Metroland Page #2

Toni hasn't changed, has he?

Toni's incapable of change.

Like the dinosaurs

and look what

happened to them.

Marion...

Mmm...?

Would you still love me

no matterwhat I did?

Why, what have you done?

No. Nothing.

It's a... rhetorical question.

Would I still love you

no matter what?

No matter what.

You must be joking.

What kind ofyield

do you expect, then?

Oh, a good few pounds,

I suppose.

No, listen, you dig up

these escapist

bloody flower beds

you'll triple your output.

Yeah, well, I'm sticking

a few veg on the table

not provisioning

the bloody Ukraine.

Good to see you, mate.

This is really something,

this is, Chris.

What is?

All this.

I mean, you've got

the lot, haven't you?

Everything a man

could want.

I'm impressed.

Are you taking the piss?

Is this it?

Oh, bloody hell.

Ifyou're asking me,

am I happy

with the vegetable patch,

the flower beds

the wife and baby

the job and the mortgage

the answer is yes- I am

strangely enough.

I believe you.

There's nothing wrong

in any of that.

Okay, no problem.

Just surprised

that's all.

Chris Lloyd

happy ever after in Metroland.

Who'd have

thought it?

They're already calling

them the sexy '60s.

Sexy, saucy '60s.

Oh, it gives you

a hard-on just saying it.

Yeah, Brigitte Bardot,

Anna Karina

Francoise Dorleac.

Think of the sex

going on

in France.

Ifwe were in Paris now...

Strolling down

the Boulevard St. Germain.

Stopping chatting

with friends

kissing on

both cheeks.

Pernod and coffee

with Sartre and de Beauvoir

at Les Deux Magots.

Not much point being

a boulevardier

in the suburbs, is there?

No boulevards

for a start

and Acacia Avenue

doesn't have

quite the same appeal.

I tell you one thing

to be said in favor

of nuclear war:

At least this place

would go up in smoke.

Imagine that,

the whole of Metroland

disappearing in one

brilliant, blinding flash.

A million sand wedges

melted into scrap.

Smoldering mountain

of occasional tables.

Middlesex's topiary

incinerated in an instant.

Could you throw us

our ball back, please?

Talk to yourself.

Only the bloody English.

Tennis in the rain.

Tsk.

Poor sods.

Pathetic, isn't it?

And what will they all

end up doing?

Bank managers, the lot of them.

Oh, they can't all

be bank managers.

'Course they can.

Metroland was built

for bank managers.

Actual bank managers.

Retired bank managers.

Student bank managers.

Baby bank managers.

It's like

Invasion ofthe BodySnatchers.

Instead of aliens-

bank managers.

Yeah.

Not me.

Come on.

This one, Chris.

Come on.

God, you're ugly.

This one.

Monsieur, that is wrong, no?

Epaterla bourgeoisie?

Excusez-moi, monsieur.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes