Still Game (2002) s08e03 Episode Script

Balls Up

Any spare change, pal? Boabby! Didnae recognise ye there with yerathletics bag.
How? I'm intae ma fitness, me.
I'm fitness daft.
Ha-ha-ha! Whit ye laughin' at? You, fitness! Ha-ha! That's a cracker.
What's yer regime? Vodka, whisky, bag o' crisps? Mmm! Very funny.
So, have ye any change? Naw.
But I'll gie you some advice.
Advice, eh? Aye, advice'll buy me a pie, won't it? A nice wee plate of advice 'n' beans! Look.
Are ye wanting my help or no'? Fire away, sensei.
Right, I'm playing in a football tourney this weekend.
Walking football.
It's aw the rage.
There's a wee position goin'.
A wee position? Like the striker? Naw.
No' in the team.
Yer urine sample would get us disqualified.
It's adifferent position.
Are ye interested or no'? Any money in it? font colo WHISPERS: 30 quid a day for two days.
HE MUTTERS TO HIMSELF What ye thinkin' aboot, Mick? Are you tryin' to work oot whether you can fit it into your busy schedule? I'm tryin' tae work oot what 30 quid a day for two days adds up tae.
Words, I'm good wi'.
Numbers is no' my forte.
You could infer it was my Achilles heel.
Achilles, of course Shut up! It's 60 quid.
Oh, aye, it's Monday.
I forgot aboot that.
Oh, look who it is! The Chuckle Brothers! Heh-heh-heh.
To me, to you, two pints, pri Pri That doesnae feel right.
What? Well, we normally come in here and say to Boabby, "Two pi Well, gie it to me wi' both barrels! I can take it.
Awright then.
Two pints, ya gasbag fanny bastard! Oh, Jack, for God's sake.
Well, you heard her! She gied m I mean, where does Boabby disappear to on a Monday, anyway? Och, it's a five-a-side thing.
I didnae know Boabby knew four other people.
Well, this is good, in't it, eh? Nae pints.
Good work, Jack - scared away the barman.
Isa! Isa, I'm really sorry.
I didnae mean to upset ye.
It was only a bit o' banter, darlin'.
Please! Isa, hen, you'll never guess who we met on the way doon here and what she telt us.
Who, what? What did she tell ye? Two pints, prick.
Ya couple of bastards! I cannae imagine Boabby playing fitba.
I mean, he's hardly Boris Beckham, is he? Neither's Boris Beckham, Jack, that's a made-up person.
Is it? It's the pitch up at the Claymore.
It's no' real fitba anyway.
It's special fitba.
Is that because Boabby's no' right? No, it's walking fitba.
Whit? Aye, it's aw the rage.
You know, it's for fellas that cannae play any mair but are still competitive.
That's what dominoes are for, sur No, no, no, it's like fitba, but withoot aw the speed, agility and aw that dashing aboot.
Oh, like Partick Thistle? Oh, hello, Mr Sheathing, what can I get you? A Dark Heart rum, Mrs Drennan.
Aye, lovely.
Well, what's yer news, eh? Who's deid noo? Gerald Mcafferty.
Opened a tin of salmon that had been lying in his cupboard, a wee hole in it.
Food poison.
Defecated himself to death.
PHONE RINGS Shall I? Aye, you're closest.
ID Sheathing, funeral director, enjoying a libation in the Clansman.
Oh, dear.
Right you are, thank you.
Well? Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it would appear your friend Bobby has taken a heart attack.
Oh, no.
I'm fine.
So, I'm warming up.
And about 20 minutes into this warm-up session, I start to feel a bit, I dunno REFEREE'S WHISTLE Right.
Yous have been hanging aboot daein' nothin' for ages.
Let's warm up! Oohh! A mild heart attack.
A massive heart attack! They've put in a What did you call it? A stent.
A stent.
It opens up your artery and that's you - brand-new.
Huh? We put STENTS in.
Oh, does plural meantwo? Naw.
In this case, plural means 18.
18 of the bastards.
That's a record.
If Roy Castle and Norris McWhirter were still living, they'd be up here with a bunch of grapes and a bottle of Lucozade.
18 stents? Yes.
What can I no' do? Go through a metal detector.
You're RoboBoabby noo.
Ha, RoboBoabby! "Dae yer talkin' while you're walkin'.
I'm a robot prick!" KNOCK ON DOOR Come in.
How ye doin'? Fine, thank you.
So, you are Michael, is it? You can call me Mick.
What do you know about the job? There is a jobin existence.
How did you find out about it? Word of mooth.
Boabby's mooth.
Boabby the barman fae the Clansman telt me wi' his mooth.
Can you do a dog? What? Aw naw, man.
Is this a porno movie? No! God, no! Cos if it was, for 60 quid, I'd No, no, you have to play a dog.
Could you do that? Act the dug? Aye.
Nae danger.
Don't just act the dog.
Live the dog, be the dog.
OK, off you go.
What are you doing? A shite.
The way a dug would do it, legs aw shuddering an' that.
Oh, haud on.
Here's a wee pish comin'.
HE SNIFFS What's this? It's another dug! Come here, you, and I'll sniff yer baws! Oh, that's smashin', Rover.
Nothin' wrang wi' them baws! No! You misunderstand.
It's not a real dog.
It's a costume.
A mascot.
A mascot? For the walking football tournament this weekend.
For the families and the kids.
You know, entertainment? Like Goofy? Yes.
Sort of.
So, you're at the sidelines.
You're getting the crowd all going.
Off you go.
Intae these dobbers! Get these arseholes pumped! Woof! Woof! Woof! Could you send the next person in, please? Nae danger.
There's naebody else there, man.
Looks like you're stuck wi' me! Boo-hoo-hoo! Ha-ha ha.
Hi, Boabby.
Hi, Jack, Victor.
What have you got there? What do they call it again? Salad.
But they've no' got any stanes in them.
That's maybe because that's a tomato, Boabby.
Do ye eat a lot of salad, no? Naw.
Doctor's orders, but.
Counting ma calories.
Eat well.
Gies a bit of a Beefy Bake, eh? No, no, no, no, no, ye've had a health warning.
I mean, that's a shot across the bow, that is.
But ye're daein' something aboot it, so you should be happy.
Aye, aye, aye.
Get back to your What was it? Walking fitba.
I've been telt to leave aff it for a bit.
It's a bastard, cos there's a tourney coming up and whoever wins it gets an Astroturf pitch for their local community centre.
And you cannae even get a game of walking aboot kickin' a baw? How strenuous can that be? It's very competitive.
Go and have a look for yourself! I'm no gonnae finish that.
To me! To me, Jack! Oh, look who it is! Denis Law and Billy Bremner! Shut up, we could have played for Scotland! Oh, what at? Subbuteo? Shut up.
Two pints, ya Nobby Stiles prick! Right, Victor, on my heid.
Right ye are.
Oh, ah! Ho, ho, ho.
You're in the team, boy! What team? Oh, we're putting a team together.
Och, we've had a look at it.
It's a piece of piss.
And you, Boabby, since ye cannae play, are gonnae be oor Matt Busby.
Here, is there a free pie in it at hauf-time? Yes.
I'm in.
To me, Jack! Aw, right, c'mon, that's enough! Right, wrap it.
That was close.
Hmm, hmm, hmm.
What? Oh, here, we're gonnae need a name.
Well, we're a pub team, so what aboot "The Clansmen"? Oh, aye, what's the strip for that? White sheets, pointy hats, eyeholes cut oot? No, no, I like Jackchester United.
Oh, that's a good name, Jack.
Aye, completely devoid of ego.
What aboot the Victories? No, no, I've got it! Tammere Rovers.
Whit, are we just naming oor names noo? They're aw mince anyway.
No, no, we'll call oorselves Craiglang Auld Team.
I've got another good name.
What? Heart Attack Midlothian? Stroke City? No, no, no, Craiglang Auld Team.
Agreed? Aye, agreed.
Morning! You are Alfie Cuthbertson? That's me.
What yis after? I'll tell you what it is.
We're actually from the Clansman in Craiglang and, well, we're looking for a friendly match to, you know, it's to warm up for that tournament at the weekend and we heard you had a team, so Aye, that's right, aye.
That's them, that's the dream team.
A couple o' them look like they're dreamin' the noo.
So, how long yous been playing? Well, that's the thing, we've only just started.
We're brand-new at this, you know.
How long have they been playing? That's four years now.
That mob looks as if it would take four years to put their boots on.
Hear that, boys? That's them started wi' the trash talk, eh? When and where? Your gaff? Eh, 11 o'clock in the morning, if that suits you? Oh, I cannae dae 11.
I've got the doctor's at 11.
My prostate.
Yous want tae go earlier, say nine o'clock? Nine's nae use.
Pat's daughter comes roon' tae dae his breakfast.
Oh, suffering God.
Right, OK, how about this, one o'clock? No.
The home help's coming tae dae ma feet at one.
Ye'll need tae cancel it, Ricky.
One o'clock is fine.
Eh You boys wanting a drink to seal the deal? Erm, well, we could probably stay for one but, you know, cos we want tae stay match fit, don't we? Yeah, yeah.
What is it? We've slept in.
Have ye any aspirin? Oh, aspirin, aye.
Paracetamol? Naw.
Lucozade? Irn Bru? Would ye like a Town & Country magazine as well? It's no' WH Smiths! You can have a Lemsip.
That's aw I've got.
Aye, gies it, I'm desperate.
Come on, ya lemon bastard, ye.
Ye're supposed to Let's no' go in too heavy wi' this mob.
I mean, look at them, it's a sin.
Let them score a couple past us, eh, for their dignity.
Poor bastards.
Lambs to the slaughter, eh? Aye.
11-0? That's embarrassing.
My ankle's away up like a balloon! I warned ye it was competitive.
There are no easy games in this division.
Aw you did was shout and bawl.
Stick to what ye know and get me a drink, ya bollock.
I think the problem is The problem is, you let 11 goals in! Standing talking to bloody Mary McDermott at the fence! I hadnae seen her for a fortnight.
We had a lot o' catching up tae dae! When you should have been catchin' the bastardin' baw.
Let's face it, we're shite.
Wouldnae even make it through the first round of that tourniquet.
What did I say? Tourniquet.
Which is what we'll be wearing if we play that mob again.
Ah, well.
We tried.
We failed.
There's nae shame in it, you know.
Oh! Good fit.
Now, have you got friends in this tournament? Aye.
Jack and Victor an' that.
No favouritism.
You have to be the tournament mascot.
If you break that rule, no payment.
That's nae worries.
Naebody knows I'm daein' it.
And I'm no' wanting anybody to know.
Why not? Well, the social for a kick-aff, and also the fact that it's It's a pure brass neck.
You don't have to worry.
No-one will know it's you.
You've got the head, remember? Oh, aye.
Where is it? Ha-ha, ha-ha! Look at these poor kids, Jack.
They seem happy enough.
Look at that boy.
Nae boots.
The baw's burst as well.
But they're still running aboot.
That's how we used tae play back in the day, nae boots, burst baw.
What's changed? Nothin'.
Absolutely nothin'.
Here, son.
What is it, mister? What do you want to do when you grow up? Score a goal for Scotland in a World Cup final! What else?! We are not giving up! We need to win that tourney! For the weans! They need that pitch! That's the attitude! Pish.
We havenae got a chance.
Wait till I show yous this, right.
There we are.
Two at the back, one at the front and a roving midfielder.
Little triangles, possession is key.
Ye just get mair tired if aw yer daein' is chasin' the baw.
Isa, you sound like a fitba manager instead of an auld slabber cabbage.
Well, my da used tae manage a junior football team, Barnethill.
He used to drag me to every ground in the country.
I guess, over time, it aw just sunk in.
So ye've been slapped doon.
So what? Get up.
Slap them back.
But harder.
Can you dae that? Do ye have that in ye? What do you say? You're fired! Isa, you're the new manager.
Boabby, you're in charge of the kits and quartering the oranges! Fair enough.
Who? Ah, Don Revie.
The infamous dirty Leeds, eh? Aye.
Bobby Collins, the Glasgow streetfighter.
Norman "Bite yer Leg" Hunter.
Reviled throughout the top flight for their dour and cynical approach to the beautiful game.
If you hadnae the requisite skills, if you cannae beat them Beat them up! We're no' wi' ye.
If ye're basically a bunch of useless, piss-poor, pathetic journeyman wankers, ye've got nae option but to play defensive.
Pack yer ain box, wait for a chance.
Noo, it isnae pretty, but it can be effective.
We are gonnae kick oor way to glory, boys, and I don't mean the ball.
I mean their balls.
Oh, and don't forget why yer doing it! Aye, the free pies! Naw! For a new pitch for the weans! Aye, for the weans! ALL: For the weans! And the free pies.
That's it boys, stand yer ground.
Haud the line.
Ole! Ole! Ole! Boo! Come on, lads.
This is shite! Garbage! Shut up, ya bunch of bastards! 30 seconds, boys! Come on, we can go through here! Winston, we've got 30 seconds.
Right ye are! Phwoar, a vinegar chaser! Oh, ya beauty! REFEREE'S WHISTLE Woohoo! We've done it.
Get it roon' ye.
Awright, Mick? Aw, for How did you know it was me? Just a mad guess.
Semifinals, boys.
Nae pushovers, but then, naebody expected us to get through the quarters.
Ball boy, I've got a touch of cramp.
Gies a rub-doon here.
Oh, yeah.
Water! No, no, scoosh it in ma mouth.
I'm listening to ma coach.
Thank you.
Good lad.
Orange, Boabby.
Give me an orange.
Can you take the seeds out? I'll take your seeds out, ya prick! Charmin'! We quite finished? In hard.
Nae shirkin'.
That's how folk get hurt.
Win every 50-50 and leave no man standing.
Come on, intae these bastards! Yes! Right, 0-0, let's get the hammers oot.
WHISTLE Boo! Boo! Hey, wrap the booing or I'll bite the shite oot ye! C'mon, Craiglang! No taking sides.
You were told! WHISTLE BLOWS What you daein'? There's kids here! I'm no fiddling wi' ma knackers, I'm trying to push my hernia back in! Ya beauty! Boo! This is it, boys.
The final.
Ye need to all ask yerselves, are we ready to step up and be champions? Legends? We are 20 minutes away fae greatness.
I need aw yous to stay focused, laser-focused.
Yes? Aw, ya Get a grip of yerselves! If my da was here, he'd fine the lot o' yis! You're like four George Bests! Move! Boabby, clean that up! Yes, boss.
Bunch o' slackers! Jesus.
Look at this, boys.
What is that? That's Parkmill's main man.
That's Crusher Tate.
He looks like a shaved Highland coo! Broke a man's arm last year.
We've no' got anybody on our team that could handle that.
What we need is a hard man, an enforcer.
Someone that doesnae take any shite aff of anybody.
C'mon, Parkmill, get this lot murdered and put in the canal! Ha-ha-ha! That's your last warning! MATCH OF THE DAY THEME PLAYS C'mon, who wants it? Hey, Victor, Victor.
Nae way, man! He's just kicked that auld boy's leg right aff! Ho-ho, ho-ho! Mick! That's it.
Aye, that IS it! Stick yer 60 quid up yer arse.
Ha-ha-ha! WHISTLE BLOWS Half-time! Any last minute advice, Isa? Ye gied it yer best, boys.
That's all I can ask.
Where is he? He's on his way! He's here! Referee! Substitution! Who is it? Him there, look.
The boy that looks like a bastardin' hoose.
OK, Navid, here's what ye have tae dae.
MATCH OF THE DAY THEME PLAYS WHISTLE BLOWS CHEERING Woof, woof, woof! Craiglang Auld Team, get it up ye! Woof, woof, woof! Banned for life, eh? Oh, shameful.
A disgrace to the community.
Ha-ha, it's good, in't it? Aye, it's good, aye.
Nae way, man! Can we get your autograph? Aye, of course you can, son.
Oh, aye.
No problem at all.
/fon No' you two auld duffers - the shaggin' dug fae the paper! Ma pleasure, wee man! Ha-ha-ha.
He's had that costume on for over a week.
Fame-hungry, smelly bastard!