White Gold (2017) s01e03 Episode Script
Close Encounters
1 LOUD MUSIC: Closed the shop, sold the house Bought a ticket to the West Coast Now he gives them a stand-up routine in LA (MUSIC DROWNS OUT DOORBELL) Excuse me Hello? Excuse me.
(MUSIC STOPS) Excuse me.
Are you the homeowner? - That depends.
- Depends on what exactly? On whether you're here to tell me I've won the pools or not.
Not quite.
I'm looking for Mr Vincent Swan.
- Oh.
- I take it that's you? No, sorry.
And you are? The gardener.
Well, if you could pass this on to Mr Swan and tell him that Miss Barnes from Her Majesty's Inland Revenue stopped by to discuss his tax affairs.
Will do.
What's he done? It's more what he's not done, really.
As in pay any tax.
Hm.
Do many people on this council estate have private gardeners? No, I'm a luxury few can afford.
Tell Mr Swan I'll see him soon.
Oh, I will, sweetheart.
"Nothing is certain in life but death and taxes.
" You know who said that? Some fucking loser.
It's defeatist bullshit designed to make the feeble feel better about their tragic lives.
Death and taxes? I plan on avoiding both.
Got a call from an old friend We used to be real close Said he couldn't go on the American way Mm.
You look handsome.
And flammable.
Have you got any cash? - I need to pay for Robbie's school trip.
- Wallet's in my pocket.
Jacket pocket.
It's all right, I think I've found what I've been missing.
Sam, I don't have time.
That's not what Mr Winky is telling me.
He seems very pleased to see me.
Oh, that's not fair.
I think it's more than fair, Vincent Swan.
It's been ages since we've had any fun together.
Oh, Jesus, that feels good.
All right, let me get out of these trousers, yeah? No, no, no, you keep them on.
I want you like this, Mr Big Shot Salesman.
In his suit Mm, let's close this deal, Vincent.
It's business time I'm on my knees, begging for all of your product That's it.
Mm, close the deal.
All over my fingers.
- That's it.
- Oh! - There we go.
Mm.
Shit.
I'm going to have to change now.
Well, let that be a lesson to you.
And I swear I'll make you ruin every single pair of trousers in that wardrobe until you give your family some proper attention.
But Sam wasn't the only woman yanking my dick that particular morning.
You've got to be shitting me.
He'll probably be here in five minutes.
Come in, wait inside.
(PHONE RINGS) Pick up the phone, shitheads.
- (PHONE RINGS) - He won't be long.
No-one move, I'll get it.
Cachet Windows and Doors.
How may I help you? Carol, this is Vincent.
Listen.
Don't talk.
That woman is from the tax office, she's after me.
How'd you know that? Is this magic, like Paul Daniels? Stop fucking talking.
I'm over the road in the phone box.
Don't look.
Jesus Christ! Oh, sorry, I'm very suggestible.
Look, I need you to calmly put the phone down and tell her I do not work there and you have never heard of me.
I've never heard of Vincent Swan.
So, why did you just invite me in and say he'd be along in five minutes? I thought you said Winston Ston.
Winston Ston? OK.
Neither of you gentlemen would happen to be Vincent Swan? - No, sorry.
- Well, is either of you the business owner? No, I just work here in sales.
"Work" is debatable.
He sits there and looks pretty.
- I'm the salesman.
- Pointless comment.
If you'd like to speak to Tony Walsh he's the business owner, - he's usually at the factory.
- Do you have the address handy? - Here's his card.
- Thank you, for being more than just a pretty face.
Erm, thanks.
If you do happen to run into Mr Swan please do let him know that I stopped by.
Will do I mean, I would do if I could, but I can't.
Cos I don't even know him and he's never worked here.
Bye.
Lavatory couldn't wait to grass you up.
Don't be a cock.
I was trying to get her out of the showroom.
You and your student comrades might want to go and live in Russia but, here, in the free West, we try not to inform on our pals.
Brian, will you just give it a rest for two minutes while I try and figure out how to get this fucking bloodhound off my scent.
Here's an idea, why don't you pay your tax like the rest of us? Because unlike you, I'm not a mug, mate.
Paying tax is like paying your TV licence fee, you only ever - do it when they catch you.
- Which she has done.
No, she's just knocked on my door.
All I have to do is hide under the sofa until she moves on to the next sap.
- Wouldn't it be easier to just pay them? - I can't, mate.
I conscientiously object to taxation.
On what grounds? On the grounds that I tried it once and I didn't like it.
Luckily, it wasn't bad timing for an enforced sabbatical from the business as I'd recently branched out into movie distribution.
Can you believe people will pay 20 quid a pop to get their own copy of this boggly-eyed little cunt? (THEME FROM ET) This all started with a visit from our friendly neighbourhood loan shark.
Ronnie Farrell had recently acquired some electrical goods and needed a safe place to store them for a few weeks.
Stay in the van, I mean it.
Just until the paperwork got sorted.
Anyway, these goods turned out to be a batch of state of the art video recorders and camcorders.
Which was handy because as well as crushed dreams, the music industry had given Lavender a basic knowledge of recording equipment so when I got hold of an illegal VHS of the biggest movie on the fucking planet, we set up our own dubbing suite and entered the pirate video business.
Piss off, will ya! Turn that bloody thing off! God, the little boy's sick now.
And the alien.
And talking of illegal aliens, meet Brendan, our Irish fitter.
It turns out I wasn't the only Cachet boy looking to branch out into showbusiness.
Martin, you've been to university, you can work a camera, can't you? I need some photos done.
Yes, I can work a camera, Brendan, not because I've been to university.
You just press the button on top.
Will you take the fucking pics or not? Yeah, yeah.
Seeing as you're asking so nicely.
What are we shooting? Donna, get your arse in here! I need somebody to take some topless shots of Donna for this Page 3 competition they're running in The Sun.
500 quid first prize.
Obviously, I'd do it if I weren't her Da.
- Jesus, Brendan.
How old is she? - 16.
It was my birthday on Sunday.
Many happy returns, love.
Was it a toss up between getting some roller boots or getting some tit shots done? No, she got her roller boots, too.
Right.
I want no part in this.
Typical.
I suppose Comrade Lenin didn't approve of tits? I wouldn't know, I'm not a communist.
- I just think Page 3 is degrading to women.
- Course you do.
That's the problem with these Trotsky types, Brendan.
Dare to show a bit of entrepreneurial spirit and they want to piss all over your dreams - from their lofty moral high ground.
- It's not political.
I just don't particularly want to see Donna's or anyone's tits splashed across my newspaper.
Careful with that smart mouth of yours, boy.
- I'll take the pictures, Brendan.
- Cheers.
Here's the camera.
If you'd like to just follow me upstairs, Donna.
I'll be back in an hour, love.
Don't be late cos I've got majorettes at six.
(HE GRUNTS APPROVAL) There's something wrong with you.
Come on, loosen up a bit.
Try and look a little less dead eyed? It doesn't matter.
I just want to get this over with and get my 500 quick.
Well, if you want to be in with a chance of winning the money we've got to get a shot that doesn't look like it should come with a ransom note.
Are you saying I might not get paid for this? It's a competition.
Only the winner gets the money.
- It's not Reader's Wives.
- I don't know what that is.
No, of course you don't.
It's an erotic magazine where consenting adults send in nude photos.
A grot mag? Yes.
And they get paid? Yeah.
25 quid a shot I've someone I've heard Lavender told me.
Well, let's just do that, then.
Yeah all right, then, but don't tell your dad.
That's better.
Meanwhile, hiding from the tax Nazi gave me the chance to score some brownie points with Sam and the kids.
Hands up who thinks I'm the best daddy in the world? - Well, hands up who wants the day off school? - Yep! That's better.
Right.
The Swans are having a family day out.
I see they're thinking up new ways to make Page 3 even creepier.
There's the latest.
"Cute little Karen Clarke was a topless beauty at an early age "but she's a big girl now all right, and every inch a lady.
" She sure is.
What's wrong with that? Just everything possible, I suppose.
They've even lined up her two-year-old self so she's looking directly at her 19-year-old breasts.
- Do you honestly think that's all right? - Course.
Look at little Karen there, she looks pleased as punch she turned into such a stunner.
Oh, hello, love.
Just head upstairs, get yourself ready.
Don't call me love.
- What are you up to? - None of your beeswax.
All right.
Maybe I'd better ask Brendan when I see him.
All right.
I'm just helping Donna make a little bit of extra pocket money.
If she's going to immortalise her bangers on celluloid, she might as well get some mullah doing it, her words not mine, before you start labelling me "sexist.
" Hello, Brian.
Are we OK to leave the car out the front? No, the warden round here's a Nazi.
Just swing it round the back of the showroom.
Who was that? Those gentlemen are local artistes who've expressed an interest in honing their nude, still-life photography techniques.
They look like the sort of men we were warned not to speak to on the way home from school.
As they're paying 200 quid for an hour's studio time, me and Donna are more than happy to speak to them.
You just stay down here staring disapprovingly at tits.
Now her genies were out the bottle, Donna wanted quick, easy money and Fitzpatrick was precisely the kind of degenerate to help her find it.
Elsewhere, the Swan family Beano was underway and nothing says quality time like a visit to the spot where it all began.
It's so creepy down here.
- We're not lost, are we, Vincent? - No-one's lost.
We're nearly there.
- Do you know what that is, kids? - What are we looking at? More boring trees.
No, that's the spot where you were conceived.
- Jesus, Vincent.
- Right up against that big tree.
- You actually think this is all right? - Urgh.
- I want to go back to school.
- What's conceived mean? You're going to have to do much better than this, Vincent.
OK.
Fitzpatrick's photography class was soon exploring all the classical poses, naughty school girl, sexy tennis player, slutty nurse.
And while a picture paints a thousand words, - turns out a video was gold dust.
- Do you ever record these sessions? - Come on, mate, don't take the piss.
- How much? - Another £200.
- Each.
Shit, really.
You're both in? - Donna? - Yeah.
All right wait here.
All right, look, it's got auto focus so all you need to do is point and shoot.
And then making copies is pretty easy.
You just put the master copy into one machine, press play.
Then take a blank tape and put it into the other machine and press play and record.
There you go.
That's it.
If you film it and run off a couple of copies, there's a 20 in it for you.
Hm, let me see.
My dignity and self respect versus £20, that is a tough one.
Come on, Donna doesn't give a shit.
It's all tasteful Page 3 stuff.
Yeah, Page 3 isn't really tasteful, though, is it? Oh, your KGB pal is back for more info.
Tell you what, try and resist the urge to grass this time.
Hello.
Miss Barnes.
Don't tell me? You liked our windows so much you're back for a free quote? Unfortunately, I'm here on official business, though you could sell me anything with those puppy dog eyes of yours.
Any sign of your colleague Vincent Swan? I don't think I have a colleague called Vincent Swan.
Nice, very good.
The problem is our investigators have evidence that Mr Swan has been an employee of Cachet Windows for the last eight months.
And yet no-one who works here seems to remember him.
Isn't that strange .
.
pretty face? That is strange but, like I said, I can't really help you The thing is Mr Call me Martin.
Thing is, Martin, we could continue this charade for weeks until I eventually catch him, or we could investigate other avenues for making all of this unpleasantness disappear.
I'm sorry, other avenues? Let's just say I'm more inclined to believe an individual when they're trying to be accommodating.
Right now, I can see great potential for how accommodating you might be to me.
Oh, my goodness.
Is that the time? I must fly.
Tell Mr Swan I'll be back tomorrow.
- They look evil.
- Dad, I'm scared.
It's freezing, Vincent, can't we just eat these in the car? Don't be daft.
Look around.
This beats any al-fresco dining experience on the planet.
Is al-fresco Italian for bleak and terrifying? Oh! (THEY LAUGH) All right, look, we're not going to let a couple of seagulls ruin our moment.
They're predators, they won't attack if an alpha stares them down.
I'll bog them out, you finish your dinner.
Right, you thieving little bastards, stay away from my family.
Really? (VINCENT SQUAWKS MENACINGLY) He's obviously practised this before.
All right, maybe we've all had about as much Vincent time as we can handle.
- Whoa! - Mum! - Right.
Car.
We're getting in the car this instant.
- Right, your dad can do better than this.
- What are you doing? Run! What I really wanted to show you was this creation.
MUSIC: "Me Olvide De Vivir" by Julio Iglesias Would you like mine? We have to go on this! Go.
Let's go, let's go.
(COINS FALL) (ALARM BLARES) Let's go, let's go, run, run! Thank you.
- They really needed that.
- I enjoyed it.
Good.
So, are you heading back in tomorrow? No, I thought we could all go up to London.
We can't keep them off school another day.
Besides, it's Robbie's school trip tomorrow and I said you might chaperone him, if you were around.
Where are they going? Is that a yes? I'm thinking about it.
Right, well, it's Joseph And His Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat in Basildon Civic Centre.
You're going have to make me spunk in a few more pairs of trousers - before I agree to that.
- Well, that can be arranged.
You two are disgusting.
We weren't the only ones having a productive day.
Right.
I'll run off a few copies.
Brian, can you tell them to hurry up, please.
Bollocks.
Erm blank tape.
- - Bollocks.
Erm The next day, after Sam had persuaded me several times over, I agreed to take Robbie on his school trip.
Right, wait here, I'll be back in a minute.
But before that my other demanding children required some attention.
- Morning, arseholes.
- All right? - Right, I haven't got long, I've got to get on a coach with 35 snotty-nosed teenagers in half an hour.
Ah, sweetheart.
Some coffee and some toast, please.
There we are.
Thanks for doing these.
You're welcome.
Shut the lid, will ya? That fucking thing gives me the creeps.
You're happy to sit in a room full of sex offenders taking tit pics of a teenager but lovable old E gives you the creeps? That was business.
This is different, innit? - I just don't trust his kind.
- His kind? What, special effects puppets? You know what I mean.
Fucking aliens.
What is their game? I'm not sure they exist, let alone have a game.
If they want me to be less suspicious, stop shining blinding white lights in my face.
And speak through your mouths, don't send messages directly to my brain.
That's fucking freaky.
Most of these concerns appear to be based on Close Encounters Of The Third Kind.
Speaking of close encounters, did our friendly neighbourhood tax inspector pay a visit? Yes, she did, and the good news is I might have found a way to get her off your back.
The bad news is I think it involves me sleeping with her.
It sounds like disastrous news.
For her.
A bit of, erm, good old-fashioned sexual harassment.
The sly minx.
So, look, what's next? I don't feel comfortable asking you to sleep with her.
Although I'm definitely going to insist he does exactly that.
Lavender wasn't the only one holding the shitty end of the stick.
When I'm old and you even think about putting me in a home, reflect back on this day, young Robbie.
These are the sacrifices.
Morning, girls.
Is that your teacher? Yeah.
Please don't embarrass me today, Dad.
- I wouldn't dream of it, I'll be on my best behaviour, son.
- OK.
Morning, Miss Lyndsey.
No need to run, Robbie.
There's plenty of spaces left.
- Vincent Swan, Robbie's dad.
- Oh, hi.
Thanks for coming.
Your wife wasn't sure if you could make it.
Wouldn't miss it for the world.
In my day, it was always the naughty boys that sat at the back of the bus.
Well, it still is, although it's not only the boys - that get up to no good.
- Certainly not in my experience.
Now, where would you like me, Miss Lyndsey? I think up front where I can keep my eye on you.
Dad, saved you a seat.
Dad.
Dad! Oh, no.
Quick, there's paper towels out in the toilets.
Go out there.
- I should go with her, really.
- Nah, she's all right.
It's just through the door.
Malteser? Thanks.
Right, Robbie, you're going to need to walk home on your own.
What? I thought you were taking me? I gotta get back to work, mate.
- OK.
- I'll see ya.
- See ya.
Need a lift anywhere, Miss? Yeah, all right.
Can I let you into a secret? I hate musicals.
And I hate kids, so we're a pair of martyrs.
Before you rush to judge, I'd just sat through three hours of Andrew fucking Lloyd Webber.
I deserve a treat.
Later that evening, Lavender was taking one for the team.
As abuses of power go, it was hardly Watergate, but he was still terrified it might end with a deep throat.
We're not that dissimilar, really, are we, Martin? We both get paid to go door to door, asking people if they'll hand over cash they don't want to.
Not exactly.
Our customers get a great product for their money.
Our precision-engineered windows and doors are Fucking hell I'm starting to sound like Vince Winston.
Oh, yeah, good old Winston Ston.
Come on, we're outside of business hours now, you don't have to keep the guard up.
Frankly, it's weird enough we're doing this anyway.
This isn't that weird.
I'm not usually this impulsive, there was just something about you that made me throw caution to the wind.
Possibly the pretty face? Possibly.
Another drink? No, thank you, I think I'd better be going actually.
I've already crossed enough lines tonight to lose my job several times over.
OK, I'll walk you to your car.
The thing is, though, Martin, once you've crossed the line .
.
you might as well make damn sure it's worth it.
Relax, don't do it When you want to go to it That was one thing at least that the tax office and I could agree on.
Relax, don't do it When you want to suck it, do it Relax, don't do it When you wanna come (SHE GROANS) I'm going to need you to put your fingers inside me.
- What, here? - Well, obviously here.
But, I mean, it's quite public.
Just do it.
Oh! Now .
.
Martin, tell me - your National Insurance number.
- What? Your National Insurance number.
Give it to me.
And keep on doing that.
Oh - Erm, it's NCW - Oh! - .
.
21, 55 - Oh! - .
.
764 - Mm! - I think.
- Now, slowly .
.
your tax code.
Sing it out.
- It's 5, 7 - Mm 7 3 M 1.
Oh, yeah, emergency tax code.
Yes, I'm almost there.
Taxable income for the last tax year.
- Seven thousand - Oh! - .
.
eight hundred big ones.
(SHE GROANS) Oh, Martin.
(SHE SILENCES SCREAM) (THEY SIGH WITH RELIEF) That is fucked up.
She didn't want to screw you? Nope.
After that she said goodnight, shook my hand and told me she wouldn't be around any more.
She did leave this fucking great bite mark on my shoulder - as a memento, though - Ouch.
Might need a rabies shot for that, mate.
Don't push your luck, mate.
I've basically whored myself - to clear the coast for you.
- You know I'd do the same for you, mate.
Here.
A token of my appreciation.
Quite literally the wages of sin.
But I'll take it.
Cheers.
- How long, chef? - Five minutes.
Where are the kids? Inside watching ET.
MUM! MUM! TITS! - Like this? - Yeah, hold it like that.
Squeeze them together.
Right, turn this off! Kids, go upstairs.
Go on! I want a word with your father.
Can I shift this leg now? I've got pins and needles.
Will you turn this fucking thing off? I seriously had no idea how Donna's twin peaks ended up in Spielberg's second act but I was pretty fucking certain who was to blame.
I can explain.
Right, you're going to get out there and recall every fucking copy I've sold before someone else's kids discover ET stands for - Extra Titties.
- Straight away.
I'll take care of it.
Shit, boys, you'd better look at this.
However, someone in the West Essex area has been selling pirated copies on poorly branded VHS tapes like these.
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
Universal Pictures are offering a £1,000 reward for information leading to an arrest.
Now, these pirate recordings do not only feature the lovable alien, there's also a rather bizarre intermission featuring a conventionally pretty young lady.
Maybe you know the young lady involved, or maybe you recognise the room where she's modelling Holy Mother of God! (PHONE RINGS) Hello? Stanford 4163.
Sorry, he's out, Walshy.
You'll have to calm down, I can't understand a word you're saying.
Walshy was on the warpath.
He'd seen Police Five and was threatening to sack us all first thing Monday.
So, not only did I have to torch the entire fucking pirate ET stock, I had to call Ronnie Farrell and explain why he had to collect his equipment immediately.
He took it reasonably well, for a dangerous sociopath.
200 I've already paid you, plus 100 for the inconvenience.
Fair enough.
And finally there's a hire fee for using my equipment without my permission.
Sorry, what's that? Another 200.
But, somehow, come Monday morning we still had our jobs.
Right, what the fuck has been going on in! What are you going on about? What? I saw Police fucking Five.
Have you been out in the sun a bit too much this weekend, Tony? Tony, your wife called.
I told her you were busy hunting for topless models.
But she said call her back immediately.
Looks like someone should "phone home.
" I'll take it downstairs.
I know you pricks have been up to something.
Oh, this came for you, Martin.
Oh, the conniving little shit! - She must have done a background check on me! - What's happened? It's a demand from the tax office for unpaid national insurance.
230 quid! Ha, that'll teach ya.
There's always hidden costs when you finger-bang old grannies over the bins.
Really, you should be paying this, Vincent.
Oh, I would, mate, but I've told you, I'm a conscientious objector when it comes to tax.
BRENDAN: Where's that weaseley wee cunt?! Is that Fitzpatrick you're after, Brendan? Listen, I will pay your tax bill, OK? Just don't tell him I'm up here.
I'll pay it myself, mate, this'll be a lot more fun.
He's up here, Brendan! Nobody makes money out of my daughter's tits except me.
- Come here! I'll kill you, you thieving bastard.
- No! As I lie here, thinking of you I realise that nothing is new Lying in bed Thinking of you I realise Nothing is new You say you love me But you want success I say you're lying Nothing has changed This is the sign of the times
(MUSIC STOPS) Excuse me.
Are you the homeowner? - That depends.
- Depends on what exactly? On whether you're here to tell me I've won the pools or not.
Not quite.
I'm looking for Mr Vincent Swan.
- Oh.
- I take it that's you? No, sorry.
And you are? The gardener.
Well, if you could pass this on to Mr Swan and tell him that Miss Barnes from Her Majesty's Inland Revenue stopped by to discuss his tax affairs.
Will do.
What's he done? It's more what he's not done, really.
As in pay any tax.
Hm.
Do many people on this council estate have private gardeners? No, I'm a luxury few can afford.
Tell Mr Swan I'll see him soon.
Oh, I will, sweetheart.
"Nothing is certain in life but death and taxes.
" You know who said that? Some fucking loser.
It's defeatist bullshit designed to make the feeble feel better about their tragic lives.
Death and taxes? I plan on avoiding both.
Got a call from an old friend We used to be real close Said he couldn't go on the American way Mm.
You look handsome.
And flammable.
Have you got any cash? - I need to pay for Robbie's school trip.
- Wallet's in my pocket.
Jacket pocket.
It's all right, I think I've found what I've been missing.
Sam, I don't have time.
That's not what Mr Winky is telling me.
He seems very pleased to see me.
Oh, that's not fair.
I think it's more than fair, Vincent Swan.
It's been ages since we've had any fun together.
Oh, Jesus, that feels good.
All right, let me get out of these trousers, yeah? No, no, no, you keep them on.
I want you like this, Mr Big Shot Salesman.
In his suit Mm, let's close this deal, Vincent.
It's business time I'm on my knees, begging for all of your product That's it.
Mm, close the deal.
All over my fingers.
- That's it.
- Oh! - There we go.
Mm.
Shit.
I'm going to have to change now.
Well, let that be a lesson to you.
And I swear I'll make you ruin every single pair of trousers in that wardrobe until you give your family some proper attention.
But Sam wasn't the only woman yanking my dick that particular morning.
You've got to be shitting me.
He'll probably be here in five minutes.
Come in, wait inside.
(PHONE RINGS) Pick up the phone, shitheads.
- (PHONE RINGS) - He won't be long.
No-one move, I'll get it.
Cachet Windows and Doors.
How may I help you? Carol, this is Vincent.
Listen.
Don't talk.
That woman is from the tax office, she's after me.
How'd you know that? Is this magic, like Paul Daniels? Stop fucking talking.
I'm over the road in the phone box.
Don't look.
Jesus Christ! Oh, sorry, I'm very suggestible.
Look, I need you to calmly put the phone down and tell her I do not work there and you have never heard of me.
I've never heard of Vincent Swan.
So, why did you just invite me in and say he'd be along in five minutes? I thought you said Winston Ston.
Winston Ston? OK.
Neither of you gentlemen would happen to be Vincent Swan? - No, sorry.
- Well, is either of you the business owner? No, I just work here in sales.
"Work" is debatable.
He sits there and looks pretty.
- I'm the salesman.
- Pointless comment.
If you'd like to speak to Tony Walsh he's the business owner, - he's usually at the factory.
- Do you have the address handy? - Here's his card.
- Thank you, for being more than just a pretty face.
Erm, thanks.
If you do happen to run into Mr Swan please do let him know that I stopped by.
Will do I mean, I would do if I could, but I can't.
Cos I don't even know him and he's never worked here.
Bye.
Lavatory couldn't wait to grass you up.
Don't be a cock.
I was trying to get her out of the showroom.
You and your student comrades might want to go and live in Russia but, here, in the free West, we try not to inform on our pals.
Brian, will you just give it a rest for two minutes while I try and figure out how to get this fucking bloodhound off my scent.
Here's an idea, why don't you pay your tax like the rest of us? Because unlike you, I'm not a mug, mate.
Paying tax is like paying your TV licence fee, you only ever - do it when they catch you.
- Which she has done.
No, she's just knocked on my door.
All I have to do is hide under the sofa until she moves on to the next sap.
- Wouldn't it be easier to just pay them? - I can't, mate.
I conscientiously object to taxation.
On what grounds? On the grounds that I tried it once and I didn't like it.
Luckily, it wasn't bad timing for an enforced sabbatical from the business as I'd recently branched out into movie distribution.
Can you believe people will pay 20 quid a pop to get their own copy of this boggly-eyed little cunt? (THEME FROM ET) This all started with a visit from our friendly neighbourhood loan shark.
Ronnie Farrell had recently acquired some electrical goods and needed a safe place to store them for a few weeks.
Stay in the van, I mean it.
Just until the paperwork got sorted.
Anyway, these goods turned out to be a batch of state of the art video recorders and camcorders.
Which was handy because as well as crushed dreams, the music industry had given Lavender a basic knowledge of recording equipment so when I got hold of an illegal VHS of the biggest movie on the fucking planet, we set up our own dubbing suite and entered the pirate video business.
Piss off, will ya! Turn that bloody thing off! God, the little boy's sick now.
And the alien.
And talking of illegal aliens, meet Brendan, our Irish fitter.
It turns out I wasn't the only Cachet boy looking to branch out into showbusiness.
Martin, you've been to university, you can work a camera, can't you? I need some photos done.
Yes, I can work a camera, Brendan, not because I've been to university.
You just press the button on top.
Will you take the fucking pics or not? Yeah, yeah.
Seeing as you're asking so nicely.
What are we shooting? Donna, get your arse in here! I need somebody to take some topless shots of Donna for this Page 3 competition they're running in The Sun.
500 quid first prize.
Obviously, I'd do it if I weren't her Da.
- Jesus, Brendan.
How old is she? - 16.
It was my birthday on Sunday.
Many happy returns, love.
Was it a toss up between getting some roller boots or getting some tit shots done? No, she got her roller boots, too.
Right.
I want no part in this.
Typical.
I suppose Comrade Lenin didn't approve of tits? I wouldn't know, I'm not a communist.
- I just think Page 3 is degrading to women.
- Course you do.
That's the problem with these Trotsky types, Brendan.
Dare to show a bit of entrepreneurial spirit and they want to piss all over your dreams - from their lofty moral high ground.
- It's not political.
I just don't particularly want to see Donna's or anyone's tits splashed across my newspaper.
Careful with that smart mouth of yours, boy.
- I'll take the pictures, Brendan.
- Cheers.
Here's the camera.
If you'd like to just follow me upstairs, Donna.
I'll be back in an hour, love.
Don't be late cos I've got majorettes at six.
(HE GRUNTS APPROVAL) There's something wrong with you.
Come on, loosen up a bit.
Try and look a little less dead eyed? It doesn't matter.
I just want to get this over with and get my 500 quick.
Well, if you want to be in with a chance of winning the money we've got to get a shot that doesn't look like it should come with a ransom note.
Are you saying I might not get paid for this? It's a competition.
Only the winner gets the money.
- It's not Reader's Wives.
- I don't know what that is.
No, of course you don't.
It's an erotic magazine where consenting adults send in nude photos.
A grot mag? Yes.
And they get paid? Yeah.
25 quid a shot I've someone I've heard Lavender told me.
Well, let's just do that, then.
Yeah all right, then, but don't tell your dad.
That's better.
Meanwhile, hiding from the tax Nazi gave me the chance to score some brownie points with Sam and the kids.
Hands up who thinks I'm the best daddy in the world? - Well, hands up who wants the day off school? - Yep! That's better.
Right.
The Swans are having a family day out.
I see they're thinking up new ways to make Page 3 even creepier.
There's the latest.
"Cute little Karen Clarke was a topless beauty at an early age "but she's a big girl now all right, and every inch a lady.
" She sure is.
What's wrong with that? Just everything possible, I suppose.
They've even lined up her two-year-old self so she's looking directly at her 19-year-old breasts.
- Do you honestly think that's all right? - Course.
Look at little Karen there, she looks pleased as punch she turned into such a stunner.
Oh, hello, love.
Just head upstairs, get yourself ready.
Don't call me love.
- What are you up to? - None of your beeswax.
All right.
Maybe I'd better ask Brendan when I see him.
All right.
I'm just helping Donna make a little bit of extra pocket money.
If she's going to immortalise her bangers on celluloid, she might as well get some mullah doing it, her words not mine, before you start labelling me "sexist.
" Hello, Brian.
Are we OK to leave the car out the front? No, the warden round here's a Nazi.
Just swing it round the back of the showroom.
Who was that? Those gentlemen are local artistes who've expressed an interest in honing their nude, still-life photography techniques.
They look like the sort of men we were warned not to speak to on the way home from school.
As they're paying 200 quid for an hour's studio time, me and Donna are more than happy to speak to them.
You just stay down here staring disapprovingly at tits.
Now her genies were out the bottle, Donna wanted quick, easy money and Fitzpatrick was precisely the kind of degenerate to help her find it.
Elsewhere, the Swan family Beano was underway and nothing says quality time like a visit to the spot where it all began.
It's so creepy down here.
- We're not lost, are we, Vincent? - No-one's lost.
We're nearly there.
- Do you know what that is, kids? - What are we looking at? More boring trees.
No, that's the spot where you were conceived.
- Jesus, Vincent.
- Right up against that big tree.
- You actually think this is all right? - Urgh.
- I want to go back to school.
- What's conceived mean? You're going to have to do much better than this, Vincent.
OK.
Fitzpatrick's photography class was soon exploring all the classical poses, naughty school girl, sexy tennis player, slutty nurse.
And while a picture paints a thousand words, - turns out a video was gold dust.
- Do you ever record these sessions? - Come on, mate, don't take the piss.
- How much? - Another £200.
- Each.
Shit, really.
You're both in? - Donna? - Yeah.
All right wait here.
All right, look, it's got auto focus so all you need to do is point and shoot.
And then making copies is pretty easy.
You just put the master copy into one machine, press play.
Then take a blank tape and put it into the other machine and press play and record.
There you go.
That's it.
If you film it and run off a couple of copies, there's a 20 in it for you.
Hm, let me see.
My dignity and self respect versus £20, that is a tough one.
Come on, Donna doesn't give a shit.
It's all tasteful Page 3 stuff.
Yeah, Page 3 isn't really tasteful, though, is it? Oh, your KGB pal is back for more info.
Tell you what, try and resist the urge to grass this time.
Hello.
Miss Barnes.
Don't tell me? You liked our windows so much you're back for a free quote? Unfortunately, I'm here on official business, though you could sell me anything with those puppy dog eyes of yours.
Any sign of your colleague Vincent Swan? I don't think I have a colleague called Vincent Swan.
Nice, very good.
The problem is our investigators have evidence that Mr Swan has been an employee of Cachet Windows for the last eight months.
And yet no-one who works here seems to remember him.
Isn't that strange .
.
pretty face? That is strange but, like I said, I can't really help you The thing is Mr Call me Martin.
Thing is, Martin, we could continue this charade for weeks until I eventually catch him, or we could investigate other avenues for making all of this unpleasantness disappear.
I'm sorry, other avenues? Let's just say I'm more inclined to believe an individual when they're trying to be accommodating.
Right now, I can see great potential for how accommodating you might be to me.
Oh, my goodness.
Is that the time? I must fly.
Tell Mr Swan I'll be back tomorrow.
- They look evil.
- Dad, I'm scared.
It's freezing, Vincent, can't we just eat these in the car? Don't be daft.
Look around.
This beats any al-fresco dining experience on the planet.
Is al-fresco Italian for bleak and terrifying? Oh! (THEY LAUGH) All right, look, we're not going to let a couple of seagulls ruin our moment.
They're predators, they won't attack if an alpha stares them down.
I'll bog them out, you finish your dinner.
Right, you thieving little bastards, stay away from my family.
Really? (VINCENT SQUAWKS MENACINGLY) He's obviously practised this before.
All right, maybe we've all had about as much Vincent time as we can handle.
- Whoa! - Mum! - Right.
Car.
We're getting in the car this instant.
- Right, your dad can do better than this.
- What are you doing? Run! What I really wanted to show you was this creation.
MUSIC: "Me Olvide De Vivir" by Julio Iglesias Would you like mine? We have to go on this! Go.
Let's go, let's go.
(COINS FALL) (ALARM BLARES) Let's go, let's go, run, run! Thank you.
- They really needed that.
- I enjoyed it.
Good.
So, are you heading back in tomorrow? No, I thought we could all go up to London.
We can't keep them off school another day.
Besides, it's Robbie's school trip tomorrow and I said you might chaperone him, if you were around.
Where are they going? Is that a yes? I'm thinking about it.
Right, well, it's Joseph And His Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat in Basildon Civic Centre.
You're going have to make me spunk in a few more pairs of trousers - before I agree to that.
- Well, that can be arranged.
You two are disgusting.
We weren't the only ones having a productive day.
Right.
I'll run off a few copies.
Brian, can you tell them to hurry up, please.
Bollocks.
Erm blank tape.
- - Bollocks.
Erm The next day, after Sam had persuaded me several times over, I agreed to take Robbie on his school trip.
Right, wait here, I'll be back in a minute.
But before that my other demanding children required some attention.
- Morning, arseholes.
- All right? - Right, I haven't got long, I've got to get on a coach with 35 snotty-nosed teenagers in half an hour.
Ah, sweetheart.
Some coffee and some toast, please.
There we are.
Thanks for doing these.
You're welcome.
Shut the lid, will ya? That fucking thing gives me the creeps.
You're happy to sit in a room full of sex offenders taking tit pics of a teenager but lovable old E gives you the creeps? That was business.
This is different, innit? - I just don't trust his kind.
- His kind? What, special effects puppets? You know what I mean.
Fucking aliens.
What is their game? I'm not sure they exist, let alone have a game.
If they want me to be less suspicious, stop shining blinding white lights in my face.
And speak through your mouths, don't send messages directly to my brain.
That's fucking freaky.
Most of these concerns appear to be based on Close Encounters Of The Third Kind.
Speaking of close encounters, did our friendly neighbourhood tax inspector pay a visit? Yes, she did, and the good news is I might have found a way to get her off your back.
The bad news is I think it involves me sleeping with her.
It sounds like disastrous news.
For her.
A bit of, erm, good old-fashioned sexual harassment.
The sly minx.
So, look, what's next? I don't feel comfortable asking you to sleep with her.
Although I'm definitely going to insist he does exactly that.
Lavender wasn't the only one holding the shitty end of the stick.
When I'm old and you even think about putting me in a home, reflect back on this day, young Robbie.
These are the sacrifices.
Morning, girls.
Is that your teacher? Yeah.
Please don't embarrass me today, Dad.
- I wouldn't dream of it, I'll be on my best behaviour, son.
- OK.
Morning, Miss Lyndsey.
No need to run, Robbie.
There's plenty of spaces left.
- Vincent Swan, Robbie's dad.
- Oh, hi.
Thanks for coming.
Your wife wasn't sure if you could make it.
Wouldn't miss it for the world.
In my day, it was always the naughty boys that sat at the back of the bus.
Well, it still is, although it's not only the boys - that get up to no good.
- Certainly not in my experience.
Now, where would you like me, Miss Lyndsey? I think up front where I can keep my eye on you.
Dad, saved you a seat.
Dad.
Dad! Oh, no.
Quick, there's paper towels out in the toilets.
Go out there.
- I should go with her, really.
- Nah, she's all right.
It's just through the door.
Malteser? Thanks.
Right, Robbie, you're going to need to walk home on your own.
What? I thought you were taking me? I gotta get back to work, mate.
- OK.
- I'll see ya.
- See ya.
Need a lift anywhere, Miss? Yeah, all right.
Can I let you into a secret? I hate musicals.
And I hate kids, so we're a pair of martyrs.
Before you rush to judge, I'd just sat through three hours of Andrew fucking Lloyd Webber.
I deserve a treat.
Later that evening, Lavender was taking one for the team.
As abuses of power go, it was hardly Watergate, but he was still terrified it might end with a deep throat.
We're not that dissimilar, really, are we, Martin? We both get paid to go door to door, asking people if they'll hand over cash they don't want to.
Not exactly.
Our customers get a great product for their money.
Our precision-engineered windows and doors are Fucking hell I'm starting to sound like Vince Winston.
Oh, yeah, good old Winston Ston.
Come on, we're outside of business hours now, you don't have to keep the guard up.
Frankly, it's weird enough we're doing this anyway.
This isn't that weird.
I'm not usually this impulsive, there was just something about you that made me throw caution to the wind.
Possibly the pretty face? Possibly.
Another drink? No, thank you, I think I'd better be going actually.
I've already crossed enough lines tonight to lose my job several times over.
OK, I'll walk you to your car.
The thing is, though, Martin, once you've crossed the line .
.
you might as well make damn sure it's worth it.
Relax, don't do it When you want to go to it That was one thing at least that the tax office and I could agree on.
Relax, don't do it When you want to suck it, do it Relax, don't do it When you wanna come (SHE GROANS) I'm going to need you to put your fingers inside me.
- What, here? - Well, obviously here.
But, I mean, it's quite public.
Just do it.
Oh! Now .
.
Martin, tell me - your National Insurance number.
- What? Your National Insurance number.
Give it to me.
And keep on doing that.
Oh - Erm, it's NCW - Oh! - .
.
21, 55 - Oh! - .
.
764 - Mm! - I think.
- Now, slowly .
.
your tax code.
Sing it out.
- It's 5, 7 - Mm 7 3 M 1.
Oh, yeah, emergency tax code.
Yes, I'm almost there.
Taxable income for the last tax year.
- Seven thousand - Oh! - .
.
eight hundred big ones.
(SHE GROANS) Oh, Martin.
(SHE SILENCES SCREAM) (THEY SIGH WITH RELIEF) That is fucked up.
She didn't want to screw you? Nope.
After that she said goodnight, shook my hand and told me she wouldn't be around any more.
She did leave this fucking great bite mark on my shoulder - as a memento, though - Ouch.
Might need a rabies shot for that, mate.
Don't push your luck, mate.
I've basically whored myself - to clear the coast for you.
- You know I'd do the same for you, mate.
Here.
A token of my appreciation.
Quite literally the wages of sin.
But I'll take it.
Cheers.
- How long, chef? - Five minutes.
Where are the kids? Inside watching ET.
MUM! MUM! TITS! - Like this? - Yeah, hold it like that.
Squeeze them together.
Right, turn this off! Kids, go upstairs.
Go on! I want a word with your father.
Can I shift this leg now? I've got pins and needles.
Will you turn this fucking thing off? I seriously had no idea how Donna's twin peaks ended up in Spielberg's second act but I was pretty fucking certain who was to blame.
I can explain.
Right, you're going to get out there and recall every fucking copy I've sold before someone else's kids discover ET stands for - Extra Titties.
- Straight away.
I'll take care of it.
Shit, boys, you'd better look at this.
However, someone in the West Essex area has been selling pirated copies on poorly branded VHS tapes like these.
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
Universal Pictures are offering a £1,000 reward for information leading to an arrest.
Now, these pirate recordings do not only feature the lovable alien, there's also a rather bizarre intermission featuring a conventionally pretty young lady.
Maybe you know the young lady involved, or maybe you recognise the room where she's modelling Holy Mother of God! (PHONE RINGS) Hello? Stanford 4163.
Sorry, he's out, Walshy.
You'll have to calm down, I can't understand a word you're saying.
Walshy was on the warpath.
He'd seen Police Five and was threatening to sack us all first thing Monday.
So, not only did I have to torch the entire fucking pirate ET stock, I had to call Ronnie Farrell and explain why he had to collect his equipment immediately.
He took it reasonably well, for a dangerous sociopath.
200 I've already paid you, plus 100 for the inconvenience.
Fair enough.
And finally there's a hire fee for using my equipment without my permission.
Sorry, what's that? Another 200.
But, somehow, come Monday morning we still had our jobs.
Right, what the fuck has been going on in! What are you going on about? What? I saw Police fucking Five.
Have you been out in the sun a bit too much this weekend, Tony? Tony, your wife called.
I told her you were busy hunting for topless models.
But she said call her back immediately.
Looks like someone should "phone home.
" I'll take it downstairs.
I know you pricks have been up to something.
Oh, this came for you, Martin.
Oh, the conniving little shit! - She must have done a background check on me! - What's happened? It's a demand from the tax office for unpaid national insurance.
230 quid! Ha, that'll teach ya.
There's always hidden costs when you finger-bang old grannies over the bins.
Really, you should be paying this, Vincent.
Oh, I would, mate, but I've told you, I'm a conscientious objector when it comes to tax.
BRENDAN: Where's that weaseley wee cunt?! Is that Fitzpatrick you're after, Brendan? Listen, I will pay your tax bill, OK? Just don't tell him I'm up here.
I'll pay it myself, mate, this'll be a lot more fun.
He's up here, Brendan! Nobody makes money out of my daughter's tits except me.
- Come here! I'll kill you, you thieving bastard.
- No! As I lie here, thinking of you I realise that nothing is new Lying in bed Thinking of you I realise Nothing is new You say you love me But you want success I say you're lying Nothing has changed This is the sign of the times