Breakfast on Pluto

You can throw a fast one.

How about it, kitten?

What's the chance of a bit tonight?

Oh, why, yes, of course, boys.

I'll leave the front door open,

and you can all troop in and give me a jab.

Not up to it, then?

You innocent, shovel-wielding,

horny-handed sons of the native sod.

Not many people are, munchkin.

Not many people can take the tale

of Patrick Braden...

a.k.a. Saint Kitten...

who strutted the catwalks,

face lit by a halo of flashbulbs...

as, "Oh!" she shrieked,

"I told you, from my best side, darlings."

I was born, you see, munchkin...

in a small town near the Irish border.

I was left in a basket on a certain doorstep...

and only the robins knew why.

Oh, but then,

they knew everybody's business.

Those red-breasted busybodies.

Every secret

behind every lace-curtain window.

Uh-oh, behind you

This looks like trouble

Oh dear!

Let's go

Robins! Would you believe it, Father?

Pecking at the cream.

I suppose it's Christmas morning, after all.

Is your breakfast all right?

Well, I'll get ready for Mass, so. God bless.

God bless.

He hasn't been himself lately, so.

-No, he hasn't been himself at all...

-Since the blonde housekeeper left

The one that looked like the film star...

with the bubble-cut curls

Mitzi Gaynor!

-Just the job.

-Mr. Steed?

-Cutex coral pink.

-Yes.

What a charming atmosphere you have here.

-Do you mind?

-Not at all.

-Thank you.

-Will you have a love seat?

The love seat? Why not?

Mr. Lovejoy will see you in a moment.

He's just congratulating

one of our happy couples.

-How very encouraging.

-Yes.

Perhaps you'd like a glass of champers?

-Champers? Now you're talking.

-Or...

-a piece of wedding cake?

-No, thank you. I've just had breakfast.

Mr. Steed?

My good shoes!

My good shoes, you little brat!

Do it harder, Mammy.

Teach him not to wear my dress again.

He'll make a disgrace of us? Well, you'll not!

Do you really have to?

I'll march you up and down the street

and disgrace you in front of the whole town.

Promise?

Hit him with it, Ma!

Give him the brush again!

-Say, "I am not a girl."

-I'm not a girl.

-"I am a boy. I'm not a girl."

-I'm a boy, not a girl.

Say it right.

Make him say it right, Ma.

My heart broke

from the cursed day I ever took you in.

A short one by Gareth Carey,

up along the far wing to Tony Haddon.

Tony Haddon, 40 yards out now, from the....

Off he goes then,

the ball across him towards the center.

And coming, Alfred Whitney.

He's capped there.

Well down over his eyes is Nick Brady.

The ball comes over.

Who's got it? Reid Morgan.

Reid Morgan gets the 35-yard....

Brother Barnabas says he'll try you

on the football team...

and I want you to read this.

Heading high and to the right,

and yes, it is....

It's gone over the bar

for the first goal of the game.

Paddy Gardy.

The first goal of the game.

Paddy Gardy took one from this side.

It had a curl on it, and one had to wait

until the umpires gave their decision...

as to whether it was in or not. It was.

And I call my mother names.

Well, you know,

you shouldn't do that, my son.

What do you call her?

Hairy Arse.

Hairy Arse and Bockedy Hole.

And Cunthooks.

-Stay where you are! You must not proceed.

-Jesus!

You must not curse.

If you curse, you'll be exterminated.

Holy f***!

You've been warned, earthling.

Now you must die!

No, Dalek, please.

-Sausages, sausages, stay where you are.

-Yes, yes, of course! Please don't shoot!

-Lawrence, come on.

-Not now, I'm busy. I'm busy.

-Come on.

-I'm busy.

Oh, figgly boogles, I'm dead.

Die for Ireland?

I'm sorry, but it appeared to me...

that someone here

had taken leave of their senses.

Are you playing the game or not, Braden?

Me play! Dying for Ireland.

Earthling, stay where you are!

Well, come on, Englishman, a bullet, please.

And next up is the dashing Feely...

sporting a smoking jacket,

fedora hat, and sunglasses by Gucci.

Madam.

The man himself.

-Your mother will be back in a while.

-Oh.

So how's Patrick

and the Braden household?

They're well, Mr. Feely.

Especially my mother, wherever she is.

So someone's told you something, Patrick?

They don't have to.

Hairy Arse Braden tells me every day.

Patrick, now....

I'm sorry, Mr. Feely.

You know, I saw her once,

your real mother...

long after the day she left.

It was in London.

I was doing work for Genie McQuillan.

I was going home through Piccadilly...

and there, passing by, was Eily Bergin.

Lovely as the day she left, I swear it to God.

Did you talk to her, Mr. Feely?

What did she say?

I shouted after her, Patrick,

but she didn't hear.

London swallowed her up.

The most beautiful girl in the town.

Biggest city in the world...

it swallowed my mother up.

What about my father, Mr. Feely?

I wouldn't know about that, son.

Things be complicated, you know.

What did she look like?

Mitzi Gaynor, son.

That's who she looked like, Mitzi.

Mitzi Gaynor.

Well, f*** me pink with a hairy arse!

In the name of the Father and the Son

and the Holy Spirit, amen.

You see, once upon a time...

there was a young girl named Eily Bergin...

who looked not unlike

the well-known film star Mitzi Gaynor...

who sang I'm Gonna Wash That Man

Right Outta My Hair.

And she went to London,

the biggest city in the world...

which swallowed her up.

But before she vanished...

I think she worked

as a priest's housekeeper, Father.

Rate this script:4.5 / 2 votes