EXTERIOR. THE FIRST WORLD WAR OR SOMETHING. FRANCE. POSSIBLY BELGIUM. DAY.
CUT TO:
INT. CONCERT HALL. SOMEWHERE. NIGHT.
A CONCERT IS IN FULL SWING IN AID OF SOMETHING TO DO WITH THE WAR.
BLOKE (heckling): Call this a concert? I've got more off my face at a Coldplay gig.
WOMAN: I’m not selling sweets, I’m shaming cheats, fool.
BLOKE: Say what, Jack? Can’t you see I’m in uniform?
WOMAN: Milkman’s outfit doesn’t fool anyone. Delivering eggs is no job for a man.
BLOKE: Yeah, well, men have to 'cos the hens can't reach the pedals.
WOMAN: Just get your arse to France. Look at the banner – do you see what’s missing from the word “war”?
BLOKE: What?
WOMAN: U-R.
BLOKE: Huh? That would make it “Wur”. Anyway, I don’t see you volunteering. Oh wait, the Light Feather corps? The Hat Unit? The Standing-Up-And-Ruining-My-Fat-Arse-Concert Brigade?
WOMAN: I am walking away and making the L-sign.
BLOKE: Wait, don't tell me – L for “Coward”?
MEANWHILE, MARY IS BEING INTRODUCED TO HER FORMER SQUEEZE MATTHEW'S NEW GIRL, LAVINIA.
CUT TO:
INT. KITCHEN. DOWNTOWN ABBEY.
LADY SIZZLE IS BEING SHOWN THE ROPES BY MRS PATMORE THE COOK.
SIZZLE: I want to kick the kaiser’s glory hole to Munich and serve it up with schnitzel dynamite.
PATMORE: Then here’s where you start, girl. Ever cooked a Sunday joint with rosemary wings and tarragon moonflaps?
SIZZLE: Not as such.
PATMORE: Ever basted Baden Powell’s pork or choked a hallboy’s chicken?
SIZZLE: Rhesus negative.
PATMORE: I take it you've filled a kettle before?
SIZZLE: Not as such. But I did get kettled by the five-oh in the golden vaulting summer of 2011.
PATMORE: Ah, the old Tottenham kettle? What happened?
SIZZLE: I got caught looting the Carpetland Express. Up to my nuts in Axminster and fibre-based floor covering.
PATMORE: Shag?
SIZZLE: Maybe later. Let’s make this Pot Noodle and hit ‘Spoons.
CUT TO:
EXT. COURTYARD OR SOMETHING. DOWNTOWN ABBEY. NIGHT.
BATES and ANNA are alone.
BATES: My ex-wife Vera's agreed to a divorce. You and I can be together forever – or at least until some tragic intervention.
ENTER VERA, BATES’ WIFE, WICKED WITCH OF THE SOUTH OF IRELAND.
VERA: I’m here to claim me husband.
BATESY: Begone, witch. You agreed to a divorce.
VERA: I miss you, Batesy. I’ve missed your big hands – those inflatable things you wear to sporting events. So funny! And that hair: good for touching, lovely for stroking, and even better for greasing the axels of a 1911 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost. I need a man to warm my bed. Squirrels have proved disappointing.
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CUT TO:
INT. MILITARY CLUB. NIGHT.
THE EARL IS TALKING TO SOME OLD CODGER FROM THE ARMY.
CODGER: Wtf Jack? You’re regimental only.
EARL: Only regimental? Only… regimental…
(TURNS AWAY AND QUICKLY LOOKS UP ‘REGIMENTAL’ ON WIKIPEDIA)
But you said it looked like you could use me in your trench.
CODGER: I said it looked like you could use a bench. Damn boy, get your hearing fixed.
EARL: My ear-ring’s not broken!
CODGER: Oh for God’s sake, man, get your hearing fixed!
EARL: HALF PAST TEN!!!
CUT TO:
EXT. DOWNTOWN ABBEY STATION. DAY.
MARY: Maffew!
MATTHEW: Lady Mary! ’Ow do you get here, Mez?
MARY: Jacked my old man’s wheels.
MATTHEW: Teefed the earl’s GranCabrio? Sick ride.
MARY: Matt, don’t go fightin’ innit.
MATTHEW: I don’t wanna. Even now all I can hear is the guns: bang bang bang, 24/7.
MARY: Dat is 50 Cent on your iPod. Take it off, fool.
MARY: Well, I is glad we mended that skanky beef from series one innit. You is still buff.
MATTHEW: And you is chung.
MARY: And tinkin’ bout marriage – dat was crazy. We ain’t even got a kid.
MATTHEW: Fo’ sho. And you only wanted me ’cos I got three yesses on Factor.
CUT TO:
INT. EARL’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.
HIS NAME IS EARL is arguing with MASTER BATES.
EARL: You’re leaving Downtown Abbey, Bates? I have never been more disappointed in my entire life.
BATES: The Phantom Menace, my lord?
EARL: God yes, that was s***. Although Jar Jar Binks did provide some much-needed-. Wait, that’s not the point.
EARL: Yes, well, life isn’t all days off and gallivanting around with coffins. Anna says you’re leaving to protect me from a scandal. (LOWERS VOICE) Is it that photo of me doing the macarena at Timmy Mallett’s 50th?
BATES: No, sir.
EARL: Hmm. Was it that little piccie of me – how can I put this – nursing the dolphin back to life?
BATES: No, sir. I must leave now, sir, I am sorry. I shall sort of walk out backwards with my head bowed a bit.
(BATES EXITS)
EARL: I haven’t been so disappointed since Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles. More importantly, Bates has gone and I have absolutely no idea how to put my trousers on.
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