Walk Like a Panther Page #2

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was lovely that, Dad.

Yeah. He would have been

really proud of you.

- You okay?

- Yeah.

He'll be up there now, Pat,

- wrestling with the angels.

- (PAT CHUCKLES)

PAT:
Oh, look at him. Who the

bloody hell does he think he is?

- GLADYS:
Come on.

- Coming.

Gladys. Pat.

I hope you ladies have left your

purple-rinsed grudges at home,

on this most tragic of days.

PAT:
Oh, you should be ashamed

of yourself, Popsy Wilson.

This is all your fault!

POPSY:

Course it is.

- He died of a heart attack.

- It wasn't attacked. It was broken.

He was one of the strongest men

who ever set foot in the ring.

- Evidently not.

- PAT:
He was a hero.

And wrestling

will never be the same!

Wrestling? What wrestling?

When will you two

change the 8-track?

British wrestling is as dead

as Ginger Frost.

Oh, aye, it's dead...

because you helped to kill it.

Do you think your dad

would be proud, eh,

seeing what you did to everything

that he'd worked so hard to build up?

He supported wrestling.

He supported us,

and you turned your back on it.

You turned your back on us.

And what for, eh?

For a pound note.

And brought in that

mamby-pamby American crap.

The fake stuff.

- And I bid you adieu.

- GLADYS:
Adieu.

CLIFF:
Why don't you just

say goodbye, Wilson?

Or do you want me

to say goodbye for you?

That won't

be necessary, Cliff.

Still playing

at being a bodyguard?

Oh, how is Tina Turner?

Shaneequa...

is the finest lookalike

in the business.

As her poster says,

she is simply the best.

If Stars in Their Eyes was

still on TV, she'd piss it.

Now you can mock me, Wilson, but

don't you dare mock that lady.

And do not mock the art

of close protection.

Do you know how many people

would be dead without it?

No.

Loads, that's who.

Reagan, Ronald, President.

Charles, prince,

future king of England.

De Courcey, Roger,

puppeteer.

Roger De Courcey?

Who tried to kill him?

Bingley Working Men's Club,

Christmas '98.

Mousetrap in Nookie's shaft.

Someone with steady hands,

'cause it were well-balanced.

POPSY:

My dear Mr. Morris,

we all know you're harder

than a copper's knock.

- Ghali, Boutros Boutros...

- TREVOR:
Leave it, Cliff.

I'm like a shadow,

you can't see me.

Out of me way,

you smelly biddies.

(PEOPLE GROANING)

H:

What you looking at? Move.

RICKY:
Change, bar wench.

Fifties, now.

Are you deaf?

- He said "50s."

- 'Nuff fifties.

Why don't you go home,

eh, Rickson...

before your tag

starts beeping?

Who's talking to you,

knobhead?

Anyway, it's well taken off.

Proper good behavior.

- Rickson, get out of here before I...

- Before you what?

- Wet me up with your senior railcard?

- (BRONSON AND H SNICKERING)

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