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Mr. and Mrs. Brian Norris' Ford Popular

ANNOUNCER: The Kon-Tiki!

Ra 1!

Ra 2!

And now...

Mr. and Mrs. Brian Norris' Ford Popular!

NARRATOR: Who, a year ago, had heard of Mr. and Mrs. Brian Norris

of 37 Gledhill Gardens, Parsons Green?

And yet their epic journey in EBW 343

has set them alongside Thor Heyerdahl

and Sir Edmund Hillary.

Starting only with a theory,

Mr. Norris set out to prove

that the inhabitants of Hounslow

could have been descendants of the people of Surbiton,

who had made the great trek north.

No newcomer to this field, Mr. Norris'

A Short History of Motor Traffic Between Purley and Esher

had become a bestselling minor classic

in the car-swapping belt.

But why would the people of Surbiton go to Hounslow?

Mr. Norris had noticed three things.

Firstly, the similarity of houses.

Secondly, the similarity of costume

between Hounslow and Surbiton.

And thirdly, the similarity of speech.

Are you still running the GDBDMDB?

Uh, yes, but I've had the excess nipples woppled to remove tamping.

Jolly good.

Were these just coincidences, or were they,

as Mr. Norris believed,

part of an identical cultural background?

One further discovery convinced him:

the lawn mower.

Surely, such a sophisticated household gadget

could not have been generated independently

in two separate areas.

Mr. Norris was convinced.

MR. NORRIS: I'm convinced.

NARRATOR: But how to prove it?

MR. NORRIS: But how to prove it?

NARRATOR: There was only one way to see

if the journey between Surbiton and Hounslow was possible.

And that was to try and make it.

Months of preparation followed while Mr. Norris continued his research

in the Putney Public Library

and Mrs. Norris made sandwiches.

Finally, by April, they were ready.

[♪♪♪]

On the 23rd, Mr. and Mrs. Norris set out from Abide-A-Wee

to motor the 15 miles to Surbiton

watched by a crowd of local well-wishers.

That evening, they dined at Tooting.

This would be the last they'd see of civilization.

Mr. Norris' diary for the 23rd

reveals the extraordinary calmness

and deep inner peacefulness of his mind.

MR. NORRIS: Seven-thirty, fed cat. Eight o'clock, breakfast.

Eight-thirty, yes, successfully.

Nine o'clock, set out on historic journey.

NARRATOR: On the morning of the 24th, early, to avoid the traffic,

Mr. Norris' historic expedition set out from Surbiton.

Destination: Hounslow.

Early on, they began to perceive encouraging signs.

The writing on the sign

was almost exactly the same

as the writing in the AA book.

They were on the right route.

During the long hours of the voyage

Mr. Norris' wife, Betty,

kept a complete photographic record

and made sandwiches.

This is some of the unique footage

which Mrs. Norris got back from the chemist's.

Mile succeeded mile

and the terrific strain was beginning to tell,

when suddenly...

by an amazing stroke of luck

Mr. Norris had come across the Kingston bypass.

This was something to tell the roundtable.

At this stage, Mr. Norris was faced

with two major divergent theories

concerning his Surbiton ancestors.

Did they take the Kingston bypass,

turning left at Barnes

or did they strike west up the A308

via Norbiton to Hampton Wick?

Both these theories ran up against one big obstacle:

The Thames,

lying like a silver turd

between Richmond and Isleworth.

This was a major setback.

How could they possibly cross the river?

Several hours of thought produced nothing.

There was only one flask of coffee left

when suddenly, Mr. Norris spotted something.

Could this have been the method used?

Hardly daring to believe, Mr. Norris led his expedition onto the 3:47.

Forty minutes later, via Clapham, Fulham,

Chiswick and Brentford, they approached their goal:

Hounslow.

Was this, then, the final proof?

Something aroused the accountant's instinct

buried deep in Mr. Norris' makeup.

The journey was possible, and yet...

"Wrong-way" Norris had accidentally stumbled

on a piece of anthropological history.

It was the inhabitants of Hounslow

who had made the great trek south

to the sunnier pastures of Surbiton

and not vice versa, as he had originally surmised.

This was the secret of Surbiton.

Happy and contented,

Mr. Norris returned to the calmer waters

of chartered accountancy

for, in his way, "Wrong-way" Norris was right.

[♪♪♪]

-And now-- -It's...

[♪♪♪]

MAN: Monty Python's Flying Circus.

Knock, enter and approach.

[KNOCK ON DOOR]

Right. It's come to my notice that certain boys have been running a unit-trust-linked assurance scheme with fringe benefits and full cash-in endowment facilities.

Apparently, small investors were attracted by the wide-ranging portfolio and that in the first week, the limited offer was oversubscribed eight times.

It was Tidwell's idea, sir.

Shut up, I haven't finished.

Oh, by the way, congratulations on winning the Italian Grand Prix at Monza.

-Thank you, sir. -Shut up.

Now, then, this sort of extracurricular capitalist expansion has got to stop.

I made it quite clear, when Potter tried to go public last term that these massive stock-exchange deals must not happen in Big School.

-Is that clear, Balderston? -Yes, sir.

Oh, and, Balderston, next time you do a Panorama report on the black ghettos you must get an exeat form from Mr. Dibley.

-Sorry, sir. -Shut up.

And stop slouching.

Now, the reason I called you in here today is that my wife is having a little trouble with her, um... with her waterworks.

And I think she needs a bit of attention.

Now, which one of you is the surgeon?

Come on, I know one of you is. Now, which one is it?

Ah. Tidwell. Good.

I want you to come along and have a look at the wife.

Sir, why don't you ask Stebbins? He's a gynecologist.

Oh, you rotten stinker, Tidwell.

Tch!

Is this true, Stebbins?

-Are you a gynecologist? -Yes, sir.

Right, just the man. How much you charge?

Thirty guineas, sir.

Excellent. Right.

I want you to go along, see the wife.

Give her a full examination.

Let me know the results by the end of break.

And don't pick your nose.

[♪♪♪]

-Hello. -Hello.

Well, last week we showed you how to become a gynecologist.

And this week on How To Do It we're going to show you how to play the flute, how to split an atom, how to construct a box-girder bridge, how to irrigate the Sahara desert and make vast new areas of land cultivatable.

But first, here's Jackie to tell you all how to rid the world of all known diseases.

Hello, Alan.

Hello, Jackie.

Well, first of all, become a doctor and discover a marvelous cure for something.

When the medical profession starts to take notice of you you can tell them what to do, make sure they get everything right so there'll never be any diseases ever again.

Thanks, Jackie. Great idea.

And now, how to play the flute.

Well, here we are.

You blow there and you move your fingers up and down here.

Great. Great. Great, Alan.

Well, next week we'll be showing you how black and white people can live together in peace and harmony.

And Alan will be over in Moscow showing us how to reconcile the Russians and the Chinese.

So, until next week, cheerio.

-Bye. -Bye.

Bye-bye.

[♪♪♪]

[CHATTING INDISTINCTLY]

Oh, yes, he's such a clever little boy.

Just like his father.

Oh, do you think so, Mrs. Nigger-Baiter?

Oh, yes. Spitting image.

-Mmm. -Mmm.

Good afternoon, Mother. Afternoon, Mrs. Nigger-Baiter.

Oh, he's walking already.

Yes, he's such a clever little boy. Aren't you, hoochie-coo?

-Hello, hoochie-coo. -Hello, hoochie-coo.

-Look at him laughing, eh? -Yeah.

He's a chirpy little fellow, isn't he?

Isn't he a chirpy little fellow, eh?

Does he talk? Does he talk, eh?

Of course I can talk. I'm Minister for Overseas Development.

Oooh!

Clever little boy.

He's a clever little boy.

Do you like your rattle, eh?

Do you like your rattle?

Look at his little eyes following it, eh?

Look at his iggy-tiggy-biggy little eyeballs.

Oh, he's got a tubby tum-tum.

Oh, he's got a tubby tum-tum.

Mother, could I have a quick cup of tea, please?

I have an important statement on Rhodesia to make in the Commons at six.

-[CRASH] -[MOAN]

Mrs. Nigger-Baiter's exploded.

Good thing too.

She was my best friend.

Oh, Mother, don't be so sentimental.

Things explode every day.

Yes, I suppose so.

Anyway, I didn't really like her that much.

-[DOORBELL RINGS] -Ooh.

Hello, I'm your new vicar.

Can I interest you in any encyclopedias?

No, thank you.

We're not church people, thank you.

How about brushes? Nylon or bristle?

Strong-tufted, attractive colors.

No, really, thank you, vicar.

Oh, dear. Turkey? Cup Final tickets?

No. No, really. We're just not religious. Thank you.

-Oh, well. Bye-bye. -Bye-bye, vicar.

If you do want anything, jewellery, Ascot water heaters...

Thank you, vicar.

It's funny, isn't it, how--

How your best friend can just blow up like that.

I mean, you wouldn't think it was medically possible, would you?

This is where Mrs. Shazam was so wrong.

Exploding is a perfectly normal medical phenomenon.

In many fields of medicine nowadays, a dose of dynamite can do a world of good.

For instance, athlete's foot, an irritating condition, can be cured

-by applying a small charge of TNT between each toe. -[DOORBELL RINGS]

Excuse me.

Hello, I'm your new vicar.

Can I interest you in any of these watches, pens or biros?

No, I'm not religious, I'm afraid.

Oh, souvenirs, badges, little noddy dog for the back of the car?

-No, thank you, vicar. Good morning. -Morning.

Now, many of the medical profession are skeptical about my work.

They point to my record of treatment of athlete's foot sufferers:

Eighty-four dead, 65 severely wounded and 12 missing, believed cured.

But then, people laughed at Bob Hope.

They laughed at my wife when she wrapped herself up in greaseproof paper and hopped into the Social Security office.

But that doesn't mean that Pasteur was wrong.

Look, I'll show you what I mean.

Watch it, mate.

I'm not gonna stay around here getting poked and prodded all day.

I'm off.

I've got a decent body.

I get poked and prodded in the chest.

I'm gonna get another line of work.

MAN 1: Watch it!

Turn back. Stop.

MAN 2: Please! Oh, stop!

[SCREAMS]

MAN 1: Oh, my God, he's fallen off the edge of the cartoon.

MAN 2: Well, so much for that link.

John Cobbley is the musical and artistic director of Covent Garden.

He is himself a talented musician, he's a world-famous authority on 19th-century Russian music, and he's come into the studio tonight to talk about Tchaikovsky.

Which is a bit of a pity, as this is Farming Club.

And on Farming Club tonight we'll take a look at the Ministry's latest preventative proposals to deal with possible outbreaks of foot-and-mouth.

We'll be talking later on to the man who believes that milk yields can be increased dramatically.

But first, a Farming Club special:

The Life of Tchaikovsky.

[♪♪♪]

Tchaikovsky. Was he the tortured soul who poured out his immortal longings into dignified passages of stately music?

Or was he just an old poof who wrote tunes?

Tonight on Farming Club we're going to take an intimate look at Tchaikovsky and an intimate look at his friends.

Incidentally, BBC publications have prepared a special pamphlet to go with this program called Hello Pianist.

And it contains material which some people might find offensive but which is really smashing.

Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky was born in 1840 in a Ken Russell film just outside Saint Petersburg.

His father, Leo McKern, a freelance bishop, was married to Vera Plachenka, Julie Christie, but secretly deeply in love with Margo Farenka,

Shirley Abicair, and the strangely flatulent Madame Ranevsky,

Norris McWhirter.

Soon, however, the family,

Eldridge Cleaver, Moira Lister and Stan the Bat, moved to the neighboring industrial village of Omsk,

Eddie Waring, where they soon found themselves, sadly, quite unable to cope, Anthony Barber.

In 1863, however, Tchaikovsky was sent to Moscow to study the piano.

And when he'd finished that, the living room.

Maurice takes up the story.

Well, guess what?

The very next thing he did was to go to this extraordinary, but extraordinary duckety-poos, semi-Mondrian house in Robin Russia.

Harry here, Tammy Tchaikovsky wrote the most Sammy super symphonies you've Henry heard in the whole of your Lily life.

She was such a good composer that everybody but everybody wanted to know.

And quite right too because she wrote some lovely bits such as Sally Sleeping Beauty,

Patsy "Pathétique," Adrian "1812," and lots of Conny concerti for Vera "Violin" and Peter "Piano" Fanny forte.

But what do we really know of this tortured ponce?

Well, if you can imagine the size of Nelson's Column, roughly three times the size of a London bus, then Tchaikovsky was much smaller.

His head was about the same size as that of an extremely large dog.

That is, say, two very small dogs or four very large hamsters.

Or one medium-size rabbit if you count the whole body, not just the head.

Robin?

Thank you. Here's your three-stage model of Tchaikovsky.

Um, here you see the legs, used for walking around which can be jettisoned at night.

And, uh, this is the main trunk, the powerhouse of the whole thing, incorporating, of course, the naughty bits which were extremely naughty for his time.

And the whole thing is subservient to this small command module the, as it were, head of the whole, as it were, body.

-Robin. -Peter.

-Simon. -Maurice.

Me. Well, poor pet, she was like a lost lamb in an abattoir.

Eventually, she Dickie died of Colin cholera in Saint Patsy Petersburg in Gertie great Percy pain.

MAN: Here to play Tchaikovsky's "First Piano Concerto in B-flat minor"

is the world-famous soloist Sviatoslav Richter.

[APPLAUSE]

During the performance, he will escape from a sack,

three padlocks and a pair of handcuffs.

[♪♪♪]

[PLAYING PIANO]

[♪♪♪]

Good evening. This new series of Trim-Jeans Theatre Presents will enable you to enjoy the poetry of T.S. Eliot whilst losing unsightly tummy bulge. Jean.

Well, yes, um, the inches stay off. Mark?

Terrific. Thrill to Thomas à Becket's

Kierkegaardian moment of choice whilst making your physique tighter, firmer, neater.

I am here. No traitor to the king.

Absolve all those you have excommunicated.

Resign those powers you have abrogated.

Renew the obedience you have violated.

Lose inches off your hips, thighs, buttocks and abdomen.

A terrific product.

BOTH: Terrific.

And this comes complete with the most revolutionary guarantee in slenderizing history.

This was Kevin Francis before last season's

Trim-Jean's Play of the Month production of The Seagull

by Anton Chekhov and the Sauna Belt Trim-Jean Company Limited.

See? Kevin has slipped into his slenderizing garment

and is inflating it with the handy little pump provided.

Three acts and a few special torso exercises later,

Kevin, as Trigorin, the failed writer of sentimental romances

has lost over 33 inches.

Wow, what a difference.

That Anton Chekhov can certainly write.

-Terrific. -Terrific.

Yes, why not join us for a season of classic plays and rapid slenderizing?

Enjoy Sir John Gielgud and Sir Ralph Richardson losing a total of 15 inches in David Storey's Home.

Enjoy The Trim Gentlemen of Verona and Long Day's Journey Into Night while inches melt away.

Enjoy Glenda Jackson with a constant snug fit and solid support in all four areas.

Other productions will include:

Treasure Island,

Swan Lake,

The Life and Loves of Toulouse-Lautrec, and the Trim-Jeans version of The Great Escape with a cast of thousands losing well over 1500 inches.

[♪♪♪]

[SHOUTING IN GERMAN]

Halt! Halt!

[GUNSHOTS]

Halt!

Wasn't that terrific, ladies and gentlemen? Really great.

Now, the next item on the program--

I can't stand it, man. Really, now.

I've had it with this idiot. Every night, making me say the most--

--really terrific act. The next item on the--

Hey, man, I'm off, gone, split, through, eh?

Gonna find a gig elsewhere.

Somewhere that's a bit cooler, man.

I mean, it's terrible, the way I hide.

I think this Christmas I'm gonna cool down.

I'm gonna get with a guy who really, you know, digs me, you know? A man who feels--

Really feels the same way I do, man--

[GURGLE, CLANKING]

[MUFFLED VOICE]

[♪♪♪]

GERMAN MAN: Welcome aboard, Britisher pig.

Quite a little surprise, ja?

[LAUGHS]

But perhaps you would be so kind as to tell us all you know about certain Allied shipping routes, ja?

Come on, talk--

BRITISH MAN: Hello, Fritz. The tables seem to have turned, old chap.

Let's see how you like a bit of your own medicine, eh?

-[SLAPPING SOUNDS] -Come on, Fritz. Now, tell us. Tell us about--

CHINESE MAN: Oh, greetings, capitalist dog.

Very sorry, but must inform you that you are now prisoner of People's Republic.

I'm very sorry, Comrade commander, but have just picked up a capitalist ship on radar scanner.

[♪♪♪]

MAN: This is your captain speaking.

There is no need for panic.

Women and children first.

I repeat that. Women and children first.

Do not rush for the lifeboats and remember, women and children first.

And Red Indians.

Why did you dress up like that?

It was the only thing left.

All right. Women, children and Red Indians.

And spacemen.

Here is a revised list:

Women, children, Red Indians and spacemen--

What's that meant to be?

It's a sort of impression of what a Renaissance courtier artist might look like at the courts of the great families, the Medicis or the Borgias.

No, it's not. It looks more Flemish than Italian.

Yes, that's a Flemish merchant of the 15th or 16th centuries.

-What, with these tassels? -Yes, yes.

They had those fitted doublets going tapering down into the full hose.

You know. Exactly like that.

One moment, please. Don't panic.

What's it meant to be? I've got to tell them something.

Is it a Flemish merchant?

No, it is not a Flemish merchant.

It's more a sort of idealized version of the complete Renaissance man.

-No, it's not. -All right, all right, all right.

This is your captain speaking.

Do not rush for the lifeboats.

Women, children, Red Indians, spacemen

and a sort of idealized version

of the complete Renaissance men first.

MAN: Flemish merchants did not wear hand-embroidered chevrons.

They did not.

Yes, Gomez?

"We found them walking on the beach, my cap--"

Gomez, why can't you say this?

What? Oh, I see. We can't afford it.

Ah, you see, the BBC has to pay an actor 20 guineas if he speaks and it makes a bit of a hole in the budget.

Twenty-eight guineas, sir.

Oh! You fool, Gomez.

Sorry. Sorry.

That's 28 guineas.

What about me, sir?

-Are you supposed to speak? -No.

-You've just spoken! -Sorry.

You fool, that's 56 guineas before we've even started.

Yes?

[SCREAMS]

What did he do that for?

It's a stunt. An extra 20 guineas.

Look, we can't afford it.

The BBC are short of money as it is.

The BBC wishes to deny rumors that it is going into liquidation.

Mrs. Kelly, who owns the flat where they live, has said that they can stay on till the end of the month.

And we've just heard that Huw Weldon's watch has been accepted by the London Electricity Board and transmissions for this evening can be continued as planned.

[COUGHS]

Well, that's all from me,

-so good night. -[KNOCK ON DOOR]

MAN: Are you gonna be in there all night?

It's just a bulletin, Mr. Kelly.

And now back to the story.

-[KNOCKING ON DOOR] -Come out.

All right.

We found these men walking on the beach, my captain.

We are British naval officers, and entitled to be--

ALL: It's Puss.

CHILDREN'S VOICES: Hello, Puss.

Hello, children.

Stop! Stop this adaptation of Puss in Boots.

This is the police department of the state of Venezuela!

Oh, no, it isn't.

Oh, yes, it is!

ALL: Oh, no, it isn't.

Oh, yes, it is.

ALL: Oh, yes, it is.

Oh, no, it isn't.

Shut up!

Shut up!

Now, I'm going to ask you some questions.

And remember, if you do not give me correct answers we have ways of making you answer.

MAN: Like not paying 28 guineas.

Shut up!

Now, what ship are you from?

We are from the SS Mother Goose.

We were 12 days out from Port of Spain, and--

I got 30 bob for the trousers.

We are from the SS Mother Goose.

We were 12 days out from Port of Spain.

And one night, I was doing my usual rounds when I had occasion to pass the forward storage lockers.

Go on.

Oh, um. Well, I--

I noticed something unusual.

The main bilge hatches had been opened.

And there, crouching amidst the scuppers, was the most ghastly creature I'd ever seen in my life.

As soon as it saw me, its horrible face split aside in a ghastly look of terror.

Its head, which was like a--

Could you sign this, please?

--a small rat, was ghastly and horrible and befurred.

Its little red eyes glinted in the unaccustomed glare of the midday sun.

And before I could shut the hatch it sprang upon me with one almighty bound--

What's this about doing Horse of the Year Show in here tonight?

I'm sorry, Mrs. Kelly.

We don't know. This is drama.

Mr. Fox told me, before he went down to the pub, they're doing Horse of the Year Show in here tonight at 9:10.

-Well, this is BBC Two. -BBC One are in the kitchen.

I'm not having Harvey Smith jumping over my binette.

No. Come on.

Tearing at my throat, ripping my clothes.

And turn the gas off before you leave!

All right!

I fought it with all my strength, but it was too much for me. It--

ANNOUNCER: Another clear round for Harvey Smith on O'Malley.

And now it's Mrs. David Barker

riding Atalanta, number three.

[HORSE GALLOPING]

[CRASH]

[HORSE WHINNIES]

Right, that's it.

Come on, out, out, all of you.

Get out of my kitchen. Go on. Harvey Smith.

Get out of here, you lunkers.

It's one of our most popular programs.

That's what you think, Mr. Fox.

Well, that's all from BBC television--

Come on, get out. Out. Get out of here.

Out. Out. Get out.

Out. Out.

[♪♪♪]

[♪♪♪]

ANNOUNCER: Tonight, from London, your special guests are:

Lulu...

Ringo Starr...

and the man you've all been waiting for,

your host for tonight.

Love the outfit, dear. It's gorgeous.

Hello. Good evening. Welcome.

It's...

[♪♪♪]

[FART]