Red Dwarf

Good morning, sir. How about a little breakfast?

How about a dozen grilled winkles on a bed of curried Rice Crispies?

I'm not eating spicy stuff any more.

Forgive me, sir, but you not eating spicy food is like a zebra not being stripy

or an old lady not sitting on a park bench with her legs open.

- May I ask why? - It makes your breath smell

like a liftful of senile donkeys returning from a garlic-eating contest.

- That's never bothered you before, sir. - Well, it bothers me now, OK?

It's because of her, isn't it? She who must be drooled over.

- You mean Kris? - Whatever my feelings, sir,

I will not be tempted into making petty criticisms of fellow crew members.

There is the issue of the salad cream...

- The salad cream? - I spent months training everyone

to put salad cream in the fridge.

Then she arrives and it's back in the cupboard!

The first moon we come to, let's dump her!

And what about the extra laundry?

There are all kinds of extraordinary items turning up -

tights, bras, skimpy vests, little socks.

It's a massive workload. Frank is very upset.

- Frank? - The washing machine. I named him Frank.

And what about the ironing? How do you iron a bra?

You take it off first. I spent years practising.

I'd put my nan's bra around the armchair and unhook it.

Even now, whenever I see a Parker Knoll, I get horny.

But have you ever ironed a bra, sir?

The only way I've found is to stretch each container over my head and iron it there.

On a hot cotton setting, it sends my optical systems into leak overload.

- Cup. - Sorry, sir?

- Not containers. They're called cups. - See? I even have to learn new terminology,

special female terminology - "cups", "potpourri", "depilatory cream".

- Oh! It's never-ending. - How come you don't know what bras are?

- What about the women on the Nova 5? - When I cleaned my cache files,

I erased my lingerie database.

I'd only need it if you wanted to go to a fancy dress party as Hermann Gِring.

Relax, Kryten.

The scan probe returned the coordinates of the dimensional tear.

This time tomorrow, she'll be back in her own dimension.

Well, you're surely not upset, sir?

- If you've got a problem with her, tell her. - I will!

There's no point whingeing to me about it, say it to her.

- Hi, guys. How's it going? - Morning, ma'am! Sleep well?

- Coward. - Hypocrite.

Not great, actually.

I had this weird dream about a monkey being stretched across a tennis court.

The noise was just unbearable.

Were you practising the guitar again last night?

So, what's for breakfast? Oh, what's this doing in here?

Hold me back! Hold me back!

Don't you see, sir? These deviations from Space Corps drill put our lives in jeopardy.

She was only drying her tights on the radiator!

One day it's drying tights, the next we're spiralling out of control

into the core of a newly-formed sun!

Sorry to interrupt, but we've got problems.

- All the hazard lights are flashing. - All of them?

On this ship, that means anything from "we're under attack", to "lunch is burning".

Either way, it's serious.

Getting a reading. There's something up ahead.

A shiny thing with a long silvery, glimmery thing behind it.

It's a phasing comet, velocity 25,000mps.

- That's what I said! - Kryten?

How can I concentrate on a phasing comet when the salad cream's getting warm?

Heading for tail. Plotting avoidance course.

What's the problem with going through it?

Last time anyone did that, the forces ripped the ship apart,

turning the crew into potato salad.

Is that the firm delicatessen potato salad or the squishy, gooey stuff in tins?

- Tins. - Maybe we should go around.

We'll make it. We're a good crew. We've been through a few things.

Remember the Vidal Beast of Sharmutt 2?

- The one that nearly killed us? - No, the other one! We can make it, OK?

- Do you know what a comet is made of? - Are you suggesting I don't know?

- What? - You want to know what it's made of?

- Yes. - He knows what it's made of.

- What? - Sir, tell her, for goodness sake.

- (MOUTHS) - So what's it made of?

- I see, I see. Gas. Some kind of gas. - Some kind of gas?

Yeah, some gas! Dunno what it's called. Some gassy type of gas.

- It's made of ice. - Exactly. An icy type of gas. An ice gas.

I hate to interrupt, but this thing is gonna hit us in about 45 seconds.

I was only trying to save time so you could get home to your much better Lister.

And I'm trying to prevent us being scattered like cosmic seasoning!

- Here it comes! - That wasn't 45 seconds!

Oh, sorry! I was reading the baked potato timer by mistake!

Will people not leave that here! It makes us look like we don't know what we're doing!

Lateral trimmers not responding! Like wrestling in treacle...

Cat says the trimmers are like wrestling in treacle!

No, I said they were down, then asked if you like wrestling in... Anyway...

- Damage report, Kryten. - Auxiliary modulator's short-circuited.

And the chocolate dispenser's ejected all the snack bars onto the galley floor!

- What's happened to the stabilisers? - Never mind that! Where's the hair mousse?

- Stabilisers unstable. - Nuttyfruit bars sliding about!

I'm taking over control!

Hey! What did I tell you?

Come to Daddy, baby! I have control.

It's called a free-fall vacuum. We're in between vapour streams.

We can ride it across its tail.

Or maybe not!

If we don't go back, we'll disintegrate in two minutes!

- Kryten? - That's a little pessimistic, sir.

I'd say more like three!

You know, I think we should turn around.

Phew!

- Go on. Say it. - Say what?

- You know what. Say it. - You really want me to say it?

- Say it. - All right.

- My Dave would never endanger our crew. - You had to say it, didn't you?

And stop calling your boyfriend "Dave"? I'm Dave.

He's just an alternative version of me from a parallel dimension. He's the anti-Lister.

Well, whoever he is, I won't see him.

By the time we fix this mess, I'll have missed the linkway!

I could've got through if the thrusters had worked.

According to the syscomp, we're carrying too much weight.

It's Miss Kochanski's laundry. Why will no one listen to me?

Those frilly things are heavier than they look.

Let's look in the hold and see what can be jettisoned.

I'll go. I could do with a breath of musty, fetid air.

Sir, you didn't deliberately damage the ship so that Miss Kochanski had to stay, did you?

No! 'Course not! Look, I'm gonna check out the hold.

Rimmer, man, you coming?

Did I say...?

Why did I call you Rimmer? I called you Rimmer, my God!

Cat! Are you gonna make yourself useful or preen yourself all day?

- You mean I have a choice? - Come on.

I can't believe I called you Rimmer.

Yes?

As you may be with us for some time, ma'am, may I go through some rules of the ship?

- Like what? - Salad cream.

Salad cream belongs in the fridge and not in the cupboard.

Two - pants belong in the pants drawer and socks belong in the socks drawer.

Having discovered a sock in your pants drawer, this obviously needs restating.

Talking of my clothes,

why do my bras come back from the laundry shaped like... like...

...your head?

- Three - the toilet seat fiasco... - I don't want to hear this!

Mr Lister hasn't said anything, but I can tell he's not happy.

He's not the only one! Do you think I like flying around in a skip with thrusters?

I don't even enjoy breathing on this ship!

And I'm faced with some neurotic droid who's obsessed with my pants drawer!

You mean I'm not alone?

Oh, I see. You mean me.

As long as we understand one another!

God! Welcome to hell.

Look. Rimmer's old shoe trees. He had one for every pair of shoes.

Gave them all names - Monshoetree, Tueshoetree, Wedshoetree.

- What for? - So they all had a day in his shoes.

- What a smeg-head. - He had lots of funny little habits.

- But now I see them for what they were. - Cretinous.

No. Little human foibles that made Rimmer special. He was unique.

Yeah, irritating, awkward and unsightly -

the human equivalent of a visible panty line!

Well, we may as well start somewhere.

- These can go! - You can't throw them out.

They're from when me and Rimmer played golf on Traga 16. We had fun.

You had fun with Rimmer?

I only had room for a nine-hole course, sir. It is a very small planetoid.

Taking into consideration the thinness of atmosphere, sir,

I've made this a 15-mile hole, par three.

Oh, good shot, sir!

Hey, watch this. Watch and weep.

- Oh, smeg! - Ooh, I... I think it's gone into orbit, sir.

Tough luck, Listy. I'll just pot mine and you owe me 50 big ones!

Look at him. In the right boots, he could be marching into Poland.

Hey.

- It's Rimmer's ball. - It must have gone round the planetoid.

Well, no point bothering him about it, Krytie. Let's go.

It must be here somewhere. I've been round the planetoid twice.

No ball, no bet, man. Keep looking.

Memories like that are just too precious to throw away.

Hello there, sir. How's it going?

We're getting nowhere. He won't throw anything away

because it reminds him of good times with Rimmer!

- I must have blinked and missed them. - You don't know what we used to do,

like the locker room game.

We'd open up lockers of dead crew members and keep whatever we found.

I don't trust you, Lister. This game's rigged. You always win.

Last time, you got a gold wristwatch,

and all I got was a box of 100 assorted tampons that glow in the dark.

- Right, well, I'll go first this time. - OK.

- No, you can go first. - OK, I'll have 68.

Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!

- I'll have 68. - Fine.

Uh... No, you can have it.

Why?

You chose that one because you think that I think that you're cheating.

So I'll have it, and it'll be useless.

I'm not falling for that one. You have it.

Too smart for me, man.

Hey, a gold necklace...

a bundle of cash...

and - hey! - A nude wrestling video!

"Baked Bean Bombshells Volume 12".

Right, well, I'll have that one.