Withnail & I Page #4

where you come from!

Not the attitude

I'd been given to expect...

from the H.E. Bates novel

I'd read.

I thought they'd all be out the back,

drinking cider, discussing butter.

Clearly a myth.

Evidently, country people are no more

receptive to strangers than city dwellers.

Do you think you could tell me

where I could buy some coal and wood?

You'll have to see me son.

He runs this farm.

- Where is your son?

- Up in top fields.

You can't miss him.

His leg's bound in polythene.

Wake up, you bastard!

Wake up!

Wake up, you bastard!

You gotta get wood.

Jesus! You're covered in sh*t.

I tried to get the fuel and wood.

There's a miserable

little pensioner down there.

- She wouldn't give it to me.

- Where are we gonna get it, then?

There's a man on the mountain.

Why he's up there f*** knows.

But he's up there

with a leg in polythene.

You can't miss him.

He's your man.

And have another look

in that shed. Find anything.

If you can't find anything,

bring in the shed.

How come Monty owns

such a horrible little shack?

No idea.

You never discuss

your family, do you?

I fail to see my family

as of any interest to you.

I have absolutely

no interest in yours.

I dislike relatives in general,

my own in particular.

- Why?

- Because... I've told you why.

We're incompatible.

They don't like me being on stage.

Then they must be delighted

with your career.

- What do you mean?

- You rarely are.

You just wait!

Just you wait!

When I strike, they

won't know what hit them.

Tractor approaching.

Now get after him.

That's the man.

- Hey, stop!

- Stop!

Stop! Please!

Stop, please!

Please stop!

Please stop!

- Are you the farmer?

- Shut up! I'll deal with this!

We've gone on holiday

by mistake.

We're in this cottage here.

Are you the farmer?

Stop saying that, Withnail!

Of course he's the f***ing farmer!

We're friends

of Montague Withnail.

We desperately need

fuel and wood.

Montague Withnail.

You must know him!

Fat man, owns the cottage.

I seen a fat man.

London type. Queer sort.

Think his name's French, or summit.

- French?

- Aye. Adriene De La Touche.

He ain't been here

for a couple of years.

- Last time I saw him he was with his son.

- Yeah, that's him.

Listen, we're bona fide. We're not from

London. Could we have some fuel and wood?

I could bring you some logs up later.

I've got the cows to feed first.

- When?

- Shut up! That would be very kind.

What about food? Do you think

you could sell us something to eat?

I could bring you a chicken,

but you'll have to go to the village.

- That would be very kind, Mr...

- Parkin.

Mr. Parkin.

What happened to your leg?

Got a randy bull up there.

Give me one in the knee.

You wanna go out back?

Get some spuds up?

Sorry, I can't.

My boots are in the oven.

- You'd go if you had boots?

Gladly.

- I've got one!

- Great. How much do we owe you?

- Pay us when you come down.

- What about this chicken?

- He's on the back.

With. With.

Parkin's been.

There's our supper.

- What are we supposed to do with that?

- Eat it.

Eat it?

The f***er's alive.

- Yeah, I know that. You've gotta kill it.

- Me?

- I'm fire lighter and fuel collector.

- Yeah, I know that, but I got the logs in.

It takes away your appetite

looking at it.

No, it doesn't.

I'm starving.

- How can we make it die?

- You have to throttle them.

I think you should strangle it instantly,

in case it starts to make friends with us.

All right, get hold of it.

You hold it down. I'll strangle it.

I can't. Those dreadful, beady eyes.

They stare you out.

It's a bloody chicken! Just think

of it with bacon across its back.

All right,

I'll deal with this.

You'll have to get

its guts out.

Never point guns at people!

It's extremely dangerous.

What about this roasting dish?

What are we gonna cook it in?

You're the food and plumbings man. I have

no idea. I wish I'd found this an hour ago.

I'd have taken great pleasure

in gunning this pullet down.

- Shouldn't it be more bald than that?

- No, it shouldn't.

Right. We're gonna

have to reverse the roles.

We can bake the potatoes

in the oven...

and we can boil

this bastard over the fire.

- Let's get its feet off.

- No.

It's gonna need its feet.

It can stand with its legs

on either side of that.

I've already put

two shilling pieces in.

No, I haven't got another.

It's not my fault

if the system doesn't work.

The b*tch hung up on me.

Hello? How are you?

Very well.

A what? Why

wouldn't they see me?

This is ridiculous.

I haven't been up for a job

in three months!

Understudy Constantine?

I'm not going to understudy Constantine.

Why can't I play the part?

This is ridiculous.

No, I'm not in London.

Penrith.

Penrith!

Well, what about TV?

Listen, I pay you

ten percent to do that.

Well, lick ten percent

of the asses for me, then!

Hello? Hello? Hello?

Hello? How dare you?

F*** you!

The bastard asked me to understudy

Constantine in The Seagull.

I don't want to understudy anybody,

especially that little pimp.

Anyway, I loathe

those Russian plays.

Always full of women

staring out of windows,

whining about ducks

going to Moscow.

What do you think

of Desmond Wolfe?

- In respect of what?

- I'm thinking of changing my name.

It's too like Donald Wolfit.

Changeover point.

- Think he's happier than us?

- No.

I suppose happiness

is relative.

I never thought it would be

a polythene bag without a hole in it.

- Hey!

- What's the matter with him?

- Shut the gate!

- You didn't shut the gate!

Stop that bull!

Stop that bull!

Grab its ring!

Keep your bag up!

Out-mind him.

Hey, show no fear.

Just run at it.

That can't be sensible, can it?

The bastard's about to run at me!

- Well, he's randy!

- Yes, I know he is!

Wants to get down there

and have sex with those cows.

Shut up!

- Run at it, shouting!

- Do as he says, start shouting.

- He won't gore you.

- A coward you are, Withnail!

An expert on bulls

you are not!

Shut that gate

and keep it shut!

I think an evening at the Crow.

If the Crow and Crown

ever had life, it was dead now.

It was like

walking into a lung,

a sulfer-stained, nicotine

yellow and fly-blown lung.

Its landlord was a retired alcoholic

with military pretensions...

and a complexion

like the inside of a teapot.

By the time the doors opened,

he was arse-holed on rum...

and got progressively

more arse-holed...

till he could take no more

We'll have another pair

of large scotches.

Thought I was going

for a minute.

No man's put me down yet.

Have you had any training

in the martial arts?

Yes, as a matter of fact,

I have.

Before I became a journalist,

I was in the Territorials.

You know,

when you first came in,

I knew you were a services man.

You could never, never disguise it.

- What were you in?

- Tanks.

Africa Corps.

Little before your time.

I don't suppose you've

engaged, have you?

- Ireland.

- Ooh, crack at the Mick?

We'll have another pair

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