High Spirits

Mr. Brogan...

I assume you've called in regard

to the mortgage payment...

on Castle Plunkett,

unfortunately still delayed...

by what seems to be

our endless postal strike.

Dear sir, I must

once again remind you...

my first name is not "Dick,"

nor is my last name "Face."

It is simply Peter.

Peter Plunkett.

No, I was not given

a middle name...

but had I been,

I feel certain...

my mother

would not have chosen...

"Low-life Sh*t-for-brains

Peckerhead."

You obviously know

a side of Mother...

I have been happily

sheltered from.

Nevertheless, I marvel

at your colorfully creative...

ever-so-American

colloquialisms...

which flow so grippingly

from your razorlike tongue.

The hotel is in

tiptop condition...

the renovations

are proceeding at a...

What? Why shouldn't I bother?

Peter, who are you calling?

Oh, Mother! Will you please

get off the line?

Turning the castle

into a theme park?

"Irish World"?

Gee, what an interesting notion.

In where? In Malibu?

What is Malibu?

I see. You want to move

the castle to Malibu...

which, I am to presume,

lies on the western corner...

of those United States.

Mr. Brogan, if I cannot

send your payment...

how on earth do you expect...

to transport an entire castle

across the sea?

The number of stamps alone

is mind-boggling!

But I can assure you,

Mr. Brogan...

that if it goes on

much longer...

I will take this check

which I am holding in my hand...

and personally ferry it

across the water to England...

and mail it to you myself.

That's how much I care.

What postal strike?

Shut up, Mother!

I don't think

that kind of language...

is necessary, Mr. Brogan.

Understandable, but...

So, what you're saying...

is that if I don't come up with

the money in three weeks...

you will foreclose

and take over Castle Plunkett.

I see.

Have you heard of the quality

of mercy, Mr. Brogan?

You haven't read

your Shakespeare, Mr. Brogan.

Good-bye.

There you are!

Taking the easy way out.

You naughty boy!

Mother, this is not easy.

It is very, very difficult.

Just because you haven't got

a guest in the place...

you're in hock

to that fellow Brogan.

Your father's so worried,

he's tearing his hair out!

Mother, father has been dead

for a decade.

And what about

your grandmother?

How do you think she feels?

Mother,

grandmother is dead, too.

She's still upset.

Very well.

I apologize profoundly...

to the ghosts of my ancestors...

for making a mess

of their ancestral home.

Hold that.

I'm not gonna help you.

How many ghosts are there here?

There's Great Auntie Nana

and Uncle Toby...

and that nice

Elizabethan lady...

and the nun who was walled

into the closet...

and Oliver's bastard, who never

came out of the library.

Mother.

- What, darling?

- What a wonderful idea.

- What, darling?

- Ghosts.

Ghosts?

Ghosts.

A wonderful tourist attraction.

Katie!

Katie, take this down.

Castle Plunkett...

the superbly-restored edifice

in the heart...

of the incomparably beautiful

Irish countryside.

Also known to be

the most haunted place...

on the Emerald Isle!

Here, the dead

outnumber the living!

This castle contains

more ghouls, ghosties...

long-leggedy beasties...

and things

that go bump in the night...

than on any other place

in this revolving, revolting...

maggot-spinning earth!

We can promise you

banshees, pookas...

ghouls of all descriptions.

The one thing we won't promise

is a good night's sleep.

There are no bloody ghosts here.

I know, but there will be.

We'll invent them.

Yes, Mr. Wilson...

the accommodations

are strictly modern...

and so far, the renovations

have been consistent...

with maintaining

the ectoplasmic ambience...

of Castle Plunkett and environs.

Illusion.

You, Katie, for instance.

You high on a wire would be

magnificent as a flying banshee.

A little dry rot,

selective damp...

some fungus here and there.

Ghosts need

such things to exist.

Thank you.

Patricia, you could be...

a mermaid!

Or Lady Godiva.

Anybody dead down there?

Only the corpse, Eamon.

What the shaggin' hell

are you doin' up there?

Genius. Pure genius.

Just you wait till they see it.

The bloody hand to the front...

And the bloody feet at the rear.

Look, what in the name of God

is that?

We're not doin'

the "African Queen."

Will you get me the shaggin'

fish I asked you for?

Smile, Katie!

You have to smile!

The Americans

are coming tomorrow.

Now, Eamon, you little genius,

one more time.

Ready, steady, go!

Jack, what are you doing?

It's a little champagne.

To us, to Ireland...

your homeland.

Loch Ness Monster,

guys in skirts.

That's Scotland, Jack.

I knew that.

Oh, Christ!

Oh, Jack.

I've just taken two Valium...

and now you're trying

to drown me in champagne.

God. Next thing you know,

you'll want to have sex.

Ma'am?

A little champagne?

I suppose sex

is out of the question?

I think I should be

the tart on the horse...

and you should be

the hag in the tree.

I think I should go home.

Just give me that hair back!

Bon voyage!

On our left,

we have the Houghlin Bog...

home to more grisly

and gruesome murders...

than any comparable spot

in the universe.

The fierce,

fighting O'Flahertys...

would pile down from

the Knockmealdown Mountains...

and pillage and rape

women and children.

We have children here.

Even Christian brothers

were known to berserk...

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