Friday Night Comedy from BBC Radio 4 - Dead Ringers - 24th June

Episode Date: July 22, 2022

Topical satire show, featuring characters drawn from the worlds of celebrity and politics.

This is the BBC. This podcast is supported by advertising outside the UK. Dead Ringers! CHEERING AND APPLAUSE You're listening to Today with Martha Carney... ..and Nick Robinson. On Monday, the Prime Minister had to go into hospital for an operation, which meant for three hours this week, Boris Johnson wasn't running the country.

Nick? Sorry, Martha, I just got a bit overwhelmed. I'll say that again. For three hours this week, Boris Johnson wasn't running the country. Unfortunately, that meant Dominic Raab was running the country. Just like that, my erection is gone. And Mr Raab joins me now. Running the country is an awesome responsibility, isn't it?

It is, yes. An awesome responsibility. So what did you do first? I went on holiday. You went on holiday for three hours? That's just the kind of guy I am. Boris Johnson was in hospital for a nose operation. Apparently it kept growing every time he opened his mouth. The PM joins us now.

What? No, no, Martha. That's not the case at all. I had a sinus problem that meant I snore horribly loudly when I go to sleep. Kept distracting everyone in the Cobra meetings. What? The by-elections now. Michael Gove is in Wakefield. It was a disaster for your candidate, wasn't it?

No, no, no, no. On the contrary. I think we can be very proud of how we've done. Seriously? Truthfully, Martha, we went in with low expectations. The fact that our candidate wasn't dragged from his bed by angry voters and thrown into the sea, we see that as a win.

Don't you think you're setting your expectation a trifle too low? No, no, Martha, I am cock-a-hoop that the poor chap wasn't chased through the streets like a pig, then taken to a desolate field which just happened to contain a huge man made out of wicker. We consider that a great result all round. That's odd. I can smell burning. The rail strike now.

The rail network was brought to a total standstill by a man hell-bent on orchestrating a strike to achieve his own selfish ends. Transport Secretary Grant Shapps, why are you doing that? That's not fair. I've done everything in my power to end these strikes. Really? We can check that, can't we? Because also joining us is RM MT boss, Mick Lynch.

Mick Lynch? Yeah. He's here. Yes, he's just arrived. Yes, he's in the room. He's definitely in the room. I can hear his breathing. Oh, God, let me out.

Did you see what he did to Richard Madeley? Nick, let me hide. Get out from what he did to Richard Madeley? Nick, let me hide. Get up from under the desk, Mr Shapps. You know he can smell fear. Oh, God, oh, God. Soundbites. I need soundbites. Marxism. Arbus Gargill.

What about the nurses holding the country to ransom? What are you babbling about, man? Nothing, sir. Why don't you just get up off the floor and tell the travelling public what you've been doing? Absolutely nothing to stop the rail strike. Because? I said because!

Because I'm a bit useless, Dad. I mean, sir. Thank you. Can anyone point me to Piers Morgan? I'm hungry and I feel like a snack. The dispute played havoc with timetables. Even the Prime Minister suffered. Every time he tried to get on a train to visit voters in the north, he found himself in Kiev posing with President Zelensky. Labour now and

several of Keir Starmer's frontbenchers defied him to join striking rail workers on the picket line. Now, you know what happens to people who defy me, Martha? Um, nothing? Nada? Zilch? Maybe in the past, but I'm a changed man. I'm a ball of vengeful fury for those who question my mettle. I'm Bruce Willis with pun-ten hair. These frontbenchers need to know I'm going to come down on them like a tonne of bricks. Um, Lego bricks, mind, because, you know,

I don't want to go too far, but I think, you know, one of those would hurt if you accidentally stepped on it, you know, achamundo. But your stance on the rail strike has been rather wishy-washy, hasn't it? On the contrary. I believe my position of neither openly supporting nor actively opposing

this industrial action is extremely powerful. So powerful, in fact, I've written a protest song about it. Come brothers, come sisters, let's not take a stand with our bums on the fence and our heads in the sand.

For our comrades are fighting against the tyrannous few that we're Keir Starmer's Labour and we don't have a view. What do you think? I've actually been told my singing voice is reminiscent of Billy Bragg. More like

Melvin Bragg to my ear, but there you go. The Prime Minister called for a sensible compromise. The unions would call off the strike for a 4% pay rise and Carrie Johnson would be given a 100 grand a year job as the head of the RMT. With 70s-style pickets back on the scene, our chief political editor, Chris Mason,

reports from the front line. I'm here at the picket line. I've forced my way to the front to talk to one of the lead picketers. Salutations, Mr Mason. Jacob Rees-Mogg. I didn't recognise you in the donkey jacket and the cloth cap. I am fully behind the stripers. They are opposed to modernisation and so am I.

But some say they want to turn the clock back to the 70s. Indeed, the 1870s was the golden age of railroads. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for Nanny to do my chanting for me. Come on, Nanny, what do we want? With industrial action spreading to teachers, barristers, bin men and royal mail staff, it seems there is no end in sight. Chancellor Rishi Sunak. It's nice to see you, Martha, to see you.

Give us a 12, give us a 12. Chancellor, are you all right? Yes, I'm fine, Martha. Now, as I was saying, the unions want higher, higher, higher pay rises, but to combat inflation they need to be lower, lower, lower. I think you've contracted a nasty dose of the 1970s.

91-year-old Rupert Murdoch and Gerry Hall have announced they're divorcing. Friends say they've grown apart, with Murdoch spending most of his time reading, and Gerry spending most of hers sneaking up behind him and popping balloons. Mr Murdoch joins us on the line. She left me, Martha, the cow.

She left me for someone younger than me. How do you know? I'm Rupert bloody Murdoch, Martha. Everyone's younger than me. How do you know? I'm Rupert bloody Murdoch, Martha. Everyone's younger than me. The Glastonbury Festival is back. At 80 years old, Paul McCartney is the oldest ever headliner.

I love Glastonbury, you know. It's great. It's the wildest, most rock and roll place on earth, you know. So it's just as crazy. There's so many drugs backstage, man. You know, I mean, like, I've got my arthritis medication. Diana Ross is smashing the diabetes pills. Mick Jagger's absolutely caning the blood pressure tablets. When I last played Glastonbury in 78,

I was just paid the petrol money. You know, if I'd taken that deal this year, I'd be getting twice the 100 grand they're paying me. A Tory donor has paid £120,000 at a fundraising event for a dinner with David Cameron, Boris Johnson and Theresa May. Mrs May, are you looking forward to it? Do you know, I am. Although we've had no word yet

in which circle of Dante's hell it's taking place. My guess is the third level, between the grinding of the innocent's bones and the water torture for all eternity. Sounds like my sort of place. And finally, a statue to honour the Windrush generation

who travelled to the UK in the 1950s has been unveiled. Unveiled in Kingston, Jamaica, so that all the Windrush immigrants illegally deported back there could see it. Well, the Lib Dems have given another kicking to the Tories at the ballot box, which I guess is like being given one of Paddington's hard stares.

Let's go over to Tiverton now, where we can talk to the Liberal Democrat leader, Sir Ed Davey. This is a wonderful day for the Lib Dems. Truly a day of rejoicing. Hooray! Are you there, Mr Davey? I can't see you Yeah, I know you can't

That's because I'm at the bottom of this tin mine Oh dear, are you alright? Not really I think I've broken both my legs And possibly my neck There's no bother really How did it happen? Well, I was doing one of my electoral triumph stunts,

like when I knocked down that blue wall with my little yellow hammer after we won Amersham. What a brilliant metaphor. The tin mine was meant to be the hole the Tories had got into in Tiverton, and I was going to be winched out on golden wings to represent our success, but the cable sort of snapped

and sort of plunged me about 50 feet onto solid rock. Been here for hours. Oh, dear. Is nobody helping you out? No, everyone thinks it's another metaphor. Well, perhaps it is a metaphor that overconfidence can breed hubris and we'll all inevitably find... It's not a bloody metaphor! Oh, hang on, I think I'm safe!

I'm in your lorry! Help! Help! I'm down here! Get up! Oh, I think they're going to fill it in. Oh, I'm being covered in red sandstone! You mean after your golden rise, you're being engulfed in a tide of red, just as Labour may dwarf your by-election triumphs

in the next election. With our symbols gold, that's really deep. Not helpful! This summer, it's the family film of the year. Oh, Phyllis, Peter, it feels like all we ever do is sit at this railway station waiting for Daddy. Although I must say, there don't seem to be many trains today. LAUGHTER It's The Railway Strike, children.

APPLAUSE It's the railway strike, children Dustin, the town is under siege by a monster from a portal Well, this is Stranger Things, Max We've had four seasons of opening various portals to hell and fighting monsters Wouldn't it be weirder if the town wasn't under siege by a monster from a portal? Good point. But this monster is different, and this time the portal seems to have opened. There! Look!

The monster that's been haunting my dreams! It's worse than the Demogorgon. It looks like a zombie. You kids watch your f***ing mouth. It looks like a zombie. You kids, watch your f***ing mouth. Greetings, children. I am not a zombie.

Not unless it's a Thursday. That's when I'll get more special medication. What do you want from a strange creature? I am from the Upside Down, a strange dimension which cannot be explained. It's a dimension where Kate Bush has a hit record and I haven't. So you, ginger nut, stop playing Hounds of Love on that pissing

Walkman and play one of my songs I've not had a hit since 2003. I don't know any of your songs, Mr. Zombie. None of you kids heard Bark at the Moon? No. Oh, Christ. It's probably best the Demogorgon eats you then, you little ****.

The portal's opening again. Hello, kids, my name is George. As well as Karma Chameleon, I did a song called Church of the Poisoned Mind, which would illustrate perfectly Eleven's struggle against her father after the massacre at Hawkins Lab. Don't listen to any of these rock folk.

You need my record when it's so very quiet. So very, very quiet. Shh. And then when the monsters attack, it gets very, very noisy! And then it gets very quiet again. There's too many rock stars coming through. The world will be overrun with them.

Hey, don't worry, kids. I've got the means to stop them. Is that Bob Geldof over there? Yeah, I thought that'd do it. What did you do? Well, this is the 80s. Nobody wants to be roped into making another charity single. So I can't interest you in one of my songs.

How about this? We're going through changes. Another run-off. Philistines. And welcome back to Andrew Marr on LBC. I'm joined from the picket line by RMT leader Mick Lynch. Mr Lynch, one of the key criticisms of your union is that you've repeatedly resisted the introduction of new technology.

Well, that's rubbish. We're not scared of technology. And I said that to Grant Shapps in a strongly worded telegraph. A telegraph? Fine, a messenger boy. But only because my telegraph doodah was at the Ironmongers. Did you oppose the introduction of a new communications app? Course not. You can't do that. Look, just because I sound like Bob Hoskins with a head cold,

don't think I'm some old-fashioned geezer. I'm modern, me. I've got a toaster. OK, well, moving on. Did you not hear me? A toaster, Andrew. You probably thought I'd hold my bread over a match and wait for it to go brown. Mr Lynch, we're speaking to you via satellite, and we can see that... Via what?

Via satellite. I never agreed to that. Well, how did you imagine that we were speaking? Well, I thought you was one of them dwarves and you were hiding inside the camera. I ain't having none of this newfangled satellite hoo-ha. You won't catch muggins here getting turned into digital watsits by your right-wing telekinesis machine. Mr Lynch, perhaps we can find another way to conduct this interview.

Ah, forget it. You're just trying to reinvent the wheel now. And I wasn't too keen on that in the first place. Let's go back to dragging stuff. Heathcliff, it's me, I'm Craig Boone, I'm not home, no. It's a message after the script. Hey, so, like, it's Billie Eilish here. No, Mom, I won't clean my room! I hate you! Just wanted to literally call you or whatever,

or say, like, totally congratulations on your first single. Great idea to give your track an 80s vibe so vintage, yeah. Totally not easy starting out in this business. So if you need to talk to someone who's been there and done that, call me, yeah? We can go for a bottle of tea or just hang out on Snapchat. Yeah. Listen well, young hobbit. For the journey we must take will be perilous,

but one we must undertake. We live here at dawn, setting out across the misty marches. From there we enter the mountains of destiny. Steal yourself and be aware, for many a young hobbit has been lost on those treacherous hills. Take care to choose the right path, for unless we reach the river Feenybee by sunset, all will be lost. Summon up your last ounce of courage to make that

crossing and we will be within sight of the fabled Gardens of Jarl. And it's there, and only there, we will find a real replacement bus which can get us to Glastonbury. Hello? You've reached Marine La Pen. Smashing the patriarchy and proving women can be bigots too.

You are dead, bitch. Marine, you saucy mix. Big night here. No, no, no, let me speak. Congrats you bloody lations on your incredible election result. It's outstanding, really impressive. And I haven't been this excited about a French administration since Vichy. There you go.

You know, I can't tell you how refreshing it is to see a campaign run on narrow-minded suspicion and fear to do so well. Amazing. Takes me back to the good old days of 2016. It really does, you know. Anyway, now that you've got a bit more power, I'm thinking you might be in need of an advisor to help you push for your

very own Frexit. Endless airport queues, crippling labour shortages, and £9 billion a year in lost trade. Now, I can help you bring all that to France. Think it over, sugar tits, and let me know. Speak soon. Thank you.

I have spent most of my life travelling the British Rail Network. I've taken in the sights and sounds and I've enjoyed blinding fellow passengers with my luminous pink slacks and tangerine blouse. But with strikes grinding the network to a standstill, I'll instead be spending this week's Great Whale Ray journey sitting here at home. My message to the nation's rail workers is this. Thank you, thank you,

because you've made me realise just how much I bloody hate British trains. Did you really think I enjoyed being crammed into a stinking hot carriage, dragged from one boring town to the next, where I have to listen to some yokel wang on about an old mill? Why do you think I look like a discarded leather satchel? So would you if you lived on only upper-crust baguettes and pots of UHT milk? So, rail workers, don't compromise.

Keep asking for more. Stay on strike forever. In fact, burn the trains down. Burn them all down and melt the tracks. Whilst I sit at home, slowly crossing one knee over the other, pausing briefly to enjoy the friction. Ah. Total bliss.

Dear diary, Liz Truss here. But you knew that. Which other foreign secretary has got a Hello Kitty diary marked top secret keep out in a sparkly gel pen?

I know! Now that I'm such a key player in the world stage, it's bye bye pork market gags and hello Northern Ireland protocol. It's riddled with impossible problems like deciding which hat to wear on my trip. The Russian Liz Trusky number got so many likes on Twitter and nothing says don't mess with me like commanding and relevant headwear. So for Ireland, I've bought one of those Guinness hats you get in the pub. So it's really important to show people that you understand their culture. So in prep, I've done a deep dive fact-finding mission. I spent two hours doing a which dairy girl are you quiz online. Had to do it a few times, go back and change my answers because I wanted to be the sassy nun. Anyway, I've got to run.

There's a potential leadership contest to think about. Say no more. And after my champagne fundraising event, Fizz with Liz was such a hit. I've got to go and get my vocal rest for my private musical recital tomorrow.

Les Mis with Liz. I've dreamed a dream of number ten. Dope! In a world filled with death and despair, there is one group of British superheroes dedicated to upholding all that's good and decent. Sir Ian McKellen. Open the gates to Mordor!

Sir Patrick Stewart. Open hailing frequencies, Mr. Riker. Dame Judi Dench. Open fire, 007. And Alan Bennett. Open sandwich barrel. and Alan Bennett. Open sandwich, Beryl.

No, thank you. Slap a Hobus on top and cover me cucumbers, modesty. They are the National Treasures. The National Treasures have been summoned to their secret base deep beneath BAFTA headquarters. We're here to welcome the latest national treasure. His name is Martin Lewis. He's Britain's most famous money-saving expert.

I've never heard of him. Me neither. No, me. Martin's show is on ITV. Enough said. The nation has taken Martin to their hearts by being a champion for the poor and destitute for many years. You do feel for those wretched actors.

The cost of living crisis has forced people to make terrible choices. Yes, we've seen your money supermarket ad. Hardly Madea at the Almeida, is it? If you can't beat him, join him, I say. I'm replacing Ryland as the face of Cinch. Enjoy them, I say. I'm replacing Rylan as the face of Cinch. Should keep me in Waitrose macaroons for the foreseeable.

Hello, I am Martin Lewis, and I'm about to deliver an impassioned eight-minute monologue to camera about slashing the cost of broadband by moving into the crawlspace in your neighbour's house. Martin, welcome. Bloody hell, this base is enormous. This must cost a fortune to heat. Do you own or rent it? Oh, well, I don't really think we've ever thought about

that before. Then, Judy, the perimeter has been breached. Hardy, hi, everyone. Now that's the real deal. Lovely jubbly Here's my tongue

Mr Lewis Why are all these people in our base? They are my new cut price national treasures Sue Pollard, David Dickinson and Greg Wallace I've calculated how much the National Theatre Spends on you And I've worked out that making the cherry orchard With these people saves 95%

They work for scale and bring their own toilet rolls. Charming. After all we've done for the country, we're chucked onto the scrap heap. I will now flounce out with my scarf fluttering behind me. Oh, don't leave like that. I've got a voucher that means you can flounce out for 50% less. You're listening to Front Row, with the UK seemingly hurtling back to the 1970s,

it's perfect timing for the release of this bold new take on the 70s classic New York detective film, Shaft. Help! Help over here! Some hoodlums just beat up my son! Gosh, yes, what a mess. So, as the person in overall charge here, what I'm going to do is sort of sit in my office and just sort of twiddle my thumbs, basically. You ain't going to get away with this.

What's your name? Some people know me as the MP for Welland Hatfield. But you can call me... Shaps! Who's the public dick that gets on everybody's wick? Shaps. Grand Shaps, baby. Who chicken out when negotiations are all about?

Yeah, Shaps. Can you dig it? HS2, I mean. They say this cat Shaps is a bad mother. He's sure as hell a bad transport secretary. Shaps. And if anyone else gets mugged, it's Keir Starmer's fault. Welcome back to The One Show.

Now, have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a drama made about you? Well, my next guest found out when he watched Danny Boyle's new series about the Sex Pistols. Johnny Rotten, or as we now know him, John Lydon, joins us now. Hello, Johnny. That show is a bloody travesty. It's an abomination. It's an insult to punk.

You didn't like it, then? Where was all the stuff about butter? Butter? Yeah, butter. That's what set us apart. While the other punks were freebasing heroin, we were hanging out with the Wurzels, injecting pure

country life into our veins. Don't believe me? Here's that famous clip off the Bill Grundy show, which I changed into exactly how I remember it. Are you worried, or are you just enjoying yourself? You dirty old margarine.

What did you say? Sorry, I old margarine. What did you say? Sorry, I said margarine. Rude word. Go on, you've got another five seconds. Say something outrageous. Flora. Say some more rude words. Clover.

Any more filth? Utterly butterly. Stork SB. Gold from St St Ivor. The pistol split up after that when I found a tub of I can't believe it's not butter under Steve Jones' bed. We never shared a knob of law pack again. Dared Ringers was performed by John Coleshaw,

Lewis MacLeod, Jan Ravens, Deborah Stevenson and Duncan Wisby. The writers were Nev Fountain and Tom Jameson, Lawrence Harth, Ed Amston and Tom Coles, James Buck, Edward Chu, Rebecca Bain, Cody Darla, Jade Gebbe, Robert Dark, Rachel Thorne, Sophie Dixon and Cameron Loxdale. It was a BBC Studios production and the producer and creator was Bill Dare.