.
Grooves .
.
better than you.
Manscaping .
.
better than you.
In conclusion, I am better than you.
Yeah All right, mate.
Well done, you're better than me.
Yep.
Better than you.
Yeah, all right, you've proved your point.
You're better than me.
Your hair's better than me, your phone's better than me, your trainers are better than me.
Your grooves, your moves and your manscaping is a thing of wonder.
You've probably had more sex than me.
Well, how many birds have you had sex with? Just my wife, so one.
All right, mate.
It's not a competition.
Oh.
Hello, Sherlock.
You're back early.
Watson, what's going on? Your brother called.
Don't change the subject.
You were up to something.
No, I was just thinking about having a cup of tea.
Would you like one? Something's going on, and if you won't tell me, I will figure it out myself by using my powers of deduction.
Oh, God The sheet music has been removed from my violin stand and replaced with a copy of the Littlewoods catalogue, conveniently opened at the women's underwear section.
It's daytime, but the curtains are shut, and a scented candle has been lit, as though to create a romantic ambience, but you're on your own.
On the top of the stereo system lies an Usher CD.
His R&B grooves are synonymous with getting down with it.
And on the mantelpiece, a framed picture of me has been placed face down.
What is it that you didn't want me to see, Watson? Perhaps it's Mrs Hudson's bottle of lavender hand lotion, which has been mysteriously removed from the washroom and placed on the table next to you.
On the floor is a woman's glove, but the stitching has been frayed, as though it's been worn by a larger hand, a man's hand, the hand of a man.
But here's the final piece of the puzzle, Watson.
You're right-handed, but on your left side, a box of Aloe Vera fragrant tissues has been placed.
Answer me this, Watson, what was it that was keeping your right hand so occupied that it could not reach for the tissues? I'll do it in my room from now on.
If you would.
Welcome back to the Dating Game.
Please welcome our new contestants, Sammy and Joey.
Butonly one of them can bag a date with the luscious Lindsay.
OK, Lindsay, time for your first question.
Over to you.
Hi, guys.
Hey.
Hello.
So, around the house, I'm afraid I'm not a DIY expert.
Are you the sort of man who knows how to use a tool? Ho-ho-ho-ho! Saucy stuff.
Sammy.
Well, Lindsay, I've got the wood.
You just tell me where you want the screw.
Oh Ho-ho-ho! Easy, tiger! Joey.
Well, Lindsay, if you needed me to, I could put up a shelving unit for you, or unblock your toilet.
Not exactly what we're looking for, Joey.
Have you got anything a bit racier? You know, something about hammering, or drilling, or banging? OK, I see.
All right, off you go.
Here's something you may not know about me, Lindsay.
I have got an enormous 24-piece spanner set.
That's your answer, is it? Yep.
OK, back over to you, Lindsay, for your killer question.
Make it count.
One of my favourite things is doing it in the kitchen.
Ho-ho-ho! Filthy.
Cooking, of course.
Bit disappointing.
How well-equipped are you to satisfy me in the kitchen? Oh Final chance to join the lovely Lindsay on that sexy trip to Barbados.
Sammy.
Well, Linds, I'm known for my big, juicy sausage.
And once you've had a taste, you'll keep coming back for more, baby.
Me likey! Is it getting hot in here? Joey.
Well, Lindsay, if you came over to my place Ooh, sounds promising.
.
.
I'd cook you chicken nuggets and peas.
And then for afters Oh, here we go.
.
.
yoghurt.
Have you seen this show, Joey? I think so, yes.
Well, we're looking for something sexier.
Oh, I see.
All right? All right, off you go.
OK.
Lindsay, I would very much like for you and me to have sexual intercourse.
Stop you there, Joey.
Too sexy? Well, sort of.
The question was about cooking, so we're looking for something sexy, but about food, OK? A bit of innuendo.
Oh, yeah, OK.
Hm-hm! All right, it's all yours, Joey.
Lindsay, I would very much like for you and me to have sexual intercourse in a kebab shop.
So, join us after the break, when we'll be finding out who the luscious Lindsay will pick for that sexy trip to Barbados.
Sammy.
Well We'll find out after the break.
No, it's going to be Sammy.
I've got a sexy food one.
All right, one last go.
I once drew a face on a watermelon and then I drilled a hole in it.
We'll see you in a mini mo.
Thank you.
And you put it in No, no, no, no Opera sensations Il Primadonnas return with their brand-new album Chants From The Terraces.
Including the smash hit single One-Nil.
# One-nil, one-nil # One-nil, one-nil # One-nil, one-nil One-n-i-i-i-il.
All your favourite football chants on one spectacular album.
Marvel as Il Primadonnas present their unique take on Boring, Boring Arsenal.
# Boring, boring Arsenal Boring, boring Arsenal.
Admirers of Manchester City Football Club will love If You All Hate Man U.
# If you all hate Man U Clap your hands If you all hate Man U Clap your hands Admirers of Manchester United Football Club will love If You All Hate Man City.
# If you all hate Man City Clap your hands If you all hate Man City Clap your hands Lose yourself to Il Primadonnas' touching tribute to England's all-time leading goal-scorer Wayne Mark Rooney.
# Rooney # Rooney Rooney.
But no football chant album would be complete without the towering majesty of Who's The Bastard In The Black? # Who's the bastard # Who's the bastard # Who's the bastard in the black? In the black? # Who's the bastard In the black? Il Primadonnas' Chants From The Terraces.
The perfect album to make love to.
# Who ate all the pies? # Who ate all the pies? # You fat bastard You fat bastard You ate all the pies.
So the thinking is, the merger Here we are.
.
.
will go through next year.
The reason for next year is everyone thinks we'll be out of Europe by then and it'll be a lot easier Don't get up, darling.
I thought it'd be rude to leave our guest on his own, darling.
I'd be interested to know what our guest thinks about this, actually.
Say you had a friend over for dinner.
I'm talking hypothetically here.
Would you expect your partner to do all the cooking? Well You're putting Richard on the spot, darling.
Let's not involve him in our private business.
I said "hypothetically".
All right, then.
Talking hypothetically, if you had a joint bank account, which was categorically for food and household products only, would it be right to use that money to buy a £400 handbag? I wouldn't buy a handbag.
Exactly.
I have no need for a handbag.
Especially if you had a dozen already.
Nine is not a dozen.
Here's another one for you, Richard.
Hypothetically I'd rather not.
No, no, this is fun.
Hypothetically, say it was your anniversary.
Well, I'm not married.
Hypothetically.
It's your anniversary, and you purchase your partner a brand-new set of golf clubs.
But all they get you is a £10 Boots voucher.
What message do you think that would be sending out? Would you say that was a happy marriage, or one that had descended into nothing more than a bitter pantomime of contempt? I really think this is something the two of you need to discuss in private.
I said "hypothetically".
Don't feel you need to answer, Richard.
Maybe we should just enjoy our starters.
Quite right.
Let's enjoy our delicious starters, cooked by my darling wife.
This looks lovely.
Thank you.
I made it all on my own.
What kind of cheese is this? Goat's cheese.
But, darling I'm allergic to goat's cheese.
I know, darling.
Mm! I have a question for you, Richard.
Hypothetical, of course.
If you knew your partner was allergic to a certain type of cheese - let's say, for example, cheese from a goat, goat's cheese - would you serve it to them knowing full well they'd have to spend the next 12 hours clinging to a toilet bowl, sweating and shaking and spraying from both ends? I would say that was fair if your hypothetical husband had made you take your hypothetical bag back to the hypothetical shop.
The hypothetical bastard.
No.
Please don't.
I beg you, don't leave us on our own.
I'm sorry.
I'm going to go.
How would you like it, hypothetically, if a couple invited you round to their house for dinner and all they did was involve you in their petty arguments because they clearly hate each other?! Goodnight.
What got into him? He really soured the atmosphere.
WellI'll be in the toilet, darling.
See you in the morning.
Love you.
Love you, too.
A group of celebrities, three prison cells, one slop bucket.
This is the toughest reality show on television.
Welcome to Celebrity Slammer.
Day 3,226.
Mildly amusing comedian David Walliams is in the Diary Cell.
I just assumed Celebrity Slammer would be in the studio.
But no, it's an actual prison.
I thought it'd just be two or three weeks.
That was seven and a half years ago.
I wish I'd done I'm A Celebrity now.
I'd much rather put a kangaroo's balls in my mouth every night than Barry Chuckle's.
TV hard man Chris Ellison has spent the last 18 months sharing a cell with highbrow comedy duo the Chuckle Brothers.
Now, you've got that end and I've got this.
Right, take it through there.
To me, then.
To you.
To me.
To you.
To me.
To you.
It's not going.
Come here, come here.
You've no idea, have you? No.
It won't go through like that.
Turn it over.
Right, OK.
That's it.
Now then, to you.
To me.
To you.
To me.
To you.
To me Well, it's too much.
Only, you just try watching two, and let's be honest, DEEPLY weird brothers trying to move furniture around a prison cell.
Well, it'sit's really getting to me.
To you.
To me.
To Argh! It's time again for me to make my annual visit to the celebrity inmates.
Well, I can tell you that the public have been voting for the past year.
The phone lines are now closed.
Your votes have been counted and verified, and we can now reveal that the public have selected .
.
Bob Carolgees and Spit the Dog Yes, we're out of here! .
.
to go into solitary confinement.
Oh, no, you are joking.
Why couldn't that have been me? We will see you all next year.
Thank you.
Coming up, TV hard man Chris Ellison reaches breaking point with the Chuckle Brothers.
To me To you To me And Christopher Biggins tries to break INTO Celebrity Slammer.
Let me in! I want to get back on TV! Please! The lines are now open.
Remember, you choose who stays in Celebrity Slammer.
Simply text the celeb's name and the year you'd like them to leave.
For example, text "Eamonn 2025" if you'd like Eamonn Holmes to be released in 2025.
Or text "Chucklelife" to give the Chuckle Brothers a life sentence.
We'll see you next time for more Celebrity Slammer.
Oh! Oh! Morning, Sherlock.
You're back early.
Watson, Mrs Hudson, what's going on? Your sister called.
I don't have a sister.
Oh.
Would you like a cup of tea, Sherlock? You're trying to change the subject.
Something's going on, and if you won't tell me, I shall figure it out myself.
By retreating into my mind palace.
Oh, not again, no.
Shh.
Both you and Mrs Hudson are out of breath, but there's no evidence that either of you has been partaking in any exercise.
Watson's flies are partially undone, revealing beneath them his best pants - his pulling pants.
The pants he puts on for occasions when lovemaking is a distinct possibility.
When I left this morning, Mrs Hudson's cardigan had six buttons on it, yet now there are none.
But six identical buttons lie strewn across the floor.
Presumably ripped from her.
My violin bow is hot to the touch.
As though it has recently been in contact with human flesh.
Buttock flesh.
Then there's my deerstalker, my dear Watson.
On it, I see a single hair, a fine hair, a lady's hair, the hair of a lady.
Mrs Hudson's hair.
I can only deduce that my signature headpiece has been used as a prop in some sort of cruel, erotic role play.
And finally, despite the absence of toast, crumpet or a scone, I note perched on the armchair an open tub of Utterly Butterly with a fistful removed.
There can be only one explanation.
Watson, Mrs Hudson, how long have you been in flagrante delicto? You what? Humping.
How long has this been going on? This was the first time.
Five and a half years.
I'llI'll put that back in the fridge, dear.
Cock blocker.
Hello, Bond.
Off to Moscow, I hear.
Yes, Q.
Now, this first gadget is standard issue for all 00 agents.
It's a My Little Pony lunchbox.
It's much more than that.
Simply pull on this handle, and it releases a cloud of smoke, cloaking your escape.
But I'm going undercover in Russia.
What if the KGB spot me with a little girl's lunchbox? Hence the smokescreen.
Gadget number two.
What does this look like to you? A Hello Kitty watch.
Exactly.
One flick of the wrist and this releases a poison dart.
But won't a grown man wearing a Hello Kitty watch in a Russian gulag attract unnecessary attention? Well, you could always cover it with a standard issue MI6 High School Musical sweatband.
Couldn't I just have a gun? Far too predictable, James.
What they'll be looking for is a man with a gun.
What they won't to be looking for is a man with a Frozen backpack.
Simply pull on Princess Anna's pigtail and this emits a laser beam strong enough to cut through steel.
It's also got a pouch inside for your juice.
But couldn't the laser be put in a gold cigarette case? Too obvious.
Finally, this is a gadget we've been cooking up in the lab for sometime now.
What appears to be a standard, everyday Sylvanian Families cosy cottage is actually a miniature tracking device.
All you need to do is surreptitiously attach this to the bonnet of an enemy operative's vehicle, and our satellites can track it to within a one-metre radius.
Won't they spot it on the bonnet? It's considerably smaller than 006's Barbie Malibu dream house.
Listen, Q, I don't think you get it.
I'm James Bond.
I'm an MI6 agent.
I can't be seen with gadgets emblazoned with Hello Kitty and My Little Pony and Sylvanian Families.
I'm sorry, Bond.
I want Octonauts! Welcome to a special edition of middle-class Jeremy Kyle called World's Worst Parents.
Our guest is an innocent young child whose life has been torn apart.
Please welcome to the show Gideon Scott-Rees.
So, Gideon, tell us your heartbreaking story, and if you could cry, we'd love it.
Um, well, every year since I was a toddler, Mummy and Daddy have taken me on holiday to Val d'Isere.
Only this year they've said that they want to go on their own.
And how old are you, little fella? Just 28 years old.
I think it's high time we met these repulsive parents of yours.
Let's bring the bastards out! Hello, darling.
How do you do? This poor boy's life is in tatters because of your selfish behaviour.
Shame on you.
Come on, Gideon, what do you want to say to this pair of turds? Mummy, Daddy, ever since you told me that I'm not coming to Valley, I've been in a terrible funk.
Last night I was so upset I couldn't even go to Cressida's birthday party at Boujis.
So let's get this straight.
You take your only child skiing every year but the moment he hits 28, you say, "Sorry, mate, we're going on our own.
" So come on, what have you got to say for yourselves? Well, this year Shut up! Speak up! We'd all like an explanation.
Well, this year, we just Shut your face! Well, come on, then.
Let's hear your side of the story.
We sat Gideon down Will you let me get a word in edgeways? I'm trying to explain.
Don't make a lunge at me, love, or I'll get Steve here to wrestle you to the ground.
Thank you, Steve, you're a life-saver.
Well Papa you've been very quiet.
What have you got to say for yourself? Why aren't you taking your son on a skiing holiday? Well, when he does come, he doesn't actually ski, anyway.
I apres-ski.
That's just drinking and going to nightclubs.
Yes, and I'm a very good apres-skier.
I could be an instructor.
I don't think it's that Mummy and Daddy want to spend time with each other.
I think the real reason is that they find me irritating.
We love you very much, Gideon! We just want to wake up in the morning in bed without you for once.
You know I get nightmares when I eat too much fondue.
Well, before the show, we sent Monty and Beatrice here to take a lie detector test, and the results are in.
We asked them, "Do you find your son Gideon irritating?" They both answered, "No.
" The lie detector said .
.
they were lying.
We only find you mildly irritating.
Mummy What are you crying for, you pathetic loser?! You're 28 years old! Now, come on! Man up! What are you going to? Don't laugh! What are you going to say to these shit heads? Mummy, Daddy, I don't care! Go on your stupid holiday.
I hope you both drink too much vin chaud at lunchtime and die on a black run.
Well, you may be interested to know, Gideon, that when we did the lie detector test, we also did a DNA test, and the results are in.
This man is not your real father.
Mummy?! Well, that's all we have time today.
Have a great weekend.
It was just a moment of madness! Goodbye! I always knew it was Malcolm.
I'm so sorry I hope you both drink too much too much vin chaud on a black run and I can't even say! Get your line right! Get off me! Steve, stop him! Steve, get him.
Get him, Steve.
I'm trying to help you.
Sit down.
I'm going to help you.
God.
Sit down.
Stop showing off in front of your mother.
Shall we go from the slap again? No! No! I think, yes, I think we might have got the slap.
I'm the head of the BBC.
Following complaints that our output is too London-centric, we'd like to reassure viewers, who sadly are forced to live outside the M25 that we value you.
You might be sitting on the sofa at home in Norfolk, with your wife and sister, who are, no doubt, the same person.
You might be in Manchester watching this through a shop window, a brick in your hand, ready to make off with some electronic goods.
Maybe you're watching this in a pub in Glasgow, tanked up and stripped to the waist, ready to beat up some students.
Or you might be in Cornwall, where you've only just got electricity, and you're thinking, who's this tiny wizard in the box? Don't be alarmed, it's not witchcraft.
Remember, it's your BBC, wherever you have the misfortune to live.
Enjoy the show.
I'm better than you.
You what? I'm better than you.
That phone, it's the old one, isn't it? Well, came out about six months ago.
Yeah, but they brought out a new one, didn't they? Last week, wasn't it? And I got it, didn't I? Waterproof, innit? That's why I'm better than you.
All right, mate.
I'm better than you.
You said, about the phone.
Yeah, and the trainers.
Well, they look pretty similar to mine.
Yeah, but they ain't, though, are they? Mine have got an air cushion in them.
Got a little window so I can look in, see all the air, check up on it.
See it? See it? Yeah, yeah, I see it, yeah.
That's why I'm better than you.
All right, mate.
I'm better than you.
Oh I'm better than you.
What now? General appearance.
Well, what does that mean? Everything.
My barnet is better than you, my tan is better then you.
Teeth, better than you.
Biceps, better than you.
Triceps, better then you.
Quads, need a bit of work, but still better than you.
Complexion, better than you.
Nasal trimmings, better than you.
Dental hygiene .
.
better than you.
Height .
.
better than you.
Swagger .
.
better than you.
Moves .
.
better than you.
Grooves .
.
better than you.
Manscaping .
.
better than you.
In conclusion, I am better than you.
Yeah All right, mate.
Well done, you're better than me.
Yep.
Better than you.
Yeah, all right, you've proved your point.
You're better than me.
Your hair's better than me, your phone's better than me, your trainers are better than me.
Your grooves, your moves and your manscaping is a thing of wonder.
You've probably had more sex than me.
Well, how many birds have you had sex with? Just my wife, so one.
All right, mate.
It's not a competition.
Oh.
Hello, Sherlock.
You're back early.
Watson, what's going on? Your brother called.
Don't change the subject.
You were up to something.
No, I was just thinking about having a cup of tea.
Would you like one? Something's going on, and if you won't tell me, I will figure it out myself by using my powers of deduction.
Oh, God The sheet music has been removed from my violin stand and replaced with a copy of the Littlewoods catalogue, conveniently opened at the women's underwear section.
It's daytime, but the curtains are shut, and a scented candle has been lit, as though to create a romantic ambience, but you're on your own.
On the top of the stereo system lies an Usher CD.
His R&B grooves are synonymous with getting down with it.
And on the mantelpiece, a framed picture of me has been placed face down.
What is it that you didn't want me to see, Watson? Perhaps it's Mrs Hudson's bottle of lavender hand lotion, which has been mysteriously removed from the washroom and placed on the table next to you.
On the floor is a woman's glove, but the stitching has been frayed, as though it's been worn by a larger hand, a man's hand, the hand of a man.
But here's the final piece of the puzzle, Watson.
You're right-handed, but on your left side, a box of Aloe Vera fragrant tissues has been placed.
Answer me this, Watson, what was it that was keeping your right hand so occupied that it could not reach for the tissues? I'll do it in my room from now on.
If you would.
Welcome back to the Dating Game.
Please welcome our new contestants, Sammy and Joey.
Butonly one of them can bag a date with the luscious Lindsay.
OK, Lindsay, time for your first question.
Over to you.
Hi, guys.
Hey.
Hello.
So, around the house, I'm afraid I'm not a DIY expert.
Are you the sort of man who knows how to use a tool? Ho-ho-ho-ho! Saucy stuff.
Sammy.
Well, Lindsay, I've got the wood.
You just tell me where you want the screw.
Oh Ho-ho-ho! Easy, tiger! Joey.
Well, Lindsay, if you needed me to, I could put up a shelving unit for you, or unblock your toilet.
Not exactly what we're looking for, Joey.
Have you got anything a bit racier? You know, something about hammering, or drilling, or banging? OK, I see.
All right, off you go.
Here's something you may not know about me, Lindsay.
I have got an enormous 24-piece spanner set.
That's your answer, is it? Yep.
OK, back over to you, Lindsay, for your killer question.
Make it count.
One of my favourite things is doing it in the kitchen.
Ho-ho-ho! Filthy.
Cooking, of course.
Bit disappointing.
How well-equipped are you to satisfy me in the kitchen? Oh Final chance to join the lovely Lindsay on that sexy trip to Barbados.
Sammy.
Well, Linds, I'm known for my big, juicy sausage.
And once you've had a taste, you'll keep coming back for more, baby.
Me likey! Is it getting hot in here? Joey.
Well, Lindsay, if you came over to my place Ooh, sounds promising.
.
.
I'd cook you chicken nuggets and peas.
And then for afters Oh, here we go.
.
.
yoghurt.
Have you seen this show, Joey? I think so, yes.
Well, we're looking for something sexier.
Oh, I see.
All right? All right, off you go.
OK.
Lindsay, I would very much like for you and me to have sexual intercourse.
Stop you there, Joey.
Too sexy? Well, sort of.
The question was about cooking, so we're looking for something sexy, but about food, OK? A bit of innuendo.
Oh, yeah, OK.
Hm-hm! All right, it's all yours, Joey.
Lindsay, I would very much like for you and me to have sexual intercourse in a kebab shop.
So, join us after the break, when we'll be finding out who the luscious Lindsay will pick for that sexy trip to Barbados.
Sammy.
Well We'll find out after the break.
No, it's going to be Sammy.
I've got a sexy food one.
All right, one last go.
I once drew a face on a watermelon and then I drilled a hole in it.
We'll see you in a mini mo.
Thank you.
And you put it in No, no, no, no Opera sensations Il Primadonnas return with their brand-new album Chants From The Terraces.
Including the smash hit single One-Nil.
# One-nil, one-nil # One-nil, one-nil # One-nil, one-nil One-n-i-i-i-il.
All your favourite football chants on one spectacular album.
Marvel as Il Primadonnas present their unique take on Boring, Boring Arsenal.
# Boring, boring Arsenal Boring, boring Arsenal.
Admirers of Manchester City Football Club will love If You All Hate Man U.
# If you all hate Man U Clap your hands If you all hate Man U Clap your hands Admirers of Manchester United Football Club will love If You All Hate Man City.
# If you all hate Man City Clap your hands If you all hate Man City Clap your hands Lose yourself to Il Primadonnas' touching tribute to England's all-time leading goal-scorer Wayne Mark Rooney.
# Rooney # Rooney Rooney.
But no football chant album would be complete without the towering majesty of Who's The Bastard In The Black? # Who's the bastard # Who's the bastard # Who's the bastard in the black? In the black? # Who's the bastard In the black? Il Primadonnas' Chants From The Terraces.
The perfect album to make love to.
# Who ate all the pies? # Who ate all the pies? # You fat bastard You fat bastard You ate all the pies.
So the thinking is, the merger Here we are.
.
.
will go through next year.
The reason for next year is everyone thinks we'll be out of Europe by then and it'll be a lot easier Don't get up, darling.
I thought it'd be rude to leave our guest on his own, darling.
I'd be interested to know what our guest thinks about this, actually.
Say you had a friend over for dinner.
I'm talking hypothetically here.
Would you expect your partner to do all the cooking? Well You're putting Richard on the spot, darling.
Let's not involve him in our private business.
I said "hypothetically".
All right, then.
Talking hypothetically, if you had a joint bank account, which was categorically for food and household products only, would it be right to use that money to buy a £400 handbag? I wouldn't buy a handbag.
Exactly.
I have no need for a handbag.
Especially if you had a dozen already.
Nine is not a dozen.
Here's another one for you, Richard.
Hypothetically I'd rather not.
No, no, this is fun.
Hypothetically, say it was your anniversary.
Well, I'm not married.
Hypothetically.
It's your anniversary, and you purchase your partner a brand-new set of golf clubs.
But all they get you is a £10 Boots voucher.
What message do you think that would be sending out? Would you say that was a happy marriage, or one that had descended into nothing more than a bitter pantomime of contempt? I really think this is something the two of you need to discuss in private.
I said "hypothetically".
Don't feel you need to answer, Richard.
Maybe we should just enjoy our starters.
Quite right.
Let's enjoy our delicious starters, cooked by my darling wife.
This looks lovely.
Thank you.
I made it all on my own.
What kind of cheese is this? Goat's cheese.
But, darling I'm allergic to goat's cheese.
I know, darling.
Mm! I have a question for you, Richard.
Hypothetical, of course.
If you knew your partner was allergic to a certain type of cheese - let's say, for example, cheese from a goat, goat's cheese - would you serve it to them knowing full well they'd have to spend the next 12 hours clinging to a toilet bowl, sweating and shaking and spraying from both ends? I would say that was fair if your hypothetical husband had made you take your hypothetical bag back to the hypothetical shop.
The hypothetical bastard.
No.
Please don't.
I beg you, don't leave us on our own.
I'm sorry.
I'm going to go.
How would you like it, hypothetically, if a couple invited you round to their house for dinner and all they did was involve you in their petty arguments because they clearly hate each other?! Goodnight.
What got into him? He really soured the atmosphere.
WellI'll be in the toilet, darling.
See you in the morning.
Love you.
Love you, too.
A group of celebrities, three prison cells, one slop bucket.
This is the toughest reality show on television.
Welcome to Celebrity Slammer.
Day 3,226.
Mildly amusing comedian David Walliams is in the Diary Cell.
I just assumed Celebrity Slammer would be in the studio.
But no, it's an actual prison.
I thought it'd just be two or three weeks.
That was seven and a half years ago.
I wish I'd done I'm A Celebrity now.
I'd much rather put a kangaroo's balls in my mouth every night than Barry Chuckle's.
TV hard man Chris Ellison has spent the last 18 months sharing a cell with highbrow comedy duo the Chuckle Brothers.
Now, you've got that end and I've got this.
Right, take it through there.
To me, then.
To you.
To me.
To you.
To me.
To you.
It's not going.
Come here, come here.
You've no idea, have you? No.
It won't go through like that.
Turn it over.
Right, OK.
That's it.
Now then, to you.
To me.
To you.
To me.
To you.
To me Well, it's too much.
Only, you just try watching two, and let's be honest, DEEPLY weird brothers trying to move furniture around a prison cell.
Well, it'sit's really getting to me.
To you.
To me.
To Argh! It's time again for me to make my annual visit to the celebrity inmates.
Well, I can tell you that the public have been voting for the past year.
The phone lines are now closed.
Your votes have been counted and verified, and we can now reveal that the public have selected .
.
Bob Carolgees and Spit the Dog Yes, we're out of here! .
.
to go into solitary confinement.
Oh, no, you are joking.
Why couldn't that have been me? We will see you all next year.
Thank you.
Coming up, TV hard man Chris Ellison reaches breaking point with the Chuckle Brothers.
To me To you To me And Christopher Biggins tries to break INTO Celebrity Slammer.
Let me in! I want to get back on TV! Please! The lines are now open.
Remember, you choose who stays in Celebrity Slammer.
Simply text the celeb's name and the year you'd like them to leave.
For example, text "Eamonn 2025" if you'd like Eamonn Holmes to be released in 2025.
Or text "Chucklelife" to give the Chuckle Brothers a life sentence.
We'll see you next time for more Celebrity Slammer.
Oh! Oh! Morning, Sherlock.
You're back early.
Watson, Mrs Hudson, what's going on? Your sister called.
I don't have a sister.
Oh.
Would you like a cup of tea, Sherlock? You're trying to change the subject.
Something's going on, and if you won't tell me, I shall figure it out myself.
By retreating into my mind palace.
Oh, not again, no.
Shh.
Both you and Mrs Hudson are out of breath, but there's no evidence that either of you has been partaking in any exercise.
Watson's flies are partially undone, revealing beneath them his best pants - his pulling pants.
The pants he puts on for occasions when lovemaking is a distinct possibility.
When I left this morning, Mrs Hudson's cardigan had six buttons on it, yet now there are none.
But six identical buttons lie strewn across the floor.
Presumably ripped from her.
My violin bow is hot to the touch.
As though it has recently been in contact with human flesh.
Buttock flesh.
Then there's my deerstalker, my dear Watson.
On it, I see a single hair, a fine hair, a lady's hair, the hair of a lady.
Mrs Hudson's hair.
I can only deduce that my signature headpiece has been used as a prop in some sort of cruel, erotic role play.
And finally, despite the absence of toast, crumpet or a scone, I note perched on the armchair an open tub of Utterly Butterly with a fistful removed.
There can be only one explanation.
Watson, Mrs Hudson, how long have you been in flagrante delicto? You what? Humping.
How long has this been going on? This was the first time.
Five and a half years.
I'llI'll put that back in the fridge, dear.
Cock blocker.
Hello, Bond.
Off to Moscow, I hear.
Yes, Q.
Now, this first gadget is standard issue for all 00 agents.
It's a My Little Pony lunchbox.
It's much more than that.
Simply pull on this handle, and it releases a cloud of smoke, cloaking your escape.
But I'm going undercover in Russia.
What if the KGB spot me with a little girl's lunchbox? Hence the smokescreen.
Gadget number two.
What does this look like to you? A Hello Kitty watch.
Exactly.
One flick of the wrist and this releases a poison dart.
But won't a grown man wearing a Hello Kitty watch in a Russian gulag attract unnecessary attention? Well, you could always cover it with a standard issue MI6 High School Musical sweatband.
Couldn't I just have a gun? Far too predictable, James.
What they'll be looking for is a man with a gun.
What they won't to be looking for is a man with a Frozen backpack.
Simply pull on Princess Anna's pigtail and this emits a laser beam strong enough to cut through steel.
It's also got a pouch inside for your juice.
But couldn't the laser be put in a gold cigarette case? Too obvious.
Finally, this is a gadget we've been cooking up in the lab for sometime now.
What appears to be a standard, everyday Sylvanian Families cosy cottage is actually a miniature tracking device.
All you need to do is surreptitiously attach this to the bonnet of an enemy operative's vehicle, and our satellites can track it to within a one-metre radius.
Won't they spot it on the bonnet? It's considerably smaller than 006's Barbie Malibu dream house.
Listen, Q, I don't think you get it.
I'm James Bond.
I'm an MI6 agent.
I can't be seen with gadgets emblazoned with Hello Kitty and My Little Pony and Sylvanian Families.
I'm sorry, Bond.
I want Octonauts! Welcome to a special edition of middle-class Jeremy Kyle called World's Worst Parents.
Our guest is an innocent young child whose life has been torn apart.
Please welcome to the show Gideon Scott-Rees.
So, Gideon, tell us your heartbreaking story, and if you could cry, we'd love it.
Um, well, every year since I was a toddler, Mummy and Daddy have taken me on holiday to Val d'Isere.
Only this year they've said that they want to go on their own.
And how old are you, little fella? Just 28 years old.
I think it's high time we met these repulsive parents of yours.
Let's bring the bastards out! Hello, darling.
How do you do? This poor boy's life is in tatters because of your selfish behaviour.
Shame on you.
Come on, Gideon, what do you want to say to this pair of turds? Mummy, Daddy, ever since you told me that I'm not coming to Valley, I've been in a terrible funk.
Last night I was so upset I couldn't even go to Cressida's birthday party at Boujis.
So let's get this straight.
You take your only child skiing every year but the moment he hits 28, you say, "Sorry, mate, we're going on our own.
" So come on, what have you got to say for yourselves? Well, this year Shut up! Speak up! We'd all like an explanation.
Well, this year, we just Shut your face! Well, come on, then.
Let's hear your side of the story.
We sat Gideon down Will you let me get a word in edgeways? I'm trying to explain.
Don't make a lunge at me, love, or I'll get Steve here to wrestle you to the ground.
Thank you, Steve, you're a life-saver.
Well Papa you've been very quiet.
What have you got to say for yourself? Why aren't you taking your son on a skiing holiday? Well, when he does come, he doesn't actually ski, anyway.
I apres-ski.
That's just drinking and going to nightclubs.
Yes, and I'm a very good apres-skier.
I could be an instructor.
I don't think it's that Mummy and Daddy want to spend time with each other.
I think the real reason is that they find me irritating.
We love you very much, Gideon! We just want to wake up in the morning in bed without you for once.
You know I get nightmares when I eat too much fondue.
Well, before the show, we sent Monty and Beatrice here to take a lie detector test, and the results are in.
We asked them, "Do you find your son Gideon irritating?" They both answered, "No.
" The lie detector said .
.
they were lying.
We only find you mildly irritating.
Mummy What are you crying for, you pathetic loser?! You're 28 years old! Now, come on! Man up! What are you going to? Don't laugh! What are you going to say to these shit heads? Mummy, Daddy, I don't care! Go on your stupid holiday.
I hope you both drink too much vin chaud at lunchtime and die on a black run.
Well, you may be interested to know, Gideon, that when we did the lie detector test, we also did a DNA test, and the results are in.
This man is not your real father.
Mummy?! Well, that's all we have time today.
Have a great weekend.
It was just a moment of madness! Goodbye! I always knew it was Malcolm.
I'm so sorry I hope you both drink too much too much vin chaud on a black run and I can't even say! Get your line right! Get off me! Steve, stop him! Steve, get him.
Get him, Steve.
I'm trying to help you.
Sit down.
I'm going to help you.
God.
Sit down.
Stop showing off in front of your mother.
Shall we go from the slap again? No! No! I think, yes, I think we might have got the slap.