Porridge

Please tell my husband Kevin,

tell him I love him and I can't wait

for the day when he comes home.

How long is he going to be away?

About two years.

Kevin, Harry Nilsson sings

"Without You", just for you.

Excuse me! Eh?

Can I cadge a lift? No, you see... Beal. I've

just been posted here. Oh! A brother officer!

Of course. It'll save me the cab fare.

Aye... well, I'd still claim for it!

Thank you.

What's laddo in for? Oh, it's...

er, it's better not to ask.

In my experience, if you know what a man's done, it

may prejudice you against him. Best to start clean.

Find out what he IS,

not what he was.

What you in for, son? Two years. I

didn't mean time. I meant offence!

None taken.

We know HIS sort! See if he's still

smiling at the end of next week!

It's bleak at this time of year, but in

the summer there are some lovely views.

Where's the nearest town?

There isn't one!

Huh!

Got something to say?

You're as much prisoners as we are!

# Well, I can't forget this evening

Or your face as you were leaving

# But I guess

that's just the way the story goes

# You always smile

But in your eyes your sorrow shows

# Yes, it shows.

# I can't live

# If living is without you

# I can't live

# I can't give any more... #

SONG CONTINUES ON RADIO

One diary; Sellotape; one return

ticket, Covent Garden to Ongar.

That's one journey you won't

be making for a while! Ring.

That's my wedding ring.

Married, at your age? Daft!

Ah, nice one, Harry.

Today's weather. A maximum high

of minus 2. Sleet and hail.

But that won't bring us down!

# In the deserts of Sudan,

# And the gardens of Japan

# From Milan to Yucatan

# Every woman's every man

# Hit me with your rhythm stick

# Hit me, hit me!

# Je t'adore, ich liebe dich

# Hit me, hit me, hit me

# Hit me with your rhythm stick

# Hit me slowly, hit me quick

# Hit me! #

RADIO MUSIC CONTINUES

Pick that up, Ives!

What's YOUR name?

Rudge.

Mr McKay. Mr McKay. There are only

two rules in this prison, Rudge.

you do not write on the walls.

you obey all the rules.

All right?

Carry on.

# It's nice to be a lunatic!

# Hit me! Hit me! Hit me!

# Hit me, hit me, HIT! #

# Do you see yon screw

With his looks so vain?

# With his brand new keys

On his brand new chain?

# With a face like a ferret

And a pea for a brain?

# And his hand on his whistle

In the morning #

Is that you, Fletcher?

Is that me what, sir?

Satirical singing. "John Peel"? Traditional, sir.

Second only to my favourite, "Scotland The Brave"!

# Come where the 'ands are clapping

Come where the toes are tapping

# Come where the Jocks

are strapping... # Fletcher! Sir.

If you want to sing, I suggest

you form a Slade Prison Glee Club!

Glee?!

Got any snout?

What if I have?

If you have, all right. If you

hadn't, I'd offer you some. Got me own!

Fair enough.

Lennie Godber.

Ooh, Fletch? I'm late.

Read me this letter from the wife.

How do you know who it's from?

It's got her scent.

Oh, dear! Does she work

in a tarpaulin factory?

Just read it.

I'll give you the highlights.

"Dearest Bunny, Blah, blah blah,

"blah blah, blah, blah...

"blah blah, blah...

Blah what? It's just trivia.

Her mother's catarrh, she's retiled the

lav, the canary's got haemorrhoids...

She's met a welder

and she might move in with him.

All right?

Must be off, can't hang about.

We haven't got a canary!

These men are gainfully employed in

the manufacture of prison uniforms.

I'm going to open a boutique

That'll do, Armstrong!

We also make metal dustbins.

Then there's the electrical shop,

maintenance, laundry and farm...

Wearing make-up again, Whittaker?

It's only rouge, Mr Mackay! Get it off!

Anyone got any cleansing cream?

Get a lot of that, sir?

Insubordination? Poofery.

Inevitable.

We put them all in G Wing,

or as we term it, Married Quarters!

I don't understand it myself, sir.

I never did.

Don't let that show, Mr Beal.

My attitude is that each man here

is as despicable as the next one.

Very fair-minded, sir.

I like to think so.

FLETCHER YAWNS NOISILY

Afternoon, Mr Barrowclough. Busy, Fletcher?

Oh, yes, sir! Still, I never complain.

I can't actually see

what you're supposed to be doing.

The pigs, sir, they won't eat without my

reassuring presence. Very highly strung, pigs.

Who's he? Oh... Rudge.

Newly assigned to the farm.

How'd he work that? Pardon?

First day inside? The farm? Is he the Guv'nor's

nephew? A first offender. Admin thought it best.

Well, we need all the help we can

get. 'Ere, lad. What? Shovel it.

Shovel what? That. Where?

From here to there. Why?

Why? If only we knew, but we don't!

'Ours not to reason why, ours but

to clean the sty. ' Wordsworth.

Yes, well, you'd better do

as Fletcher says.

This job IS a privilege, you know.

For the pigs, yeah.

I want you to set that lad

an example.

Obviously, he's been foolish

to finish up inside here.

Show him that with a bit of graft he can make a

success of life. Success? I know about success

I had a pal came to London

without two ha'pennies

to rub together.

He managed to scrape up the money for a handcart

and he went round collecting old newspapers.

Know what's he worth today? What?

Nothing! And he still owes

for the handcart!

The farm. Afternoon, Mr Mackay.

Mr Barrowclough.

The farm produces a modicum of what the prison eats.

We have livestock and allotments for the older lags.

Ah, yes.

No guided tour of Slade Prison would be complete

without meeting Fletcher, Norman Stanley.

Afternoon, Mr Mackay, Mr Beal.

How do you know my name?

It gets round. I expect you're

already a legend on some bog walls!

Typical recidivist. Been doing

porridge most of his life.

NEVER, I repeat never,

give him the benefit of the doubt.

Oh, come on, Mr Mackay, you know

I bide me time, keep me nose clean.

I'm no bother, am I? Long to do? Long

enough. What you in for? Got caught.

Got the picture?

What sort of pie is this?

Fruit pie. I realise that. I

wondered what sort of fruit?

I dunno. Comes out of tin

marked 'Fruit Pie Filling'.

So we have no clue to its origins?

No, it's NOT oranges.

More like...

plum or damson.

What's the hold-up? The defrocked

dentist's having a go at the cuisine

Move!

This food has no nutritional value!

Come on, Egon Ronay, shift yourself!

That's the matter with you! No-one

exercises their right to complain!

If you don't move on, my son,

I'll exercise my right forearm

down your throat.

That'll do.

Put your complaint in writing.

Would it do any good? No.

Hello, Len. It's the laddo's first day,

give him a small portion.

All you're doing, Banyard,

is getting up other people's noses.

We have certain rights!

We don't. We're in the nick.

I suppose you think you're entitled to something

better because you went to public school?

No, Ives, I'm used to this food,

I went to Harrow!

That's a good advert

for the public school system, eh?

It's worse for him 'cos he has had

further to drop. Professional man. Dentist.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes