
                                  BOTTOM
                                  ======
                    by Adrian Edmondson and Rik Mayall

                            Series 1, Episode 3


                                  Contest
                                  =======

                              Richie  Rik Mayall
                               Eddie  Adrian Edmondson


Scene 1. The Flat.
------------------

[It's raining. Richie is alone in the flat, looking out of the window. He
turns on the gas oven and puts his head in -- but takes it out seconds
later, grinning. He mumbles as he writes a note.]

Richie:      Right! Eddie comes in, takes off his coat -- body odour --
             takes off his hat, sits down to eat his tea. Sees the note.
             Sees me. Shock! Rescue, rescue, rescue, rescue. Remorse,
             remorse, guilt, guilt, guilt, whirlwind of self-loathing...
             and Eddie buys me a drink. Fiendish!

[He hears Eddie coming in, puts the note on the table, turns the gas on,
takes a deep breath and puts his head in the oven again. Eddie comes in,
takes off his coat, throws his hat to the floor and sits down,
unfortunately putting his bag on top of Richie's note. He starts to read
the paper. After a while Richie starts to choke and splutter. Eddie looks
up, notices Richie, and goes back to his paper. Richie gets up and leans
out of the window, gasping for air.]

Richie:      Oh hello Eddie!
Eddie:       Oh, bugger off!
Richie:      Hard day at the office?
Eddie:       Yes. I spent an hour with Mrs. Longbottom. I spent another
             hour and a half with that bitch Mrs. Pugh. And then I spent
             six hours looking for the supervisor's office, and when I got
             there he cut off my dole.
Richie:      What?
Eddie:       He said I'd got too many savings.
Richie:      Well how much have you got?
Eddie:       Eleven pounds eighty. He said that ought to keep me going for
             at least two months.
Richie:      You really are pathetic, aren't you? I mean, you haven't held
             down a steady job since 1978. You only held that down for ten
             minutes. "Bunny Girl"! I told you to keep your trousers on.
             God, it was like watching a bullfight! So, we've only got
             eleven pounds eighty to last us for the next two months.
Eddie:       No, we've got 30p and a second-hand copy of "Parade".
Richie:      What?
Eddie:       It's an investment. Look, I got it for one pound fifty and
             originally it only cost a shilling. The value of these things
             is just sky-rocketing!
Richie:      That's pre-decimalization! They'll all have their pants on.
             [pause]  All right, I'd better look after this.
Eddie:       Ah-ah, no you don't. This is my investment, I'm gonna show
             this to my grandchildren.
Richie:      I beg your pardon?
Eddie:       Look, this is a genuine first edition of "Parade"! It's still
             in its sealed cellophane wrapper!
Richie:      It doesn't matter how you art it up Eddie, it's still a jazz
             mag.
Eddie:       That's what they said to Michaelangelo about the Sistine
             Chapel.
Richie:      No it's not! The Sistine Chapel is art. If they said anything
             they would have said "Blimey! Nice painting Mr. Angelo. Now
             that's what I call art, and it's not porny at all."
Eddie:       It bloody well is dirty you know! There's those three birds on
             the top of the third pillar from the left with the bit of blue
             ribbon. Gaww! Some of the things they're doing would make your
             nose bleed! There's a picture of it in the history of art
             book, where is it?
Richie:      Oh, well, let's not bother with all that now, Eddie, let's
             just have dinner.
Eddie:       Here it is, in your study area. That's odd -- it's fallen open
             at the exact page. How extraordinary, it's done it again!

[He holds the book in front of Richie and lets it open. It flops open at
the same page. Eddie looks at Richie questioningly.]

Richie:      Yes? Well? I -- I've been studying that picture.
Eddie:       Been, er, studying it quite a lot have you? While you're alone
             in the house?
Richie:      How dare you accuse me of masturbating!
Eddie:       Who said anything about masturbating?
Richie:      You did, just then!
Eddie:       I did not, I just said it's odd how it always falls open at
             that precise page!
Richie:      Yes, you did, and the reason you said that is because you know
             that's the picture I always look at when I'm having a w--

[Richie suddenly realizes what he is about to say. There is a long pause,
during which he looks very uncomfortable.]

Richie:      Eleven pounds eighty was all we had to survive on for the next
             two months! What am I going to feed the children on now?
Eddie:       We haven't got any children.
Richie:      Yes, I know, I know, I was talking metaphorically.
Eddie:       You're talking bollocks!
Richie:      Don't you go using language like that in my house, my lad.
Eddie:       What? English?
Richie:      The language of the guttersnipe. The language of the, of the,
             of the toilet. The language of the, of the little green things
             you give a big yank to and get a big yellow dangly thing...
Eddie:       Oh, shut up. Every day, yakkety bloody yak, on and on and on!
             Day in, day out -- slime in this ear, slime in that ear. Just
             stop talking!

[Eddie goes to the table where he is building a model aeroplane. He picks
it up by the tail, accidentally breaking it with a crunch. Richie starts
laying the table.]

Richie:      You may hate me, Eddie...
Eddie:       Yes, I do.
Richie:      ...but you can't live without me, can you? I mean, off you go,
             gallivanting around the countryside, squandering all our money
             on rhythm magazines, and then you come swanning in here and
             expect to have your dinner on the table. And I don't know why
             I do it, but I've managed to throw together a slap-up dinner
             for two for no money at all. All the ingredients in tonight's
             main meal have either been grown, found or foraged.
Eddie:       Oh dear.
Richie:      So hey! Hey. Hey. Eddie... I forgive you. Come and have your
             din-dins.

[Richie spits on one of the plates and attempts to guide Eddie to sit down
in front of it. Eddie sits on the other chair.]

Eddie:       What's wrong with these beans?
Richie:      What d'you mean wrong? They're fresh. I grew those in the
             window-box.
Eddie:       They've got black bits all over them.
Richie:      Well it's just a couple of greenfly, for heaven's sake! Well
             they're dead now, they've been under the grill for ages.
             Really. I watched them pop.
Eddie:       What's this?
Richie:      It's a turnip! What, are you missing the label?
Eddie:       Well why is it black?
Richie:      It's been grilled!

[Richie eats one of the grilled turnips, which crunches loudly between his
teeth.]

Richie:      Mmgh -- hoh, mm mm mm, they have a real texture, don't they?
             Fresh vegetables. Totally different experience.
Eddie:       Grilled lettuce?
Richie:      No, that's bacon.
Eddie:       But it's green!
Richie:      Yeah?
Eddie:       I can't eat this, it's disgusting!
Richie:      Well what are you going to do then, Egon Ronay? Blow your
             thirty pence on a slap-up grill down the Savoy?
Eddie:       Pass the tea.
Richie:      Oh, h-hh-hhh-h-hah!

[Richie pours two cups of tea. Eddie looks at his suspiciously.]

Eddie:       What's this?
Richie:      Elm tea. The gypsies swear by it.
Eddie:       I bet they do, I bet they say "What the bloody hell's this?"
Richie:      God, it's like living with Lena Zavaroni!

[He takes a sip of tea, but has to spit it back out again.]

Richie:      Ho, hoh hoh, you can taste the bark can't you? Perhaps a
             little less wood next time.
Eddie:       Is there any pudding?
Richie:      Ooh yes, plenty of pud.
Eddie:       Right, I'm off. At least there's something fantastic on telly
             tonight. I've been looking forward to this for ages!

[Eddie turns the television on and settles down in front of it. Richie
switches it off.]

Richie:      You can't watch that, actually.
Eddie:       And why not?
Richie:      'Cause there's something I want to watch on the other side.
             It's my favourite programme.

[Richie switches the television back on.]

Eddie:       This is your favourite programme?
Richie:      Yeah.
Eddie:       What is it?
Richie:      [trying to guess]  A documentary. And there's a car. Great.
             Yeah look, it's a documentary about fat old women.
Eddie:       What, are you on it then?
Richie:      Ho ho ha ha, oh yeah, hysterical Eddie, heartstoppingly funny.
             You really should be on Channel Four.
Eddie:       Nah, ITV, that's the channel for me. Nothing to worry about
             and plenty of sauce.
Richie:      Really. And what particularly edifying programme have the
             light channel prepared for us this evening, that I'm not going
             to let us watch?
Eddie:       It's "Miss World", actually.
Richie:      How disgusting.  [aside, mimed]  Shit!
Presenter:   ...the precision of the measurement of aggregate change...
Richie:      Ah ha ha ha, nice statistic.
Presenter:   ...the cross-sectional data, and the higher the correlation...

[Eddie gets up, switches over to "Miss World", and sits back down again.]

Miss Spain:  My hobbies are flower arranging and meeting people...
Eddie:       Gawwww! Hwor, hwoorrrgh...

[Richie gets up and switches back to the documentary.]

Presenter:   Cross-sectional study can monitor change at an individual
             level by asking...

[Eddie switches back. They keep changing the channel, faster and faster,
until the television gets knocked over.]

Richie:      Right, that's it, get out of my house.
Eddie:       I beg your pardon?
Richie:      You heard.
Eddie:       No I didn't.
Richie:      Well I'm not saying something like that twice, young man!
Eddie:       Well I can't do anything about it then, can I?
Richie:      Look, this is my house so get out!
Eddie:       You can't throw me out just like that, I've got rights! I pay
             rent!
Richie:      Ah-h-h, you're supposed to pay rent, I've never actually seen
             any money.
Eddie:       Well I've been busy, haven't I? How much is it?
Richie:      Eleven thousand, six hundred and forty-five pounds. And sixty-
             six new pence.
Eddie:       I've got 30p.
Richie:      Better get out of my house then, hadn't you?
Eddie:       Well it's not your house, it's your aunt's house.
Richie:      For the purpose of this conversation, I am my aunt.
Eddie:       Hello Mabel!
Richie:      What, is she here? Shit, hide the fags! Hello Auntie -- right,
             that's it! Get out!
Eddie:       Right, I shall go, Mabel, but I think I ought warn you that if
             your nephew reads any more art magazines he very well may go
             blind. Good day to you Madam!

[Eddie leaves. Richie slams the door behind him, then opens it again to
shout after him.]

Richie:      And good riddance! To bad rubbish!  [to himself]  That was
             clever.

[He furtively puts "Miss World" on and stands watching it.]

Announcer:   So let's meet our ten finalists in the swimwear section. First
             will you greet number sixteen, Miss Dominican Republic.
             [cheering]  Maria is only nineteen years old...

[Richie's hands start to stray to his trousers. After an inner struggle he
undoes his belt and slides down his trousers. Meanwhile Eddie is outside on
the landing, practicing an apology.]

Eddie:       "I'm sorry Richie, you're the tops, let's have another cup of
             that delicious elm tea." Hmm. Oh well, it's either that or
             Nasty Linda's. Hoohgh.

[Eddie walks into the flat behind Richie, who is sitting on the sofa with
his trousers around his ankles. Unaware of Eddie watching, Richie performs
some limbering-up exercises on his hands -- rubbing them together,
stretching out his fingers, blowing on them. Eddie coughs softly behind
Richie.]

Richie:      Shh!

[Richie goes back to his exercises but suddenly realises Eddie is there. He
frantically pulls his trousers back up and switches the television back to
the documentary.]

Eddie:       Cor, dear, this isn't very sexy, is it? God, look at the
             knockers on that one, they're minute!
Richie:      That's because that's Michael Burke.
Eddie:       Well, he's not very saucy is he? I mean, I'm all for
             educational programmes, I just think they could, you know, sex
             them up a bit. What do you think Richie?
Richie:      Hahahahaha, this is all so silly! I mean, just because the
             television set got jammed onto the light channel during the
             fall and at precisely the same moment my trousers accidentally
             fell down due to heavy housework...
Eddie:       Richie.
Richie:      ...there's no reason...
Eddie:       Richie, don't even try it. Just put the TV back onto "Miss
             World" and we'll say no more about it.
Richie:      We'll say no more about it?
Eddie:       No.

[Richie switches back to "Miss World".]

Richie:      Thanks, Eddie.
Eddie:       Now go away.
Richie:      Right. I'll just go away. Over here. In my going-away place.
             And here I am -- in my going-away place. On my own. Well, it's
             a bit of a loose end for me really... Hahha hh-hh-h. So I'll
             just tidy away the dinner things. Yes, just tidy away the
             dinner. That I cooked. And nobody ate. And I'll just throw
             away the vegetables.  [scrapes the plates out of the window]
             Onto that man. All the vegetables I spent all day grilling.
             Off they go. And I'm sure that God's looking down thinking
             "What a good ecological--"
Eddie:       Richard, I'm warning you. If you don't shut up and let me
             watch "Miss World" I'm going to stuff your head up your bum.
             And you'll spend the rest of your life wandering around on all
             fours looking for the light switch.
Richie:      Okay.

[Richie picks up the two teacups and carries them across the kitchen,
trembling and clattering. He sits down at the organ, accidentally setting
it off. He plays it madly before managing to turn it off.]

Richie:      Cor, they don't write tunes like that any more!

[He sits down next to Eddie.]

Richie:      It's just -- I'm just a very lonely person Eddie.
Eddie:       I'm not bloody surprised!
Richie:      Oh great -- "Miss World". Cor, cracking birds aren't they? Do
             you know how many birds there are in the world?
Eddie:       Yeah, about three billion.
Richie:      Do you know how many of these I've slept with?
Eddie:       Yep.
Richie:      None.
Eddie:       Yeah, I know.
Richie:      I mean, statistically that's really quite phenomenal, isn't
             it?
Eddie:       Not for an ugly fat bastard like you.
Richie:      I wonder what sort of great bird'd suit me?
Eddie:       Blind one. Well, blind deaf masochist really.
Richie:      Yeah, I suppose you're right.  [walking around]  I mean, me,
             you know, I was born at the wrong time, you see. I'm more,
             sort of, Elizabethan. You know, thirteenth century,
             Shakespeare, the French Revolution, and all that. Ha-hooohaoo,
             I'm just too intelligent, that's my problem.  [leans on the
             kettle]  Ooh, shit! I didn't expect the kettle to be hot! Aw,
             God, life's horrible! Why haven't I got a girlfriend? I'd look
             great with a girlfriend.

[He mimes putting his arm around someone.]

Richie:      Never had a girlfriend. Perhaps I'm the new Messiah. Yeah!
             Maybe that's it. "Get up and walk." Fifty quid. "Throw away
             your sticks." Bonk! April Fool! Ha ha, hahahahaha! Oh God I'm
             bored... There's the phone. We haven't had a phone
             conversation all night Eddie. I'm great on the phone. 

[He picks up the phone.]

Richie:      "Hello." Great. "Hi!" Greater. 

[He puts the phone down and then picks it up urgently.]

Richie:      "Lieutenant Sex Machine, Homicide! Yeah, what time? Damn! I'm
             gonna nail this sick mother even if the D.A. takes my badge!
             Chief, just give me twenty-four hours!"

[Richie slams the phone down.]

Richie:      Oh God, I wish I knew what all that meant! Dring! "Hhhahh..."
             Dring dring! "H-hh-hhhhh..." Dring! "Hhh-hh-h hello? Look, who
             is this? Just don't hurt the kid, okay?"

[He turns to Eddie.]

Richie:      "Eddie, Eddie, it's him again, he's got Jamie! Switch on the
             tape recorder!"

[Eddie looks back, bewildered.]

Richie:      "How much do you want? Forty million billion squillion zillion
             dollars? What, are you crazy? Oh, you are, sorry, excuse me.
             Well where am I going to get forty million billion squillion
             zillion dollars? We've only got thirty pence, Eddie blew the
             rest on a second-hand copy of 'Parade'!"

[Richie slams the phone down and suddenly realizes something.]

Richie:      Hang on!

[He gets up, striking a chord on the organ as he does so, walks over to
Eddie and switches off the television.]

Richie:      You had eleven pounds eighty. Right? You spent one pound fifty
             on the porn mag.
Eddie:       Art pamphlet!
Richie:      That is beside the point. One pound fifty from eleven pounds
             eighty leaves ten pounds thirty. And you've only got thirty.
             Pee. Where's the other tenner, you grasping little Fagin?
Eddie:       Oh, sod off you stupid fat git!
Richie:      Don't try to wriggle out of it by being all grown up! What did
             you squander it on?
Eddie:       I put a bet on "Miss World".
Richie:      You put a bet on "Miss Worl-d"? You put a bet on "Miss World"!
             Great!  [switches on]  Hah, haw, hwoor, hwooorrgh.
Eddie:       Richie, Richie, this is "Panorama".
Richie:      Oh.  [switches over]  Gawww-ooh! Great! Which one's ours, old
             chum?
Eddie:       Miss China.
Richie:      Miss China! All right, where are you, me lovely?
Eddie:       Whop, there she is, there she is!
Richie:      Eddie, you haven't put our money on that old boiler have you?
Eddie:       Come on me beauty! Mind the steps! Blimey, that's a bit of a
             nasty tumble.
Richie:      Eddie, she can't even walk!
Eddie:       Hang on, hang on, she's lost a couple of teeth. Spit 'em out
             dear, they'll never notice!
Richie:      Well stop smiling you stupid cow! God, look at her mouth,
             there should be a lollipop man standing on it stopping the
             traffic! Eddie, what on earth possessed you to put our money
             on the Thing from the Swamp?
Eddie:       I got odds of a thousand to one! If she comes in ahead of the
             pack we stand to make ten thousand quid! Ah, imagine it...
             lying on the sun-drenched shore as the Caribbean laps at your
             feet... A scantily-clad maiden brings you your seventeenth
             large Tequila Sunrise and a slap-up grill for two... Gaww!
Richie:      Yeah... Well the way Quasimodo's going we'll be lucky to get a
             wet weekend in Reigate. She's got a tattoo on her face!
Eddie:       No, that's just a bit of blood.
Richie:      Oh Eddie. Why couldn't you put our money on something decent
             like, like Miss America?
Eddie:       Oh, pointless Richie. The odds were five to one on. We'd have
             only made two quid.
Richie:      Yeah, but two quid in the hand's better than a tenner down the
             lav!

[The picture and sound on the television start to break up.]

Richie:      What's wrong with the reception?
Eddie:       It's your fault for knocking the telly over. Hang on, I'll
             give it a bang.

[Eddie gets up, circles his open hand over the top of the television,
chooses a spot and slaps his hand down.]

Announcer:   A shame about the fall there, Shin Tei, I hope there's not too
             much damage and I'm sure the judges will take that into
             account. Now tell me, from what part of lovely China do you
             come from?
Miss China:  My family are living--
Richie:      I can't understand a word of this!
Eddie:       Well that's because she's talking in Chinese.
Richie:      Hang on, I'll give it a bang.

[Richie tries to copy what Eddie did, but the television goes completely
silent.]

Eddie:       You stupid git, there's ten grand riding on this!
Richie:      Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry.

[Eddie hits the television again. It immediately starts working.]

Richie:      Ha ha ha -- how do you do that?

[Richie tries it again. He hits the top of the television, there is a loud
explosion, all the lights go out, smoke pours out of the television.]

Eddie:       Richie! Are you all right? Where are you?
Richie:      I'm over the other side of the room.
Eddie:       Over here?
Richie:      No, I'm over here!
Eddie:       What, over, over here?
Richie:      Yeah, this is me here.
Eddie:       Right.

[Eddie punches him hard. Richie flies across the room.]

Eddie:       Have we got any more fuse wire?
Richie:      It's in the kitchen drawer.

[Eddie opens the fridge and peers in, silhouetted by the light.]

Eddie:       There's nothing in here.
Richie:      That's 'cause that's the fridge. Ooh, shit! Mind, the kettle's
             still hot!
Eddie:       Where is it?
Richie:      It's down... here! Shit! I've done it again! That's three
             times now!
Eddie:       Oh God, there's no fuse wire in here. Richie!
Richie:      What?
Eddie:       Hold this.
Richie:      What?

[The lights come back on., flickering wildly Richie is standing on a chair
holding a screwdriver jammed into the fuse-box. He can't hold it and the
lights go out again]

Eddie:       Stick it back in, stick it back in! We're seconds away from
             the result!
Richie:      No, Eddie, please!
Announcer:   In second place, number twelve, Miss America.
Eddie:       Hey! Richie! That was Miss America, the favourite! We're in
             with a chance!
Richie:      I think I'm going to faint.
Eddie:       Yeah, it's pretty exiting, isn't it!
Richie:      Eddie, I can't hold it much longer!
Eddie:       Just another ten seconds!
Richie:      Please, it's your turn, surely it's your turn!
Eddie:       Oh, shut your cakehole!
Announcer:   And this year's Miss World is...
Richie:      Go on, have a go Eddie, it's fun!
Eddie:       Here it comes!
Announcer:   ...Number thirty-seven, Miss France.
Eddie:       I don't believe it, it's a fix!

[Eddie puts his foot through the television, which explodes.]

Richie:      Did we win?
Eddie:       No, we lost.
Richie:      Hh. Knackers!

[Richie lets go of the screwdriver. The fuse-box explodes. Richie is thrown
off the chair.]

Eddie:       Richie, are you okay?
Richie:      Am I... okay? No I'm not bloody okay! Wait 'til I get my hands
             on you, you little bast-- Shit, that bloody kettle's still
             hot! Oh God life's horrible! Ten grand down the toilet and a
             scalded hand! Why does fate treat me like this? Oh, well at
             least things can't get any worse. Hwoo wooo waaargh...

[He falls out of the kitchen window with a fading cry and a crash from
below. A dog barks. Fade down. Fade up. The lights come back on.]

Eddie:       There we go -- dab hand Eddie! That'll be eleven thousand, six
             hundred and forty-five pounds and sixty-six new pence. Or we
             could just call it quits on the rent Richie. Richie? Richie?
             I'll take that as a "yes" then, shall I?

[He picks up Richie's note from by the window.]

Eddie:       "Dear Eddie, by the time you read this I will be dead. I know
             you'll be feeling terribly guilty but don't blame yourself,
             although it really is your fault. If I was alive I would
             forgive you, but I'm not, so I can't, so you'll just have to
             live with it. Richard." Hahh-ugh... Poor blighter. All he
             needed was the love of a good woman. Well, not even a good
             one, any old one would have done. Slap a wig on a speak-your-
             weight machine and he'd have been happy. And now he's gone and
             done himself in.

[He sits at the organ and strikes a sorrowful chord.]

Eddie:       Well this ought to fetch a few quid.

[Richie staggers in, covered in muck.]

Richie:      Who left the kitchen window open?
Eddie:       Richard, you're alive!
Richie:      Yes, the amount of pain I'm in would suggest so.

[Richie punches out a number on the phone.]

Richie:      Hello, BBC! Yes, put me through to the "Miss World" programme
             -- I wish to complain in the strongest possible terms! Yeah,
             well put me through to ITV then! Hello? Hello!

[He slams the phone down.]

Richie:      Would you believe it? Oohh!

[He sits down gingerly.]

Richie:      It's just typical, isn't it. We're on the brink of winning ten
             thousand pounds and some ugly Frog bint scoops up all our
             hopes in her garlic-stained claw and discards them like some
             used tissue.
Eddie:       That's very poetic Richie.
Richie:      Oh sod off! Go on, sod off! Get to soddery! It's all your
             fault.
Eddie:       Sod off yourself, you great fat git! It's me that just lost
             ten thousand quid!
Richie:      Well half of it was mine.
Eddie:       It bloody well was not! D'you think I'm going to lie around
             the sun-drenched Caribbean with bus-fulls of dusky maidens
             fulfilling my every sordid whim and have a great fat blotchy
             white walrus lying next to me, blathering on and on about
             himself and spoiling the atmos.? No, I'm bloody not!
Richie:      Well thank you very much Edward. You learn something every
             day, don't you? And today I learnt that you're a complete
             bastard. Well, I think I might turn in now, I feel so
             enriched. Nighty-night, Eddie!

[He walks to the door but then comes back and sits down next to Eddie.]

Richie:      Why can't we ever bloody win anything?
Eddie:       Oh, don't be stupid Richie. People like us aren't meant to win
             things.
Richie:      Well what are we meant to do then?
Eddie:       Look, you get born, you keep your head down, and then you die.
             If you're lucky.
Richie:      Oh come on. There must be more to it than that.
Eddie:       Well there's the telly.

[They both look at the empty shell that was once a television.]

Eddie:       Well there was. Do you want me to switch the gas on?
Richie:      What d'you mean?
Eddie:       Go on -- top yourself. The telly's bust, it'd be a good bit of
             entertainment.
Richie:      Hahhhh ha ha! Haaa! I know you're just trying to cheer me up.

[Eddie shakes his head.]

Richie:      And you're right. You know, you have to laugh, don't you? Ha
             ha ha h-- ohhh, no you don't really do you? Ahh, it's no good.
             I think I've reached my bottom. What we couldn't have done
             with ten thousand grands...
Eddie:       Well...

[Eddie slaps Richie on the shoulder. Richie's head bounces off the wall.]

Eddie:       We couldn't have done anything really. You see, hahh hh-hh, I
             never put the bet on. I just said I did so that you'd insist
             we watch "Miss World".
Richie:      Well where's the missing tenner then?
Eddie:       Well. I saw you picking your veg. as I went out this morning,
             so I thought I'd better have a slap-up grill before I came
             home. Yum yum.

[Richie looks at Eddie, closes his fist, and punches him. Freeze-frame, the
credits roll.]


     Transcription James Kew <j.kew@ic.ac.uk>. Last revised July 1994.

       "Bottom -- The Scripts", a BBC book, contains full scripts to
     Series One, including many lines that were cut for transmission.
          Series One and Series Two are available on BBC videos.
