Porridge

Norman Stanley Fletcher, you have pleaded guilty to the charges.

It is now my duty to pass sentence.

You are an habitual criminal who accepts arrest and imprisonment as occupational hazards.

We commit you to the maximum term allowed.

You will go to prison for five years.'

Come on, girl, force it out! Effort!

Get going! Come on my beauty!

Come on, darling, effort! You can do it, squeeze it out, my son. Come on, son!

"Son"? It's a girl, you nurk!

What are you talking about? How do you know it's a girl? All hens are, Ives. Yer male's yer cock.

Oh. There's a lot more females than males, then.

That's why yer cock always looks so smug. He's got plenty of it about. Hence the term "cocksure".

Here, mine looks inniment. Inniment? What?

Nah, go on, she's dropped off. Want to double the bet? All right. Done.

You certainly have been. Look at that - jackpot.

See? Thanks, my darling. And thank YOU, Ives.

Listen, double or quits. Which hand are they in? Go on, fair's fair. All right.

That one.

We're even. Oh, THAT'S the one.

Look at that. Now that's not funny.

Not funny at all. Can't take a yolk, some people.

Ives!

What are you going to do? Shake hands with him, go on.

What a loser. Poor old Ives, what a loser. You know, if Liz Taylor had triplets, and he was one,

he'd be the one in the middle, on the bottle.

There you are, darling. You ain't a loser. You'd have won if I hadn't cut off your access.

Look at that, it's a beautiful one. How do you get them so egg-shaped? Hang on a minute.

Now then, girls. This is what's known as a perk of the job.

With these eggs I'm smuggling in, I can get a quarter ounce of shag, two tubes of toothpaste,

or three bars of Fruit 'n' Nut.

Or I could see Smutty Garland, the porn king, and swap 'em for two dirty books,

full of full-frontal, naked nubiles.

I'd rather have the Fruit 'n' Nut, meself.

SQUEALING

God, you're messy. You eat like pigs an' all.

Here, can you lot run? That's a thought, a pig race. Make a nice little flutter.

The Slade Prison Selling Plate For Pigs.

The Royal Cheltenham Pork Cup.

Yeah, nice thought, that.

I could run a book, couldn't I?

Become an owner, have my own stable...sty. The thought appeals.

SQUEALING

Bacon Handicap.

Hello, darling. You trying again?

Morning, Fletcher. Eh? What?

Oh, hello, Mr Barrowclough. I thought it was... All right?

What was Ives doing? He came in on his way to the silos, Mr Barrowclough. Was he taking bets?

Bets? We suspect he's Harry Grout's runner.

Runner? Well, for taking the bets.

I see. Grout's a long-term prisoner, and an unpleasant man. A sort of...

..unhealthy influence. We're pretty sure he runs both the gambling and the tobacco in this prison.

You're a good chap, Fletcher. I don't want you sucked in to that circle. Never fear, Mr Barrowclough.

Gambling appals me. I've seen its consequences. It's a plague in this prison. My poor old mother.

It's not one of my vices. Here, can pigs run? Run? Can they be trained to run?

Why? I dunno, I just thought... Well, I thought they might like a little run,

instead of having to walk like us pedestrians. A bit of exercise.

Nice to see you taking an interest in your fellow creatures.

Don't sit there! Sorry, you might dirty your suit. I'll get a chair.

Very considerate of you. Not at all. There you are. All right?

Oh, Gawd, sorry. You seem to be settling in down on the farm.

I resented it a bit at first, because I've never been a rural man.

I have a deep mistrust of animals.

I thought you told the governor you liked farming and livestock.

Livestock, yeah, it's just the animals I don't like.

You're very lucky. Normally, a trusty gets a privileged job like this.

I appreciate it, Mr Barrowclough, and I'm sure you helped me, knowing your kindness.

I didn't. Say no more. When are you going to get me a single cell?

I can't do that. I can't share, I've no rapport with Heslop and Evans,

there's no intellectual stimuli.

Is Evans still eating light bulbs? No,

he's changed his taste. He ate my shaving mirror.

There's little I can do, you know. You shouldn't ask me.

Wait, Mr Barrowclough, please don't think I want to influence you, or coerce you,

or, I hardly like to say it, bribe you.

You're chosen by the Home Office for your honesty and integrity.

Would a dozen eggs help, at all?

No, I'm sorry.

CHICKENS CLUCK

Lovely day for it. You won't be getting IT for a long time.

You obviously haven't had it for a long time.

Here you are, Lukewarm.

38 eggs. What's wrong with the hens since you took over, shell shock?

No need for that. Thieving? Mr Appleton, no need to be defamatory. Always pilfering, all of you.

I resent that. I've done some bad things, or I wouldn't be in here,

but sneak thieving is not my style.

All right, all right.

Here, Lennie.

Anyone been with a message for me?

Yeah, a bloke said Harry Grout gave permission. Good. Permission for what?

For a game. What game? Keep your voice down. What game?

A game of chance. How do you mean? For Gawd's sake, Godber, a flutter, a gamble.

Gambling ain't allowed. 'Course it flamin' ain't, that's why we do it!

Why do you need Grout's permission?

Godber, you've been here a week. Ain't you learnt anything?

Officially, this hotel is run by a governor appointed by the Home Office, name of Mr Venables, right?

But we know different.

We know that genial Harry Grout could bring the place to a standstill.

Do you play for big stakes? If we can nick any out of the meat safe.

No, we play for anything negotiable, snout, mostly. Whatever it is, it won't be chicken-feed.

Pity, I've got a lot of that.

Blokes here are always betting. The excitement counters the misery of their monotonous existence.

You what? Well, it's not winning or losing, it's doing it under the screws' noses, surreptitious, like.

Blokes by me bet on how many bricks are in the cell. That's common.

I can't think. It drives me mad, listening to their recounts. "341, 342..."

Blokes in stir bet on anything - two flies crawling up a wall, the numbers of the hymns in the chapel,

two flies crawling down a wall. There was a big game last night. Didn't you notice the tension?

Yeah, but I thought it was because of the female social worker.

What, gruesome Glenda, her with the bicycle and the brogues?

You couldn't have an erotic fantasy about her.

Nifty Small's in love with her. Is he? He stole her bicycle saddle.

I bet the ride back was a bit painful for her.

They'll soon find that, though. Under his pillow? I bet they won't.

You're on. How much? No, my mum said gambling would get me into trouble.

Did she? You may not have noticed, son, but you're in prison. You ARE in trouble.

I still ain't watching flies crawl up walls or counting bricks.

I'm going to resist gambling inside.

Bet you can't. Oh, yes, I can.

Bet you some soap you can't. Bet I can. See, you bet you wouldn't bet, so you lost. Work that one out.

Where are you off to, Ives? I've got the spuds. Hurry up, then.

Got the spuds? Yeah. Listen, how much do they weigh, then?

You know, don't you? No, there's no scales out there. What's the bet, then?

All the eggs you've got in there. You crafty nurk. All right, against what?

Ounce of snout? OK.

Are you in, son? Oh, no. Right, nearest one? Yeah.

23 pounds. I say 27. You gave that a lot of thought(!) Well, just over 27.

Would you believe it? Just over 27.

Thank you. Get off. You knew that already.

Listen, I'm no cheat. You're in here for fraud!

What are you on about? Cheating's your career. Come on. All right, here.

You are a crafty, conniving nurk, what are you? You're a bad loser. These'll come in handy. I owe Grouty.

It doesn't do to owe Grouty. There you are, five. Now naff off.

Morning, Mr Appleton. What's that, Ives? The spuds, Mr Mackay. Fletcher! Pigswill.

What?!

Just going to give the pigs their swill. They need their swill.

All right, just a minute.

I swept all this, Mr Mackay.

Come here. Oh, "come here", sorry.

I'm told that your chickens are on short time.

Since you arrived on the farm, egg production has fallen drastically.

Not my fault, Mr Mackay. The hens are in a FOWL mood.

Don't come it with me, Fletcher. What've you got here?

The crown jewels. Chicken meal. Empty it.

Ives, stop!

Empty it? Empty it. It'll make a mess, Mr Mackay. Godber!

Don't move!

Empty it.

OK, Fletcher, just don't let me catch you thieving. I won't. Won't what?

I won't let you catch me, Mr Mackay.

Ives! Where are you going? Listen... Horrible Ives. It's late, Mr Mackay, I have to do the turnips. Come here.