(Cut to a kitchen. Mr. Garibaldi is eating a packet of 'Ano-Weet'.
On the back of the packet in big letters it reads 'Free Inside - The
Pope '+ Demonstration Record'. Kevin Garibaldi is stretched out the
whole length of the sofa, eating a huge plate of baked beans. His
father occasionally flaps the copy of the paper he is reading at him
to clear the air. The paper is called 'The Scum' and has a pin-up on
the front page with big headline 'What a Searcher! Phew! Can Resist
this Miss'; at the bottom of the page in small print 'China Declares
War'. The banner across top reads 'In the Scum Today "Tits and
Inflation" '. Ralph Garibaldi is sitting at the table eating. At one
point he stretches across the table, and his arm sticks in the
butter. He tries to clean it off and knocks the sugar over. There is
a large photo of lan Smith on the wall; built around it is a plaster
shrine, with flowers in front of it. Mrs. Garibaldi is ironing. She
irons some underclothes, then she irons a transistor radio. Dotted
about the room are a flat telephone, a flat standard lamp, and a
flat cat. Valerie Garibaldi is wearing a shiny red miniskirt. She
has bright yellow 'beehive' hair so stiffly lacquered that it is
quite a hazard to various ornaments on the mantelpiece. She is
continuously making herself up in the mantelpiece mirror which is
shaped like a lavatory. The other member of the family is a very fat
old dog. As we see all this, the football commentary is droning
throughout on the radio.)
Radio Voice: Pratt... back to Pratt... Pratt again... a
long ball out to Pratt... and now Pratt is on the ball, a neat
little flick back inside to Pratt, who takes it nicely and sends it
through on the far side to Pratt, Pratt with it but passes instead
to Pratt, Pratt again, oh and well intercepted by the swarthy little
number nine, Concito ' Maracon. This twenty-one-year-old half back,
remarkably stocky for 6' 3", square shouldered, balding giant, hair
flowing in the wind, bright eyed, pert, young for his age but oh so
old in so many ways. For a thirty-nine year-old you wouldn't expect
such speed. Normally considered slow, he's incredibly fast as he
wanders aimlessly around, sweeping up and taking the defense to the
cleaners. Who would have thought, though many expected it, that this
remarkable forty-five-year-old, 9' 4" dwarf of a man, who is still
only seventeen in some parts of the world, would ever really be ...
Oh and there was a goal there apparently ... and now it's Pratt ...
back to Pratt... Pratt again... a long ball to Pratt... (crackle)
(By now mother has succeeded in flattening the radio with the
iron. She folds it neatly and puts it on the pile.)
Mr. Garibaldi: I like this Ano-Weet, it really unclogs me.
(Ralph Garibaldi knocks a bowl onto the floor. It smashes.)
Mrs. Garibaldi: Oh, do be careful.
Ralph Garibaldi: Sorry, mum.
(Kevin opens another can of beans and pours them on to his
plate, throwing the tin on the floor. The radio drones on.)
Mr. Garibaldi: I mean a lot of others say they unclog you,
but I never had a single bowel movement with the 'Recto-Puffs'.
Ralph Garibaldi: Now if we ... (he knocks the cereal box
off the table) Oh, sorry, mum ... Now if we lived in Rhodesia
there'd be someone to mop that up for you.
Valerie Garibaldi: (turning from the mirror in mid
make-up) Don't be so bleedin' stupid. If you lived in bleedin'
Rhodesia, you'd be out at bleedin' fascist rallies every bleedin'
day. You're a bleedin' racist, you bleedin' are.
Mr. Garibaldi: Language!
Valerie Garibaldi: Well he gets on my sodding wick.
Mr. Garibaldi: That's better.
(Mother is now ironing the telephone and the cat. She irons
them flat and pins them on the line.)
Mr. Garibaldi: No, the stuff I liked was that stuff they
gave us before the war, what was it - Wilkinson's Number 8 Laxative
Cereal. Phew. That one went through you like a bloody Ferrari...
(The doorbell rings.)
Mrs. Garibaldi: Now, who's that at this time of day...
(she goes out)
Mr. Garibaldi: If it's the man to empty the Elsan, tell him
it's in the hall.
Mrs. Garibaldi: Right, dear.
Mr. Garibaldi: And make sure that you hold it the right way
Ralph Garibaldi: Dad... ?
(A middle-aged man appears from the broom cupboard.)
Strange Man: Yeah?
Ralph Garibaldi: No no, my dad...
Strange Man: Oh... (he gets back into the cupboard
Ralph Garibaldi: Dad? Why is Rhodesia called Rhodesia?...
(he knocks the teapot on to the floor, it smashes) Oh sorry,
(Cut to the doorway in the hall. A man in a dark suit, very
smart and well-dressed, is doing strange kung-fu antics.)
Mrs. Garibaldi: No... no, really, thank you very much...
no, thank you for calling, not today, thank you. Good morning.
(She shuts the door on him. As she does so Mr. Garibaldi
shouts out to her.)
Mr. Garibaldi: Who was that?
Mrs. Garibaldi: (coming in again) The Liberal Party
candidate, darling... oh ... what have you done now?
Ralph Garibaldi: Sorry, mum. (he is standing beside the
sink which has just split in two) I was just washing up...
Mrs. Garibaldi: Go and sit down!
Ralph Garibaldi: Mum? Do you know why Rhodesia's called
Mr. Garibaldi: Do you remember 'Go-Eazi'? They were
hopeless... (Kevin opens another can of beans; dad notices in
disgust and flaps his paper again) little black pellets...
tasted foul and stuck inside you like flooring adhesive.
Valerie Garibaldi: (she has finally finished her
startling make-up) Right, I'm off.
Mrs. Garibaldi: When are you coming back tonight?
Valerie Garibaldi: 3 a.m.
Mrs. Garibaldi: I think it's disgusting... you a Member of
Mr. Garibaldi: I heard you in the hall last night, snogging
Valerie Garibaldi: I wasn't snogging!
Mr. Garibaldi: Sounded like snogging to me. I could hear
his great wet slobbering lips going at yer ... and his hand going up
Mrs. Garibaldi: Dad!
Strange Man: (coming out of the cupboard) Yes.
Mrs. Garibaldi: No ... not you.
Strange Man: Oh! (he goes back in again)
Mrs. Garibaldi: Just mind your language...
(Ralph knock a leg off the table. It collapses entirely.)
Ralph Garibaldi: Oh, sorry, mum.
Kevin Garibaldi: (too fat and flatulent to get up)
I've run out of beans!
Valerie Garibaldi: We was talking, we was not snogging.
Mr. Garibaldi: Talking about snogging, I'll bet...
(The phone rings. Mrs. Garibaldi answers it.)
Valerie Garibaldi: If you must know, we was talking about
Mrs. Garibaldi: (on the phone) Would it mean going
to live in Hollywood?
Kevin Garibaldi: (desperate but unable to move) I
run out of beans!
Mr. Garibaldi: Where to re-house his right hand, that's
what he was interested in!
Mrs. Garibaldi: And has Faye Dunaway definitely said yes?
Valerie Garibaldi: He is the Chairman of the Housing
(The bell rings.)
Mr. Garibaldi: Snogging sub-committee, more like...
Mrs. Gstribaldi: Ralph, do answer that door will you!
Kevin Garibaldi: Beans!!
Mrs. Garibaldi: Shut up!!
Ralph Garibaldi: Yea, mum.
Mr. Garibaldi: (shouting to Ralph) If it's the man
from the Probbo-Rib, tell him it's in the bed.
(Ralph gets up. As he goes he knocks the leg off the
old-fashioned gas cooker. It falls to one side bringing down shelves
next to it, plates, crockery and a section of the wall revealing the
hallway the other side.)
Ralph Garibaldi: Sorry, mum.
Kevin Garibaldi: (roaring) Beans! Beans!
Mrs. Garibaldi: Shut up!
(A man in a Tarzan outfit, except with a postman's hat and a
little mailbag, swings in on a liana shouting a jungle yell.)
(A gong sounds. They all stop acting. Cut to stock film of
ladies applauding. Pull out from this stock film to see that it is
on a screen in a presentation studio. A glittery compare is also
applauding sycophantically at his desk, about which is the glittery
slogan 'Most Awful Family in Britain, 1974. Sponsored by "Heart
Presenter: A very good try there, by the Garibaldi family
of Droitwich in Worcestershire. Professor...
(Pull out further to pick up a panel of three distinguished
rather academic looking people.)
Professor: Well, I can't make up my mind about this
family... I don't think there was the sustained awfulness that we
really need. I mean, the father was appalling...
(Two other members of the panel nod vigorous agreement.)
Lady Organs: Appalling... yes ....
Professor: He was dirty, smelly and distasteful ... and I
liked him very much ... but...
Presenter: Lady Organs?
Lady Organs: Well ... they were an unpleasant family
certainly, but I don't think we had enough of the really gross
awfulness that we're looking for...
Presenter: Well, harsh words there for the Garibaldi
family of Droitwich in Worcestershire, at present holders of the
East Midlands Most Awful Family Award - Lower Middle-Class Section
but unable today to score more than fifteen on our disgustometer.
Well with the scores all in from the judges, the Garibaldis are
number three ... and a surprise number two ... the
Fanshaw-Churnleighs of Berkshire... (he turns to the screen)
(A very elegant breakfast table in beautifully tasteful
surroundings. Four upper-class folk - two woman and two men - are
talking most incredibly loudly at each other, with quite appalling
accents. An appalling din altogether. They talk just about at the
same time as each other.)
First Person: What a super meal.
Second Person: Absolutely super. Pat and Max are coming
down from Eton to help daddy count money.
Third Person: How absolutely super.
Fourth Person: My man at Poirer's says I could have my
whole body lifted for £5,500
First Person: How super... (etc.)
(Cut back to the panel nodding thoughtfully.)
Presenter: Well, some of the wonderful behavior that made
the Fanshaw-Chumleighs the second Most Awful Family in Britain 1974.
But the winners, by a clear ten point margin, are once again the
awful Jodrell family of Durham. Unfortunately, we're not allowed to
show you some of the performance that won them an award, but I
assure you it was of the very highest standard, was it not, Lady
Lady Organs: Oh, yes, superb ... Mr. Jodrell - you know,
the old grandfather, who licks the ...
Presenter: (hurriedly) Yes, yes...
Lady Organs: He's superb. His gobbing is consistent and
accurate. His son is a dirty foul little creature, and those
frightful scabs which Mrs. Jodrell licks off the cat are...
Presenter: (during this speech we cut to the same image
on a TV screen) Well, thank you very much, Lady Organs ... and
from all of us all, well done to the Jodrells ... and to all of you,
not forgetting those of you who may be halfway in between, without
whom, of course, and not forgetting who made it all possible, when,
and we'll be back, until then and so it's goodnight from me and
here's wishing you a safe journey home, thank you for watching this
show, don't forget it was all great fun, I've enjoyed it, and I hope
you watching at home have enjoyed it too.
(He is switched off, and fades into a dot. Pull back to reveal
that the TV which has just been switched off is in a dirty old
sitting room in which all the characters are really unpleasant
pepperpots. They are dressed more or less identically, except that
son has a school cap and a blazer over his pepperpot gear. He has a
satchel and National Health glasses. The father has moustache and
glasses and a Fair-Isle jersey.)
Mother: The Jodrells win every bloody year... makes you
vomit ... dad?
Mother: Get your stinking feet off the bread.
Dad: I'm only wiping the cat's do's off.
Mother: Shut yet face, Douglas.
Son: I wanted some corn-plasters.
Mother: Shut up and eat what you got.
(A cat set into the wall, i.e. a glove puppet, screeches as if
someone had pulled its tail outside.)
Dad: Some fat bastard at the door! (to the cat)
Shut up! (she slaps it; it expires)
(She taka a couple of milk bottles out. Standing on the
doorstep is a man with a Nordic accent in female national costume.
He has a tray labeled 'Icelandic Honey Week')