The Gathering Storm

[pensive instrumental music playing]

[music continues playing majestically]

Mr. Speaker,

will the '30s go down as the decade

which witnessed the destruction

and downfall of the British Empire?

That witnessed the wanton self-destruction...

...of the British Empire?

If India were granted, uh,

self-government,

it would mark the downfall

of the British Empire.

And it will mark and, and consummate

the downfall of the British Empire.

Mr. Inches, you're wanted!

On my way.

- Good morning, Inches. - Good morning, madam.

Have to do something about Ms. Sarah's gramophone.

I don't want to start the day

with another family altercation.

- No, madam. - Hello, Mommy.

Good morning, darling.

Inches, kindly tell my daughter

to turn off that bloody gramophone.

Trashy music all over the house.

- There you go, sir. - Ah.

She knows I can't stand it. Why does she do it?

Leave it to me, sir, will you?

Oh.

Have you been drinking?

This time of the morning, sir? Certainly not.

If you have, I hope it's your damn whiskey

and not mine.

Uh, what time is Mrs. P coming?

Early afternoon, sir.

Early afternoon? Why not this morning?

Because you told her not to come till after lunch, sir.

Pure invention. I did nothing of the sort.

You said you were going to town this morning, sir,

so she would not be required until after lunch.

Well, I've changed my mind. I need to redraft this speech.

- Get her here now! - Yes, sir.

- Thank you. - Mrs. Churchill?

- Mrs. Landemare. - Good morning, madam.

Is something the matter? What's wrong?

Uh, it's Mr. Monks, madam.

- Butcher? - Uh, yes, madam.

It seems we haven't paid his bill for several weeks.

And he says he'd rather not provide us with anymore meat

until the account's settled.

Oh. Ah.

- Inches! - I'll write a check.

And you can send one of the girls to deliver it.

- Thank you, Mrs. Landemare. - Thank you. Thank you, madam.

Inches, liver salts.

Good morning, sir.

- Good morning. - Morning.

- Randolph, you look dreadful. - Thank you, Mama.

All those double brandies late last night.

I'm not in the same league as my beloved papa.

It's very bad of a young man of your age to drink so much.

No, don't start nagging

at this time of the morning, please?

Let me wake up first.

- Who is it? - Winston.

- Have you paid Mr. Monks? - Well, what?

The butcher from Westerham, have you paid his bills?

My dear Clemmie, I'm trying to save India from Mr. Gandhi

and his gang of subversive Hindus

to save British imperial power from a disastrous eclipse

and save the Tory Party from an act of shame and dishonor.

In other words, you haven't paid the bill.

For God's sake, woman, I can't do everything!

- Morning, Mrs. P! - Good morning, Mary!

- How's she going? - Fine, thank you.

You look lovely!

I thought he said after lunch.

He did. He's changed his mind.

Oh, I do wish he wouldn't do that, I'd arranged

to take the girls into Westerham to buy some shoes.

Heaven knows when I'll get another opportunity.

- Mr. Churchill? - Ah, Mrs. P.

- At last! - Good morning.

We have much to do and very little time

in which to do it.

Inches, please tell Mr. Churchill

I've decided to go to town with him.

What time will he be leaving?

11:30, madam. On the dot.

Uh, we'll revise this speech

and, uh, go on to the second chapter

on the way up to London.

- Today? - Anything wrong with that?

No. No, of course not, Mr. Churchill.

And bring my notes for the Battle of Blenheim.

There you are, Clemmie. Did I keep you waiting?

Not more than usual.

Good morning, Mrs. Churchill.

- How are you, Mrs. P? - Well, I think I'm fine.

Happy as a clam, aren't you, Mrs. P?

Don't you let him boss you about.

He's a dreadful bully.

Nonsense. Mrs. P adores me.

How are you getting on with the Duke of Marlborough?

Very well. Volume 2, chapter 20,

the Battle of Blenheim.

We're already on page 800 and something.

I think the publishers hoped

for something a little shorter.

Bugger the publishers, this is more than a biography.

It's a panegyric, a tribute

to my great and illustrious ancestor.

Oh, get a move on, Jenner. Overtake! Overtake!

Remember when Randolph and I

went off to see the battlefield?

Of course.

Oh, I dreamt about it last night.

I could see everything, Clemmie.

The enemy being routed,

Europe saved from those ravaging hordes

and there was Marlborough, riding into history.

Our eyes met.

I think, I think he smiled at me.

You shouldn't have had so much cheese.

Stilton always gives you nightmares.

"Mr. Speaker, the loss of India

would mark and consummate

the downfall of the British Empire.

If we cannot do our duty in India,

we shall have shown ourselves unworthy

to preserve the vast empire

which still centers upon this small island.

It is alarming and also nauseating

to see Mr. Gandhi, a seditious Middle Temple lawyer,

now posing as a fakir of a type well-known in the East,

striding half-naked up the steps of the Viceregal Palace

to parley on equal terms

with the representative of the King Emperor."

Hendon Council's Private Member's Bill,

second reading.

- Thank you, Tom. - Sir.

What a monstrous speech.

You're his friend, Bracken, you should tell Winston

to stop making such a fool of himself. It's pathetic.

Britain is losing her grip on its imperial affairs.

- He's trying to stop the rot. - Oh, rubbish.

Winston's a self-serving opportunist.

That's why nobody trusts him. No sense of loyalty.

Thanks, Tom. Does his party count for nothing?

Is it disloyal to defend something

one believes in passionately?

He's attacking government policy,

which means he's attacking his own damn party.

It's about time he toed the line

and stopped being such a bloody nuisance.

It's the wrong hat, Tom.

Mr. Woods, this is appalling.

You must remember that your husband

lost a very substantial sum

as a result of the Wall Street crash.

- We're bankrupt. - Not exactly.

But I have made it clear to your husband

that economies are necessary.

What did he say?

He promised to cut down to three bottles of champagne

in the evening.

There was a time

when people used to rush into the chamber to hear me speak.

"It's Winston," they'd cry. "Winston's on his feet."