The History Boys Page #3

What happened with Hector,

on the bike?

As per.

Except I managed to get my bag down.

I think he thought he'd got me going,

but, in fact, it was my

Tudor Economic Documents, Volume Two.

(laughs)

(# "Mustapha Dance" by The Clash)

So, let's summarize. The First World War,

what points do we make?

- Trench warfare.

- Mountains of dead.

- On both sides.

- Generals stupid.

- On both sides.

- Armistice. Germany humiliated.

- Keep it coming.

- Mass unemployment. Inflation.

Collapse of the Weimar Republic,

internal disorder, the rise of Hitler.

So our conclusion is

that the origins of the second war

lie in the unsatisfactory outcome of the first.

- Yes. Yes.

- First class.

Bristol welcomes you with open arms.

Manchester longs to have you.

You can walk into Leeds!

But I'm the fellow of Magdalene College,

I've just read 70 papers saying the same,

and I'm asleep.

- But it's all true.

- What's truth got to do with it?

What's truth got to do with anything?

- (Mrs. Lintott) The new man seems clever.

- He does. Depressingly so.

- Didn't you try for Oxford?

- Cambridge.

Cloisters. Ancient libraries.

I was confusing learning

with the smell of cold stone.

If I had gone I'd probably never

have worked out the difference.

Durham was very good for history.

It's where I had my first pizza.

Other things too, of course,

but it's the pizza that stands out.

Er, Dakin's a good-looking boy,

though somehow sad.

You always think they're sad, Hector.

Every, every time.

Actually, I wouldn't have said he was sad,

I would have said he was c*nt-struck.

Dorothy.

I'd have thought you'd have liked that.

It's a compound adjective.

- You like compound adjectives.

- Yeah.

- Oh. Going walkabout.

- Oh, yeah.

The truth was, in 1914,

Germany doesn't want war.

Yeah, there's an arms race,

but it's Britain who's leading it.

So, why does no one admit this?

That's why. The dead.

The body count.

We don't like to admit the war was even partly

our fault cos so many of our people died.

And all the mourning's veiled the truth. It's

not "lest we forget", it's "lest we remember".

That's what all this is about - the memorials,

the Cenotaph, the two minutes' silence.

Because there is no better way of forgetting

something than by commemorating it.

As for the truth, Scripps, forget it.

In an examination, truth's not an issue.

You really believe this, sir?

Or are you just trying to make us think?

Can't explain away the poetry, sir.

- Art wins in the end.

- What about this one, sir?

"Those long, uneven lines

Standing as patiently

As if they were stretched outside

The Oval or Villa Park,

The crowns of hats, the sun

On mustached archaic faces

Grinning as if it were all

An August Bank Holiday lark."

"Never such innocence,

Never before or since,

As changed itself to past

Without a word."

"The men leaving the gardens tidy."

"The thousands of marriages

Lasting a little while longer."

"Never such innocence again."

How come you know all this by heart?

Not that it answers the question.

So much for our "glorious dead".

Quite.

Actually, Fiona's my Western front.

Well, last night, for instance.

I thought it might be the big push.

So, encountering only token resistance,

I reconnoitered the ground

as far as the actual place.

- Sh*t!

- No, I mean not onto it.

- Certainly not into it. Up to it.

- F***.

And the metaphor really fits.

I mean, moving up to the front,

troops presumably had to pass

the sites of previous battles.

Well, so it is with me.

Like particularly her tits, which only

surrendered about three weeks ago.

And which were indeed the start line

of a determined thrust southwards.

What's the matter?

- No-man's-land.

- Ah, f***.

So, what do I do with this?

Carry out a controlled explosion?

Still, at least I'm

doing better than Felix.

- Felix?

- No!

Tries to. Chases her around the desk.

No!

Actually, the metaphor isn't exact

because what Fiona is presumably

carrying out is a planned withdrawal.

You're not forcing her, she's not

being overwhelmed by superior forces.

- Does she like you?

- Course she likes me.

Then you're not disputing the territory, just

negotiating over the pace of the occupation.

Just let us know

when you get to Berlin.

I'm beginning to like him more.

- Who, me?

- Irwin. Though he hates me.

Jimmy!

(Scripps) Cheer up. At least he speaks to you.

Most guys wouldn't even speak to you.

- Love can be very irritating.

- How do you know?

That's what I always think about God.

He must get so pissed off,

everyone adoring him all the time.

Yes. Only you don't catch God

poncing about in his underpants.

(# "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered"

by Hart and Rogers)

(Posner) # I'm wild again

# Beguiled again

# A simpering,

whimpering child again

# Bewitched, bothered and bewildered

# Am I

# Couldn't sleep and wouldn't sleep

# When love came

and told me I shouldn't sleep

# Bewitched, bothered and bewildered

# Am I

# Lost my heart, but what of it?

# He is cold, I agree

# He can laugh but I love it

# Although the laugh's on me

# I'll sing to him

# Each spring to him

# And worship

the trousers that cling to him

# Bewitched, bothered and bewildered

# Am I

Well done, Posner.

And now for some poetry

of a more traditional sort.

Oh, God!

Er, Timms, w-w-what is this?

Sir, I don't always

understand poetry.

You don't always understand it?

Timms, I never understand it.

But learn it now, know it now,

and you will understand it, whenever.

I don't see how we can understand it.

Most of what poetry's about

hasn't happened to us yet.

But it will, Timms, it will.

And when it does,

you'll have the antidote ready.

Grief, happiness,

even when you're dying.

We're making your deathbeds

here, boys.

Er, we've got an ending, sir.

Oh! Goody! Yes, well...

Be sharp. Where's the kitty?

(mumbling)

And we have to smoke, sir.

And I happen to have some, sir.

- Very well.

- (piano)

(as woman) Jerry, please help me.

Shall we just

have a cigarette on it?

Yes!

May I sometimes come here?

Whenever you like. It's your home too.

There are people here who love you.

And will you be happy, Charlotte?

Oh, Jerry! Don't let's ask

for the moon. We have the stars!

(piano crescendo)

Lovely.

Hm!

Could it be Paul Henreid

and Bette Davis in Now, Voyager?.

(all laugh)

It is famous,

you ignorant little tarts.

- But we never heard of it, sir.

- Oh! Walt Whitman, "Leaves of Grass".

"The untold want,

by life and land ne'er granted,

Now, Voyager, sail thou forth,

to seek and find."

Ah, Rudge.

There's nothing on

the Carry On films.

- Why? Should there be?

- The exam.

Mr. Irwin said the Carry Ons

would be good films to talk about.

How peculiar.

Does he like them, do you think?

Probably not.

You never know with him.

I'm now wondering if there's

something there that I've missed.

Well, Mr. Irwin says that,

"Whilst they have no intrinsic artistic merit..."

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