[Echoing roar]
- Wah-hah!
- Ooh-hoo-hah-hah-hah!
Wah-hah! Wah-hah! Wah-ha-ha-hah!
- Oh!
- Oh!
- Hello, Dud.
- Hello, Pete.
Oh, I'm frightfully sorry,
attacking you like that.
I thought you were a pterodactyl.
Yes, a lot of people mistake me for one
from the back.
Yes, you look like one from the back.
What are you doing in these parts?
Well, I thought I'd do a bit of work
on the painting.
- Oh, what sort of painting is that?
- Well, it's a bit primitive, you know.
It was a dodo,
but they went extinct last week
and, er...I had to make it something else.
Well, it's very nice, whatever it is.
[Chuckles politely]
[Grunts]
What part of the animal is this?
Well, this is the back end.
I've been working on it for weeks.
- Really?
- Yes.
The tail's been giving me
an awful lot of trouble.
Oh, it always does, doesn't it?
Huh-huh!
[Echoing] ♪ La-la la-la ♪
♪ La-la la-la ♪
Good evening. This evening we have
taken our Not Only But Also cameras
to the heart of London's West End
where, at a nightclub,
La Maison Sophistiquée,
we see the opening of the great,
coloured, jazz singer...Bo Dudley.
[American accent]
♪ Mommy's got a brand-new bag, yeah
♪ Mammy's got a brand-new bag, yeah
♪ We gonna groove it
the whole night long, baby, yeah
♪ We gonna groove it
the whole night long, yeah, baby, yeah
♪ We're gonna work it out, baby, mm
♪ We gonna shake it tonight, yeah
♪ Yee-hoo!
♪ Yeah, check out that
♪ Yeah
♪ I hear you talkin'
I hear you talkin', baby, yeah
♪ Uptight, yeah
♪ Ooh
♪ Yeah
♪ Well, now, you better turn me on, baby
♪ You burning up now, baby
You burning up, yeah
♪ Yeah! ♪
Absolutely, erm...
[Applause]
Absolutely terrific.
- [English accent] Did you like it?
- Yes, I thought it was tremendous.
Now, erm...Bo Dudley...
Or may I call you Bo?
B-O, call me Bo, yes.
Well, I think, for the benefit
of English viewers,
it would be a help if you could actually,
erm...explain some of the lyrics,
which I think the slang
is a little hard to understand.
Could we go through the song
verse by verse?
- Be delighted.
- Good.
♪ Momma's got a brand-new bag, yeah ♪
"Momma's got a brand new bag."
- "Yeah."
- "Yeah."
This is fairly self-explanatory, isn't it?
It's a simple story.
Momma - the sort of Harlem mother -
has gone out into the streets and
she's seen this bag, which is very nice,
and she's bought it and that's it,
she's got a brand-new bag.
What kind of a bag would that be?
Well, of course, in the old days, it
probably would have been a carrier bag.
But, er...in these days
of scientific advancement,
it's probably a gaily
coloured, plastic bag.
A gaily coloured, plastic bag,
which she has bought and is brand new.
- Yes.
- And the song goes on.
It goes on. ♪ We're gonna groove it
the whole night long, baby ♪
"We are going to groove it
the whole night long, baby."
Now this, presumably,
is a reference to the fact
that the mother, having bought the bag,
decides to make some indentations on it,
to make some...grooves on the bag,
a sort of decorative pattern, presumably.
- It's a darkie decorative process.
- Is it?
- Yes. Erm...
- How is it done, the grooving?
- It's done with a groover.
- With a groover?
Yes. Of course, in the old days,
when they used to have Kn*fe-grinders
and water-melon sellers in the streets,
you used to have groovers.
♪ Mississippi groovers! ♪
They used to call out, you know.
And, er...well, in fact,
it's now a purely domestic occupation.
- It's done by the momma.
- By Momma.
- By Momma.
- By the darkie momma.
"We're going to groove it
the whole night long..."
It takes a long time
to groove these bags, yes.
"...Baby." It's for the baby.
Is it the child's anniversary or something?
The child's anniversary,
first tooth being cut, that sort of thing.
And so the bag is grooved by the mother
all night long. It's a long process.
Exactly. And it goes on,
♪ We gonna work it out, baby, mm ♪
"We are going to work it out, baby.
- "Mm."
- "Mm."
Er, this is a little surprising, isn't it,
that, having grooved the bag,
she should then decide to work it out
Isn't that rather...
Well, it's rather putting the chicken
before the china shop, isn't it?
Er, because she's grooved the bag and
then suddenly she decides to work it out.
- A little late.
- A bit too late there.
The bag is already grooved. Far too late.
She should have worked it out
before she grooved it, shouldn't she?
And this, presumably,
is the explanation of the "Ergh".
- The "Ergh", yes. The exasperation.
- Her frustration.
She goes on to say,
♪ Mm, we're gonna shake it tonight ♪
- "We're going to shake it tonight."
- Presumably in frustration
at the fact that she's grooved the bag...
grooved the bag badly,
without having worked it out properly,
so, in her sort of frustration,
she shakes the bag.
- Shakes it all night.
- Out of exasperation.
Then, of course, exhausted by all this,
she goes on and says,
♪ Stretch out now, stretch out, baby ♪
"Stretch out" She wants to stretch out
and fall into a dusky sleep.
And then, unfortunately, she says,
♪ I hear you talkin',
I hear you talkin' now ♪
- What's that? The neighbours?
- Yes, chatting next door, you see.
- Through the paper-thin walls...
- The paper-thin walls...
...comes the sound of the neighbours
talking, when she wants to go to sleep.
And she goes on to say,
♪ You turn me on, baby, mm ♪
This is a sort of jive,
jazz boogie-woogie abbreviation
of, er..."Turn the light on for me, baby.
"Er, turn me on, baby. Turn, for me -
in parenthesis - the light on...baby."
Oh, I see. A sort of linguistic trick,
rather like the German,
- "I, out of the door, go must"
- Exactly.
A similar sort of jive,
boogie, Harlem thing.
Boogie... Boogie, Harlem, darkie,
jazz, rhythmic-cootoo thing.
- And how does it go on?
- ♪ Mm, you're burning up now, baby ♪
- "You're...you're burning up now, baby."
- "You're burning up now, baby."
You burning up now, baby.
The baby's turned the lights. on,
fused the whole house
and the wigwam's gone up.
- In flames.
- In flames.
- The whole igloo is set on fire.
- Ah.
You don't think any of these lyrics
could be in any way
connected with making love, or sex?
Oh, Good Lord, no. Anyway,
I wouldn't sing that sort of garbage.
Well, to summarize -
basically, this is a simple story.
The momma has gone out into
the gay, bustling streets of Harlem.
She's seen a brand-new bag. She's bought
it, this gaily coloured, plastic bag.
She brings it home, spends the
whole night grooving it for her child.
Erm, then she discovers she's grooved
it badly. She hasn't worked it out.
And so, in her rage, she shakes all
night, attempts to go to sleep,
but the neighbours start talking and
she asks her child to turn on the light,
but she fuses it and the whole igloo
or wigwam goes up in flames.
And we're left with the underlying
question - was it right for the mother
to squander her money on these
gaily coloured, plastic bags?
Wouldn't she have better spent it
in re-wiring the entire house?
And is one left, also, with the question -
should there be legislation
to prevent the sale of these bags
to people who aren't quite
ready to use them? I wonder.
♪ Momma's got a brand-new bag, yeah
♪ Yeah
♪ Momma's got a brand-new bag, yeah
♪ We're gonna groove it
the whole night long, baby... ♪
[Man] Five...
four...
three...
two...
Come on...
...one...
Superthunderstingcar is go!
[Big Ben chimes]
[German monotone] Excellent.
In a few moments, the Houses of
Parliament will be blown to smithereens.
You are brilliant, Master Braun.
You are an idiot, Kraut.
Yes, Master Braun.
Stand by.
Ten...
nine...
eight...
seven, six,
five, four,
three, two,
one.
- Excellent.
- [Echo sounder bleeps]
[Birds tweeting]
[American] This is terrible.
The Tower of London,
Buckingham Palace
and now the Houses of Parli-yament.
Soon, we in Britain
will have no tourist attractions left.
There has gotta be an explanation.
Could you come in here
a moment, Brains?
- I'd better go, Pop.
- Why, son?
I'm playing his cotton-picking part,
as well.
And no extra fee, g*dd*mn it.
Oh, and Johnny...
- Yes, Pop?
- Your strings are showing.
Oh, I've been putting on
a bit of weight recently.
Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho.
W-W-W-W-What is it, Geoff?
Any leads, Brains?
Well, I think I've come up with something.
Yes?
The plot against the British
travel and holiday association,
they're definitely using
g-g-g-g-g-gunpowder.
Gunpowder?
That can only mean one man.
Y-You...You m-m-m-m-m-mean...mean?
Yes. Master Braun.
Quick, ring Lady Dorothy.
Telephone for you, m'lady.
- Hovis.
- Yes, m'lady?
Why do you speak
in that ridiculous accent?
It's the American idea of how
the lower-class Britisher speaks, m'lady.
Toodle-pip, wotcha, cor blimey.
It's good for the tourist trade, m'lady.
Speaking of the tourist trade...
Yes?
Oh, I see.
I've just discovered where
Master Braun plans to strike next.
Where, m'lady?
Anne Hathaway's cottage.
Yes, m'lady.
Right. Activate Thinderstangercraftstarg.
Come on, up there.
[Engines fire up]
Superthunderstingcar has come.
Excellent My ruse has worked.
I can proceed with the destruction
of International Rescue
now the Thingerstuperthingbod
is out of the way.
You mean Superthunderstingcar,
Master Braun.
Shut your face, Kraut.
Yes, Master Braun.
De-activate central mystifier.
Yes, Master Braun.
[Toilet flush]
I'm approaching
Anne Hathaway's Cottage now.
No sign of MasterBraun.
Something's wr-wr-wrong, Geoff.
Er...Master B-Braun,
w-w-w-w-what w-w-w-what the...
W-w-w-what the...
W-W-what...what the...
Schnell.
Oh...God. Oh...
De-activate Thingerstuperthingcargarber.
You mean Superthunderstingcar.
Get knotted.
- What the...
- Hey.
Am returning to International Rescue.
Excellent.
Now we will blow up
Superthingstanglangerbarge
and Jupiter and International Rescue
all in one go.
Master Braun, you.
So glad to see you, Johnny Jupiter.
What have you done with
Dad and Brains?
I have eliminated them.
This is terrible.
But not as bad as your acting, Fat Face.
Tell me, how did you get into this show?
I knew someone
who pulled strings for me.
Enough!
I have stood quite enough of
your cheap heroics.
I have something
specially reserved for you.
- Heh-heh-heh.
- Oh, no. Not that.
Yes.
Heh-heh-heh.
Golly.
Good heavens.
Son of a g*n.
Yes. Heh-heh-heh.
You're a genius, Master Braun.
But aren't we supposed to lose?
I can't help it if I keep
forgetting the script.
Come on. Let's go
do something nasty to someone.
Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh.
[Applause]
Bonsoir, mesdames, messieurs.
Et maintenant,
a La Maison Sophistiquée,
our pleasir de vous présenter
for votre entretenment ce soir,
le very lovely Marian Montgomery.
[Applause]
[Piano]
♪ Well, I'll be tired of you
♪ When stars are tired of gleaming
♪ When I am tired of dreaming
♪ Then I'll be tired of you
♪ Mm-hm
♪ This I know is true
♪ When the wind gets tired of blowing
♪ Grass is tired of growing
♪ Then I'll be tired of you
♪ Beyond the years
♪ From day to night
♪ Till wrong is right
♪ And birds refuse to sing
♪ Beyond the years
♪ The echo of my only love
♪ Will still be whispering
♪ Whispering
♪ If my throbbing heart
♪ Should ever start repeating
♪ That it is tired of b*ating
♪ That's when
♪ I'll be tired
♪ Tired of you ♪
[Applause]
"In the midst of life, Pete,
we are in death." As the poet says.
No, he didn't say that
You're thinking of Coleridge.
What he said was,
"In the midst of life, we are in debt."
Referring to his own financial plight,
brought about
by spending too much on opium,
what he took intravenously
to do his poems.
Oh, I see. Yeah.
No, but what I was meaning, Pete,
was...are we really alive? You know.
Or are we merely
figments of our own imagination?
But if we're not alive,
then we haven't got no imagination.
So, whose figments are we, then?
I don't like the idea of being somebody
else's figments, boy. You know.
Or are we, in fact,
merely a reflection of ourselves,
as seen in a pool at twilight?
What you're saying is,
if the imagination of an imagined being
imagines that life itself is imaginary,
how can the imagined life of the being,
who is himself imagined,
be imagined by the being who is
imagining himself through a glass darkly?
That's what you mean, isn't it?
Erm...yeah.
Yeah. Yeah, that's it, yeah. Course.
I thought that's what
you were getting at.
And, er...if we are merely figments, Pete,
er...and we're not really alive here,
er...then perhaps we come alive
after death.
Er, but as we're not alive,
we can't really die, can we?
But it suits us that way.
So...when we come alive after death,
I wonder what it's like up in heaven.
I mean...I wonder what it's really like
up in heaven.
Is it...Is it through here, Peter?
I don't know. I've never been here before.
I wasn't talking to you,
I was talking to the bloke at the gates.
Well, I think it's this way.
He said, "Turn left at the plinth
"and carry straight on until you hear
"some spherical music or something
coming down."
Is this it, then?
Is this heaven, Pete?
Bloody 'ell.
Is this what I've been
good for all my life?
Is this what the Reverend Griffin
promised us, Pete?
It's very vulgar, isn't it?
It's more like Liberace's bedroom
than what I thought it would be like.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
That bloke at the gate,
he's a gloomy old devil, isn't he?
That Peter, jangling his keys at you
the whole time. Who does he think he is?
Yeah. Well, he's got all that book-keeping
and gate-keeping to do, Pete,
all the administration of the place.
I don't know why he worries about that
It's a steady job, isn't it?
He should be very pleased he's
employed continuously on that basis.
He doesn't even keep the gates up.
Those pearls could do with
a going-over with a bit of Duraglit.
They're in terrible condition,
all ropey and musty. It's awful.
I wonder, actually...Dud,
what is the procedure...
When somebody dies,
what is the administrative procedure,
do you suppose?
Er...well, I think what happens, Pete,
is that, er, St Peter sees you die
on his radar screen
and, er, he gets in touch with
the authorities above, Pete.
- I suppose he uses the hot-line to get on.
- The white hot-line.
The white hot-line. He rings up God,
I suppose, and says,
"Er, 'scuse me, God. Erm...
"Sorry to disturb you at this hour,
"but, er...grave news - Dud's dead."
And, er...then God tells his secretary -
'cause I shouldn't think
he does all the work himself -
specially with unimportant people
like you.
I imagine when the Pope dies
or royalty or film stars, he does.
But with somebody just like you,
the secretary looks up in the ledger,
the ledger of life, all your deeds.
Yeah. Of course, they always put a tick
for every good deed you do, Pete,
and a cross for every bad one.
And then the secretary tots the ticks up
and if you've got more ticks than crosses,
then you go up.
And if you've got more crosses
than ticks, mate - down you go, boy.
Must be difficult deciding between
ticks and crosses
'cause sometimes
your motives are a bit mixed.
For example, suppose you help
an old lady across the road
but the only reason you help her is
'cause you fancy her daughter like mad.
Oh, no, they see
through all that up here, Pete.
- Do they?
- You can't get away with it, you know.
I suppose not He knows, you know.
- He does, yeah. I reckon...
- Yeah.
I reckon we've only just
scraped through, though.
Well, I think I was about
one tick ahead when I went.
I think this is why we've been put
in this particular bit of heaven.
This is obviously not the best bit
of heaven. A child can see that.
We've been shoved in the suburbs.
We're miles from the centre.
In the centre, the best district,
the Mayfair,
you get all the really good people,
all the saints, where the cherubim
and seraphim continually do cry, Dud.
I don't blame 'em crying, Pete, with all
them goody-goodies about the place.
Yeah, it would be a bit overpowering,
wouldn't it?
It's very strange, because I haven't had
anything to eat for quite a while now
and I should be feeling hungry,
but I feel no pang.
Well, you feel no pang, Dud,
because when you die
you kiss goodbye
to every bodily function and feeling.
That's all...that's all in the past now.
You'll never eat again.
The only food what is ever produced
is for ceremonial purposes
about every 3,000 years.
Er...Doubting Thomas comes round.
He's the chef up here -
not a very good one,
'cause he can never make his mind up
what to put in the saucepan.
But he comes round with
a trayful of ambrosia
Oh. Not that creamed rice again?
No, it's er...
it's a heavenly substance, Dud.
It's made out of honey and flowers
and all things bright and beautiful.
Yeah, but once every 3,000 years, boy,
that's no bloody good to me, is it?
Oh. Wash my mouth out
with soap and water.
That's another thing
you won't be able to do, Dud -
wash your mouth out with anything.
There's no soap and water up here.
There's no facilities.
This is the realm of utter hygiene.
There's not a speck of dust anywhere.
Every cloud has a silver lining
with an air-conditioning plant inside it.
There's no need to wash.
You never will.
No. And one thing I have noticed, Pete,
is...is...
there's not no toilets.
There's...there's
no angelic conveniences.
No, of course there isn't, Dud.
The toilet is behind you now.
That's a thing of the past
You'll never see...
You could wander throughout the whole
of heaven and you'd never see a toilet,
because you don't want
to bring down the tone
with signs saying,
"Heavenly Gents. Heavenly Ladies."
It wouldn't go, you see. They've
had to abolish all that kind of thing.
Here, I wond...I wonder
if we have the opportunity
to glimpse any of
the great names of the past, Pete.
Like, you know,
Napoleon, Hannibal and all them.
Boadicea. Will we ever see
the all-time greats?
Wellington, King Henry I,
all those people. Will we ever see them?
- Will we, I wonder.
- No, we won't.
'Cause we only just scraped in
by about one tick,
so we won't see anybody interesting.
We'll sit around here and, if we're lucky,
we'll see a long-distance sh*t
of Stanley Baldwin.
That's about the best we'll get.
Not a chance.
Who would you like to see, actually?
I'd like to see Nell Gwyn
flaunting her Jaffas, Pete.
That would be a sight for sore eyes,
wouldn't it?
The trouble is, all the good ones,
like Nell Gwyn,
aren't...haven't got up here.
They've gone down into the eternal foyer
down below,
where they have to wait
forever and ever and ever.
- Yeah.
- And even if she did get in,
I mean, she d*ed about -
what was it? - 500 years ago.
I'd find it very difficult, really,
to get romantically involved
with anything
what had been dead for 400 years.
I mean, she wouldn't be
the same type of beauty
who used to flaunt her wonderful...
busty substances.
I expect they're more like
musty substances now.
What were we meant to do with
these things? D'you know?
- Pluck 'em, I suppose.
- They're very useless, aren't they?
They don't work.
I've tried pulling them already.
That's all we've got to do up here -
sit here, plucking these lyres.
It's not much of a way
to spend eternity, is it?
- Not much cop, is it, really?
- No.
In fact, I'm, er...rather bored already.
It's a very boring place. You'll find that,
over the millions of years,
over the aeons, over the centuries
stretching out ahead of you, Dud.
It's one of the most boring places
in the world.
And what's more, we're here forever.
Here today, here tomorrow.
That's a saying in angelic circles.
I think we ought to get in contact
with people on earth, Pete,
- and tell 'em it's death up here.
- We ought to pierce the veil
and warn humanity of what
they're letting themselves in for.
Get onto Aunt Dolly, tell her to let rip
in her last years, have a good time.
- Shall I get onto her?
- Get onto her.
See if you can pierce the veil.
♪ Hello, Dolly ♪
Hello, Aunt Dolly.
This is Pete speaking to you
from beyond the grey veil of death
in the other world.
Don't bother to be good. Let rip.
It's lousy up here.
- Here, wake up.
- What?
It's the last time
I get caught up in your thoughts...
Oh, sorry.
[Applause]
♪ Now is the time to say goodbye
♪ Goodbye
♪ Goodbye
♪ Goodbye
♪ Goodb...
- Goodbye. Get off.
- Goodbye.
♪ Now is the time to yield a sigh
♪ Yield it
♪ Now is the time to wend our way
♪ Until we meet again
♪ Some sunny day
[Laughter]
♪ Goodbye, goodbye,
we're leaving you, goodbye
♪ Goodbye,
we wish you a fond goodbye
♪ Fah-de la-dah, fah-de la-dah
♪ Goodbye, goodbye
♪ We're leaving you, goodbye
♪ Goodbye, we wish you a fond goodbye
♪ Goodbye, goodbye, we're leaving you
♪ Goodbye
♪ Goodbye
♪ We wish you a fond goodbye
♪ Goodbye ♪