EXTERIOR. THE FIRST WORLD WAR OR SOMETHING. FRANCE. POSSIBLY BELGIUM. DAY.
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: 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.
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.
SIZZLE: Maybe later. Let’s make this Pot Noodle and hit ‘Spoons.
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.Tweet
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!!!
EXT. DOWNTOWN ABBEY STATION. DAY.
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.
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.
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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