Stephen Fry - Episode #1.1 lyrics

Currently Transcribing [Skit by Skit] Contents: Parent Power Hugh's Poem Young People SAS The West Indies: A Nation of Cricketers - To Be Transcribed Spoonbending with Mr Nude - Correcting Censored - Correcting Haircut - Correcting Sketch: Parent Power Stephen, a headmaster, is sitting behind a desk. Hugh enters with Michael, a small boy. STEPHEN: Ah good morning Michael, good morning Mr Smear. HUGH: Yes, we'll dispense with the good mornings if you don't mind. I haven't got time for good mornings. STEPHEN: As you wish. Now you wanted to discuss something with me? HUGH: I think you know why I'm here. STEPHEN: I don't think I do. HUGH: (To Michael) Tell him. (Michael looks embarra**ed) STEPHEN: Tell me what? HUGH: Tell him what you told your mother last night. Come on, come on! Sexual intercourse... MICHAEL: Sexual intercourse can often bring about pregnancy in the adult female. HUGH: Can often bring about pregnancy in the adult female, yes. STEPHEN: Yes? HUGH: You heard that, did you? STEPHEN: Yes? HUGH: Yes well I'd like an explanation, if it's not too much trouble. STEPHEN: An explanation of what? HUGH: An explanation of how my son came to be using language like that in front of his mother. STEPHEN: Well I a**ume it's something that Michael's been learning in his biology cla**, is that right? MICHAEL: Yes, sir. STEPHEN: Yes with Mr Hent. Glad to see some of it's sinking in. HUGH: Well this is a turn-up and no mistake. STEPHEN: What is? HUGH: I didn't imagine you'd be quite so barefaced about it. STEPHEN: About what? HUGH: I came here today to make a complaint about my son being exposed to gutter language in the playground. I am frankly staggered to find that this is something that he's actually been taught in a cla**room. I mean what is going on here? STEPHEN: Well we're trying to teach your son... HUGH: Oh are you indeed? Trying to teach him what? How to embarra** his parents? How to smack himself with h**n? STEPHEN: Mr Smear I can a**ure you, we have no... HUGH: Call yourself a school? STEPHEN: Well I don't actually call myself a school, no. HUGH: You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Filling a young lad's head with filth like that. Well let me tell you something. About the real world. You're here to provide a service. STEPHEN: Well that's quite right. HUGH: Quite right, yes, well I'm not happy with it. I'm not happy with the service you're providing. STEPHEN: Would you rather that Michael didn't attend biology cla**es? HUGH: Well certainly I would, if those were the kind of lies I could expect to hear repeated at the dinner table. STEPHEN: They're not lies, Mr Smear. HUGH: Oh aren't they? Aren't they? What? Sexual intercourse can bring about pregnancy in the adult female? STEPHEN: Well that's quite true HUGH: (stutters) True my arse. It's nothing more than a disgusting rumour put about by trendy young people in the sixties. STEPHEN: Trendy young people in their sixties? HUGH: The sixties. In the sixties. That's when it all started. People like you. STEPHEN: I can a**ure you Mr Smear that s**ual reproduction has been part of the biology syllabus for many years. HUGH: I don't care about your blasted syllabus. What good is a blasted syllabus out there? STEPHEN: Out where? HUGH: Out there! (gestures to stage left) STEPHEN: The Arkwright Road? HUGH: Arkwright Jungle, I call it. STEPHEN: Well, what would... what would you rather we taught your son? HUGH: I would rather ... I would rather you taught him values, Mr... STEPHEN: Casilingua. HUGH: Casilingua. Values. Respect. Decency. Standards. That's what you're here for. You're not here to poison my son with a lot of randy s** talk. STEPHEN: Michael definitely is your son, is he? HUGH: Well certainly he's my son. STEPHEN: Well then it's safe to a**ume that at some stage you and Mrs Smear must have had s**ual intercourse? HUGH: (Pause) Right. (Starts to take off his jacket) That's it. I had enough of this. I'm going to knock some sense into you myself. STEPHEN: What you're going to fight me now, are you? HUGH: Yes I bloody well am. I'm not going to stand for this. STEPHEN: Well do you mind if I do? (Rises to his feet) HUGH: Talking like that in front of the boy. You're a bloody disgrace. STEPHEN: Mr Smear, how can Michael be your son, if you and Mrs Smear have not had s**ual intercourse? HUGH: Michael is my son STEPHEN: Yes? HUGH: In the normal way. STEPHEN: Ah. And what in your opinion, is the normal way to have a son? HUGH: If you're trying to trick me into s**y talk it isn't... STEPHEN: I'm not. HUGH: Right, well, the normal way to have a son is ... to get married. Buy a house, get properly settled in, furniture and so on, and um... just wait for a bit. STEPHEN: Ah. HUGH: Make sure you eat properly. Three hot meals a day. STEPHEN: Three hot meals? HUGH: Hot meals, yes. STEPHEN: And Michael just sort of popped up, did he? HUGH: Er ... well of course it's a few years ago now, but I think, ah yes, one day he was just there. STEPHEN: And at no stage did you or Mrs Smear engage in any act of s**ual intimacy? HUGH: Yes, it's very hard for you to believe isn't it. It's very hard for you to believe that there's still some of us who can bring a son into this world without recourse to cannabis and government handouts. STEPHEN: Well I really don't know what to say. HUGH: No, I bet you don't: It's not every day a consumer stands up to you and makes demands is it? STEPHEN: Well not of this nature certainly. HUGH: No, well. Welcome to the harsh realities of the market-place, Mr Casilingua. STEPHEN: Right, okay. So what do you want me to do? HUGH: Well it's obvious isn't it? STEPHEN: Not to me HUGH: Well I mean if I go to Littlewoods and say I'm not happy with a cardigan for example, well they'll change it for me. And gladly. STEPHEN: You want me to change your son? HUGH: Well of course I do, mine is soiled now. STEPHEN: I'm afraid we don't have any spare sons. HUGH: Typical isn't it. Well what have you got of equal value? STEPHEN: Um - oh, we have got some locusts in the biology lab. HUGH: Locusts, hmm. Do I have your a**urance that these locusts will not embarra** Mrs Smear at table with foul language? STEPHEN: I think I can go that far. HUGH: Hmm. How many of them are there? STEPHEN: Well there are two at the moment. HUGH: What d'you mean, "at the moment"? STEPHEN: Ah, well, they're married you see, and they've bought their own cage, and some furniture, and have settled down, and are having three meals a day. HUGH: Hot meals? STEPHEN: Warmish. HUGH: So Mrs Smear might one day become a grandmother? STEPHEN: It's a distinct possibility. HUGH: (Pleased) She'd like that. Sketch: Hugh's Poem Hugh is reading a poem. HUGH: "Underneath the bellied skies, Where dust and rain find space to fall, To fall and lie and change again, Without a care or mind at all For art and life and things above; In that, there, look just there, No right left up down past or future, We have but ourselves to fear." STEPHEN: Hugh, you chose that poem. For God's sake why? HUGH: I chose it for a number of reasons, Stephen. STEPHEN: Chief amongst them being? HUGH: Can I perhaps turn that question round and say, "because it was short". STEPHEN: The poem? HUGH: Yes. STEPHEN: And that's important? HUGH: Well yes it seems to be. With the pace of modern life being what it is, most people just haven't got time to spend on long poems, and therefore this is something that would ideally suit the short-haul commuter or the busy housewife, and leave time for other sporting or leisure activities. STEPHEN: Well that represents quite a boon HUGH: Oh an enormous boon. STEPHEN: Well we're always on the lookout for enormous boons. Is it, is it perfectly safe? HUGH: Oh it's absolutely safe, yes, this is a poem you could leave around the house in absolute confidence. STEPHEN: Presumably though, there must be shorter poems than that? HUGH: Oh good heavens yes. STEPHEN: Good heavens yes? HUGH: Good heavens yes. There's a poem by Richard Maddox called "Institutions", which I can read for you, if you like? STEPHEN: Please. HUGH: Right. "Li." STEPHEN: That is short. HUGH: It's very short, yes. STEPHEN: Too short perhaps? HUGH: Possibly. STEPHEN: None the less it might suit, say, the busy senior executive who's only got a few moments to snatch between meetings, and so on? HUGH: Well that of course is the market that Maddox was aiming for. STEPHEN: Now round about this time, a lot people are starting to think about going on summer holidays. Do you have any advice as to the kinds of poems that might be suitable, say, for a family about to embark on a budget, bargain break weekend, fortnight get-away day now? HUGH: Well, can I first of all issue a warning to any family planning to take poetry on holiday with them. STEPHEN: And that is? HUGH: Be careful. STEPHEN: Well that sounds like good advice to me. HUGH: Check with your travel agent to see if there are any specific customs regulations regarding poetry, and if you're travelling outside the EEC, wrap up warm. STEPHEN: Do you have any particular advice on how to carry poetry, when travelling abroad? HUGH: Ah yes, now I would say it's definitely worth investing in a proper travelling poetry bag. STEPHEN: A travelling poetry bag? HUGH: A travelling poetry bag, yes. You can get one of these at most big High Street travelling poetry bag shops. STEPHEN: Right. Now I believe you've got one more poem that you're going to read to us, before you go away from here? HUGH: That's right. This is called "The Rest of My Life" by T.P. Mitchell. STEPHEN: The T.P. Mitchell? HUGH: No. A T.P. Mitchell. STEPHEN: Right. HUGH: This is quite solid, but not without being too heavy. I think it's quite stylish, it's quite reader friendly. STEPHEN: Alright, so that might suit, say, a young couple just about to start out catering business in the North Wales area. HUGH: Perfect. "Forward and back, said the old man in the dance, As he whittled away at his stick, Long gone, long gone, Without a glance, To the entrance made of brick." STEPHEN: Thanks you. HUGH: That's alright Sketch: Young People Stephen is dressed formally and is standing at a podium centre-stage. He, seemingly a political speaker, addresses an issue. STEPHEN: I don't think anyone here can fail to be alarmed by what's happening to our young people. I'm thinking here of crime, of drug addiction, of easy s**, of all the vices that can destroy a young persons life, and I believe we must look to the schools to tackle this problem. Schools must help youngsters to develop a sense of decent civilised behaviour. Because everyone must agree that decent, civilised behaviour is every bit important as being able to subtract, or take away. Basically the plain and simple purpose of education must be to teach children, young people, not, I repeat not, to break into my car. There will be other aspects to education, I'm sure, but the most fundamental principle of decent, civilised behaviour, is don't break into my car. Of course, I am concerned that young people shouldn't break into other peoples cars too, but I think that's more of an ethical question and not really the provence of government. The most important thing is that they don't break into my car, and of course we must look to the courts to sanction this principle. Community service, such a favourite with magistrates of recent years, shouldn't be a matter of simply scrubbing graffiti off a few lavatory walls, young offenders must expect a short, sharp lesson in replacing the nearside window of my car. Because leaving my bloody car alone is what this government means by decent, civilised behaviour. Thank you. Sketch: SAS Stephen is in an SAS uniform behind the desk of an Army Careers office. STEPHEN: So you'd like to join the SAS? HUGH: Not really. STEPHEN: Not really? HUGH: Well, yes alright. STEPHEN: That's better. So height? HUGH: Nine foot six. STEPHEN: Nine foot six. Good. Weight? HUGH: Three tons. STEPHEN: Sure about that? HUGH: Well, a bit over. STEPHEN: That's better, bit over three tons. It's well to be accurate on these matters. Saves complications later on. Alright. Do you have any particular disabilities? HUGH: I've got no sense of taste. STEPHEN: What in? Films? Music? HUGH: No, food. I can't taste food. STEPHEN: Oh dear. That might be a bit of a problem. HUGH: Might that be a bit of a problem? STEPHEN: I've just said it might be a bit of a problem. Never mind, pressing on. Um, special sk**s of any kind? HUGH: I look good in black. STEPHEN: Excellent. How old are you? HUGH: Ten and a half. STEPHEN: Shoe size? HUGH: Twenty-eight. STEPHEN: Any particular quirks? HUGH: Uh, yes. I keep muddling up my shoe size and my height. I mean my height and my shoe size. There I've done it again. STEPHEN: Alright, alright. Are you good at small talk? HUGH: What, weather and traffic? STEPHEN: That sort of thing. HUGH: Yeah, I can hold my end up. STEPHEN: Splendid, splendid. How much do you know about the SAS? HUGH: Uh, well. Not much really STEPHEN: "Not really" right. Well the SAS originally founded to be a crack, secret, elite, secret, and crack a**ault force, to work behind enemy lines during world war two. HUGH: Right. STEPHEN: Now our role has changed substantially since that time. Now we are here primarily to act as a masturbatory aid for various backbench MPs. HUGH: I see? STEPHEN: Yes I'm afraid so. You see, it seems a lot of today's parliamentarians are quite unable to achieve s**ual gratification without fantasising about the SAS, you see. So we have to go about the place being crack, secret, and a**aulting, and secret, and crack all the time, and elite as possible, just so these people can keep their marriages intact. HUGH: Doesn't sound very exciting. STEPHEN: No HUGH: You got anything else on your cards? STEPHEN: Um, well, we are looking for someone to go (Points his index finger in a direction) through that door there. HUGH: Which door where? STEPHEN: (Points his index finger again) That one there. HUGH: Oh Hugh exits through the door to the next sketch. Sketch: Spoonbending with Mr Nude Hugh and Stephen are sitting in a TV studio. There is a table with two tablespoons resting on it. Hugh has an annoying accent. STEPHEN: Now, Mr Nude, you claim... HUGH: That's right, yes, I do claim, I do indeed claim, yes, that's right STEPHEN: Yes, you claim to be able to bend spoons with psychic energy. HUGH: Psychic energy, yes, that is the method I have chosen, to bend spoons with, yes. STEPHEN: How long have you had this ability? HUGH: How long, exactly, yes, that's absolutely correct, how long, yes, indeed. STEPHEN: Well? HUGH: Thank you, you are very sympathetic. Sometimes it's difficult when people are not sympathetic, but you are sympathetic, thank you. STEPHEN: Yes, can you do other things with spoons, apart from bend them? HUGH: I can do anything with a spoon. STEPHEN: Really? HUGH: Yes. You give me a spoon, and I will give you the world. STEPHEN: Well that's a very impressive claim, certainly. HUGH: Thank you. STEPHEN: Thank you. HUGH: No, thank you. STEPHEN: Right. Well, we have a selection of spoons here. I wonder if you'd care to give us a demonstration? HUGH: I'm not a freak, you know. STEPHEN: Yes, I realise that. HUGH: Some people think that I am some kind of circus freak. I'm not a freak. STEPHEN: No, no, I'm sure no-one here... HUGH: "Freak!" They sometimes shout at me when I'm walking down the street. But you know I'm no freak STEPHEN: Well that must be rather distressing. HUGH: Yes, it is. Thank you, you are very sympathetic. Yes, thank you. STEPHEN: Would you care to have a go then? HUGH: Yes, I will bend a spoon now, yes I will, yes, yes. STEPHEN: Right, well ladies and gentlemen, Mr Nude is now going to bend this spoon using psychic energy. Editing from here HUGH: Yes, now is when I'm going to bend it. STEPHEN: Go ahead, Mr Nude. HUGH: quite plainly bends the spoon with his hands. HUGH: Thank you very much, you are all very sympathetic. STEPHEN: Well the spoon is certainly bent. HUGH: Of course it is bent. Of course it is. I bent the spoon, so, of course it is bent. STEPHEN: Yes, that much is clear and without argument. HUGH: Forgive me, I am very tired now. To bend a spoon is very tiring, and I have bent too many spoons today. STEPHEN: How many spoons have you bent today? HUGH: Four spoons today. It is too much. I am not a freak, you know. I am a human being. STEPHEN: Forgive me, Mr Nude ... HUGH: Of course. STEPHEN: Thank you. HUGH: Thank you. STEPHEN: But from where I was sitting, it looked rather as if you just bent the spoon with your hands. HUGH: What are you saying? STEPHEN: I'm saying that ... HUGH: What is this? STEPHEN: It's a bent spoon. HUGH: There. STEPHEN: Oh quite, the question is how did you bend it? HUGH: I don't know how much I like you now. STEPHEN: Well, I'm sorry. HUGH: Before I thought you were very sympathetic ... STEPHEN: Well I hope that ... HUGH: But now, I think you are not so sympathetic. Now, I don't like you. STEPHEN: I'm sorry to hear that. HUGH: At all. STEPHEN: Are you sure it isn't "fraud" that people shout at you in the street, rather than freak? HUGH: It is you who make the claims. I have always been honest. I bend the spoons with psychic energy, I have told you. I never claimed to be able to bend them with my hands. That is your claim. STEPHEN: And you did bend it with your hands. HUGH: The spoon is bent, that is enough. Perhaps it does flow through my hands this psychic energy of which you claim. It may be. Certainly the spoon is bent. Therefore I bent it. STEPHEN: I can bend a spoon with my hands too. HUGH: I have never said that my powers are unique. Always have I striven to teach the world that anyone may bend a spoon. My book is not expensive. STEPHEN: bends a spoon. STEPHEN: There. HUGH: To think I found you sympathetic. I hate you now. STEPHEN: Well next week I shall be examining the claims of a man who says that in a previous existence he was Education Secretary Kenneth Baker and I shall be talking to a woman who claims she can make flowers grow just by planting seeds in soil and watering them. Until then, wait very quietly in your seats please. Goodnight. HUGH: (Simultaneously) If viewers living in the Matlock and Buxton areas of Derbyshire would be so kind as to inspect their cutlery drawers at home they will find that they contain a bent spoon and an unused Weetabix special offer coupon. Also I can reveal viewers in the town of Datchett over the age of fourteen have a slight on their right thigh, which they're itching as I speak. Sketch: Censored STEPHEN: Ladies and gentlemen, we were going to do a sketch for you ... HUGH: But we're not now. STEPHEN: No, we're not going to do it for you, now. HUGH: Or ever. STEPHEN: Or probably ever. Unless this country radically changes direction. HUGH: Looks unlikely. STEPHEN: Which does indeed look unlikely. The reason we're not going to do this sketch is that it contains a great deal of s** and violence. HUGH: A great deal. STEPHEN: Lots of s** and violence. HUGH: That's right. During the sketch, Stephen hits me several times with a golf club. STEPHEN: Which of course wouldn't matter except that I hit Hugh very s**ily. HUGH: That's the trouble, you see. He does it so s**ily. I wish you could see it. STEPHEN: And then the sketch ends with us going to bed together... HUGH: ... violently. STEPHEN: Extremely violently. Now this raises problems. HUGH: Not for me. STEPHEN: Me neither, but Sir William Rees-Mogg didn't like it a bit, did he? HUGH: Well there was one bit he liked. STEPHEN: Yes, that's true. He did like it one bit. But he didn't like a lot of other bits. HUGH: But I don't want you to think that Sir William's remit with the Broadcasting Standards Council is so sweeping as to be a kind of government thought police. STEPHEN: No. The concern is primarily for standards. HUGH: Standards. STEPHEN: For the sake of our children. HUGH: So, in a generous spirit of give and take, Sir William has taken our sketch. STEPHEN: And we've given it to him. HUGH: And he has written one for us to do instead. Which is free of any gratuitous s** and violence. STEPHEN: And shows due and proper regard for decency and standards. HUGH: Promoting family life and protecting our children. STEPHEN: Sir William has called his sketch simply "b**hmother, Come Light My Bottom". HUGH: And we're going to do it for you now. STEPHEN: "b**hmother, Come Light My Bottom", by Sir William Rees-Mogg. Sketch: Haircut Stephen is dressed as, and therefore in dramatic terms is, a barber. Hugh enters the shop. STEPHEN: Good morning sir. HUGH: Morning. STEPHEN: Yes sir, I do believe we're in for a spell as they used to say in the music halls. Not too hot, but not too mild neither.. HUGH: Mmm. STEPHEN: Re the weekend just past, might I enquire as to whether sir was in receipt of an enjoyableness, or did events prove themselves to be of an otherwise nature? HUGH: Very pleasant thank you. STEPHEN: Thank you sir. Very pleasant. Good. Then in presumption of sir's answer, I may take it that sir was for that period without the boundaries of Lincolnshire, wherein, I understand, it rained like a b**h. HUGH: No, I was nowhere near Lincolnshire. STEPHEN: Sir, I am uplifted to hear such news. HUGH: My wife and I spent the weekend in Hull. STEPHEN: Sir is married? HUGH: Yes. STEPHEN: I had literally no idea. HUGH: Well never mind ... STEPHEN: Will sir at some future time, as yet unspecified, forgive me for not having immediately congratulated him on his joyousness in the good tidings department? HUGH: Of course. I didn't expect you ... STEPHEN: Would sir perhaps consider it to be beyond- boundingly forward of me, on behalf of all the staff here, to send a bouquet of flower-style objects to Mrs Sir? HUGH: Well that's really not necessary. STEPHEN: Sir, since I began as a barber, not thirty-nine years ago, the phrase "not necessary" has been neither more nor less than as a spur to quicken my actions. HUGH: Well thank you, that's very kind of you... STEPHEN: Alright sir. To business. Being one of the shrewdest sirs it has been my privilege to meet, you are no doubt keen to exploit the social and financial advantages inherent in having a hair cut? HUGH: A haircut, that's right. STEPHEN: Of course. A hair cut is a hair enhanced if sir will fail to slash my throatlet for being so old. Now the hair in question is...? HUGH: What? STEPHEN: The hair presently under advisement belongs to...? HUGH: What do you mean? STEPHEN: What do I mean? HUGH: Yes. STEPHEN: Haha. I sneak myself towards the suspicion that sir has me cast as the mouse in his ever-popular cat drama. HUGH: What are you talking about? It's my hair. I want you to cut my hair. STEPHEN: Ah. So sir's own hair is the hair upon which this entire transaction is to be founded? HUGH: Well of course. Why would I come in here to get someone else's haircut? STEPHEN: Sir. Please set fire to my legs if I am trying to make haircutting seem more glamorous that it really is, but may I just say this - you cannot be too careful in my position. HUGH: Really? STEPHEN: Indeed sir. Once and only once, I cut a gentleman's hair against his will. Believe me when I say it was both difficult and impossible. HUGH: No, well it's my hair I want cut. STEPHEN: Your hair. HUGH: Yes. STEPHEN: The hair of sir. HUGH: Yes. STEPHEN: Excellent. Then let us proceed to the next and most important of stages. Which one? HUGH: Which one what? STEPHEN: Which of sir's manifold hairs would he care to place in my professional care for the purposes of securing an encutment. HUGH: Well all of them. STEPHEN: All of sir's hairs? HUGH: Yes. STEPHEN: Sir is absolutely sure? HUGH: Of course I'm sure. What's the matter with you? STEPHEN: I seek not to question the drasticity of sir's decision, only to express the profoundness of my humblings at the prospect of such a magnificent task. HUGH: Well, all of them. STEPHEN: All of them. My word. HUGH: Is that a problem. STEPHEN: By no means. I merely hope that sir can find a moment in his otherwise hectic schedule to appreciate that for me to cut every one of sir's hairs represents the snow-capped summit of a barber's career. HUGH: Well you've done it before, haven't you? STEPHEN: Indeed, sir. I once cut all the hairs on a gentleman's head in Cairo, shortly after the War, when the world was in uproar and to a young man everything seemed possible. HUGH: Once? STEPHEN: It would be pointless for me to deny that I was fitter and better looking then, but let us hope for sir's sake, that the magic has not entirely disappeared up its own rabbit hole. We shall see. HUGH: Wait a minute. Wait just one cotton-picking minute here. STEPHEN: Sir? HUGH: You've cut someone's hair, all of it that is, once since the war? STEPHEN: Would sir have preferred that in the sphere of total hair cuttation, I was to him a virgin? HUGH: I beg your pardon? STEPHEN: That I can respect. HUGH: What? STEPHEN: The desire that we should both of us embark upon this voyage as innocents, wide-eyed travellers in a foreign land, unknowning of our destination, careless of our fate - to emerge somewhere, some day, bruised, tender, a little sad perhaps, but ultimately and joyously alive. HUGH: Goodbye. STEPHEN: Sir is leaving? HUGH: Yup. STEPHEN: Might I be favoured with an explanation as to why? HUGH: Because I don't believe you have the faintest idea as to how you're going to end this sketch, and I simply don't want to be around when you try. It's going to be painful and embarra**ing for both of us, and to be honest I'd much rather it was only painful and embarra**ing for you. STEPHEN: But sir! HUGH: What? STEPHEN: Sir could not be more mistaken if he tried. I know precisely how this sketch is going to end. HUGH: Really? STEPHEN: Really. HUGH: Go on then. STEPHEN: It might take time. HUGH: Yes, time and pain and embarra**ment. Goodbye. STEPHEN: You ba*tard. HUGH: Here we go. STEPHEN: The number of times I've hung around while you've stumbled on to some pathetic ending. HUGH: You see? You're completely stuck. STEPHEN: No I'm not. HUGH: Ha. STEPHEN: Forty-five seconds. I can end this sketch in forty- five seconds. HUGH: Yeah? STEPHEN: Yeah. HUGH: OK. Forty-five seconds. STEPHEN: If sir will resume the seatedness of his posture. HUGH: Alright. STEPHEN: Can I a**ume that sir is close to the level of maximum comfort? HUGH: Forty seconds. STEPHEN: I will now fetch the necessary tools. Stephen exits. HUGH: Haha. It's going to be a chainsaw or some bloody ... tscch. HUGH: looks at his watch. Stephen does not re-enter. Long pause. Hugh realises he has been left holding the baby.