Exterior, a large, tasteful, Georgian rich person's house with
extensive gardens beautifully tended, croquet hoops on the lawn --
all in superb taste, nothing vulgar. The sun shines tastefully. The
atmosphere is calm. Birds sing. Sound of lawnmowers and cricket in
the distance. Laughter from the tennis court. Sound of gardener
sharpening spades in the potting shed. Out of vision, a Red Indian
struggles to free himself from the rope bonds that bind him. We hear
`Where does a dream begin' being played on a cracked record.
Egypt crossed out
Ecuador crossed out
Ethiopia crossed out
The caption fades and we cut to an upper-class drawing room.
Father, mother and daughter having tea. Four motionless servants
stand behind them.
Father: I say ...
Daughter: Yes, daddy?
Father: Croquet hoops look damn pretty this afternoon.
Daughter: Frightfully damn pretty.
Mother: They're coming along awfully well this year.
Father: Yes, better than your Aunt Lavinia's croquet
Daughter: Ugh! -- dreadful tin things.
Mother: I did tell her to stick to wood.
Father: Yes, you can't beat wood ... Gorn!
Mother: What's gorn dear?
Father: Nothing, nothing, I just like the word. It gives
me confidence. Gorn ... gorn. It's got a sort of woody quality about
it. Gorn. Gorn. Much better than `newspaper' or `litterbin'.
Daughter: Frightful words.
Mother: Perfectly dreadful.
Father: Ugh! Newspaper! ... litterbin ... dreadful tinny
sort of words. Tin, tin, tin.
The daughter bursts into tears.
Mother: Oh, dear, don't say `tin' to Rebecca, you know how
it upsets her.
Father: (to the daughter) Sorry old horse.
Father: Sausage ... there's a good woody sort of word,
`sausage' ... gorn.
Father: Where? On the lawn? (he picks up a rifle)
Daughter: No, no, daddy ... just the word.
Father: Don't want an antelope nibbling the hoops.
Daughter: No, antelope ... sort of nice and woody type of
Mother: Don't think so, Becky old chap.
Father: No, no, `antelope', `antelope' -- tinny sort of
word (the daughter bursts into tears) Oh! Sorry old man ...
Mother: Really, Mansfield.
Father: Well, she's got to come to terms with these things
... seemly ... prodding ... vacuum ... leap ...
Daughter: (miserably) Hate leap.
Mother: Perfectly dreadful.
Daughter: Sort of PVC-y sort of word, don't you know.
Mother: Now you're talking.
Father: Bound ... Vole ... Recidivist.
Mother: Bit tinny. (the daughter howls) Oh! Sorry,
Becky old beast. (the daughter runs out crying)
Father: Oh dear, suppose she'll be gorn for a few days
Father: Splendid word.
Mother: No dear ... nibbling the hoops.
Father: (he fires a shot) Caribou gorn.
Mother: (laughs politely)
Mother: Later, dear.
Father: No, no, the word, `intercourse' -- good and woody
... inter ... course ... pert ... pert thighs ... botty, botty,
botty ... (the mother leaves the room) ... erogenous ... zone
... concubine ... erogenous zone! Loose woman ... erogenous zone ...
(the mother returns and throws a bucket of water over him) Oh
thank you, dear ... you know, it's a funny thing, dear ... all the
naughty words sound woody.
Mother: Really, dear? ... How about tit?
Father: Oh dear, I hadn't thought about that. Tit. Tit.
Oh, that's very tinny isn't it? (the daughter returns) Ugh!
Tinny, tinny ... (the daughter runs out crying) Oh dear ...
ocelot ... wasp ... yowling ... Oh dear, I'm bored ... I'd better go
and have a bath, I suppose.
Mother: Oh really, must you dear? You've had nine today.
Father: All right, I'll sack one of the servants ...
Simkins! ... nasty tinny sort of name. Simkins! (he exits)
A pilot from the RAF banter scene enters.
Pilot: I say, mater, cabbage crates coming over the briny.
Mother: (frowns and shakes her head) Sorry dear,
Pilot: Er ... cowcatchers creeping up on the conning
Mother: No ... sorry ... old sport.
Pilot: Caribou nibbling at the croquet hoops.
Mother: Yes, Mansfield shot one in the antlers.
Pilot: Oh, jolly good show. Is 'Becca about?
Mother: No, she's gorn off.
Pilot: What a super woody sort of phrase. `Gorn orff'.
Mother: Yes, she's gorn orff because Mansfield said `tin'
Pilot: Oh, what rotten luck ... oh well ... whole
afternoon to kill ... better have a bath I suppose.
Mother: Oh, Gervaise do sing me a song ...
Pilot: Oh, OK.
Mother: Something woody.
The pilot launches into a quite enormously loud rendering of
`She's going to marry Yum Yum'. The impact of this on the mother
causes her to have a heart attack. She dies and the song ends.
Pilot: For ... she's going to marry Yum Yum ... oh crikey.
The old song finished her orff.
Father: (entering) What's up?
Pilot: I'm afraid Mrs. Vermin Jones appears to have passed
Father: Dead, is she?
Pilot: 'Fraid so.
Father: What a blow for her.