The Unbelievable Truth - 12x01 Poison, Etiquette, Jelly, David Mitchell

Episode Date: December 22, 2021

12x01 30 December 2013 Arthur Smith, Henning Wehn, Bridget Christie, Ed Byrne Poison, Etiquette, Jelly, David Mitchell

We present The Unbelievable Truth, the panel game built on truth and lies. In the chair, please welcome David Mitchell. Hello and welcome to The Unbelievable Truth, the panel show about incredible truths and barely credible lies. I'm David Mitchell and today the show is coming to you from a BBC-funded beach festival in Mauritius for Labour Party supporters. Actually, no, it's a small tent in Edinburgh. I just wanted to annoy the Daily Mail. Please welcome Arthur Smith, Bridget Christie, Henning Vane and Ed Byrne. The rules are as follows.

Each panellist will present a short lecture that should be entirely false, save for five pieces of true information, which they should attempt to smuggle past their opponents, cunningly concealed amongst the lies. Points are scored by truths that go unnoticed, while other panellists can win points if they spot a truth, or lose points if they mistake a lie for a truth. First up is fringe legend Arthur Smith. Arthur, your subject is poison, described by my encyclopaedia as a substance with the inherent property to destroy life or impair health.

Off you go, Arthur. Fingers on buzzers, the rest of you. Right, poison. The poison dart frog has enough poison within it to kill the entire population of Birmingham, but not Glasgow, where they fry them in batter in chip shops. Ed? I think the poisonous dart frog has enough poison in it to kill the entire population of Birmingham.

It does not. The golden poison dart frog has enough poison in it to kill ten people per frog, which is less than the population of Birmingham. How do they know it's got enough to kill ten people? Did they do an experiment? Well, I mean, we can only assume that they must some very cruel scientists got ten people from well they presumably they got no no

no they these could be people from anywhere oh from any yeah is it was it adult people not children i think they would have got adult people it wouldn't count because you could probably kill more children with it so here on radio four you can you can kill more children with frog poison then um so they would have signed a consent form then if they were i'm guessing i'm guessing they've got they would have had to get more than 10 people in they probably got up to 30 people in and then say okay let's see how many of you guys die yeah exactly yeah and they all had to draw a number then didn't they yeah, who gets a little sick of the... And then, oh, no, I'm number four.

I'm definitely going to pack it in. And the other one, oh, I'm number 22. I might be able to go to the Maldives. The Maldives? Maldives. Henning has forgotten how to speak English. Go to the Maldives. Maldives. Maldives, yeah. I don't think there's going to be any... Go to the Maldives.

I don't think there's going to be any... Stop patronising me, everyone. I'm doing very well. Why... Why... Why do they get a Maldives holiday if they live? Is that the scenario? Well, the scenario is because... Did you work in this lab?

Is this another thing that your people did during the war? Yeah, well, my grandfather was quite closely involved in the whole experiment. Anyway... I'm starting to think I really shouldn't have buzzed in on this. This is a grave error on my part. The poison in a golden poison dart frog can kill ten people,

but a gram of the poison can kill 15,000 people. So, please, Arthur, move on to the second sentence of your lecture. Kum Chaibadi of Thailand holds the record for kissing poisonous snakes. He kissed 19 king cobras in 2006 and, ironically, was crushed to death by a boa constrictor in 2007. Ed? I don't believe the boa constrictor bit, but the bit before that. Kum Chaibadi holds the record for kissing the most poisonous snakes.

You're absolutely right. Yes. The cobras were released one by one onto a stage where Kum Chaibadi, a part-time snake charmer, kissed each in turn in order to beat the previous record of 11 venomous snakes. A man, or as Henny would no doubt say, a goat, nearly died of alcohol poisoning

at an airport security checkpoint in 2007 after drinking an entire litre of vodka rather than handing it over to officials before taking his flight. Henning. I'm sorry, but that does sound entirely plausible. It is entirely... It's true. I read about it. So you read about it?

That was in the papers. The incident occurred at Nuremberg... The incident occurred at Nuremberg... The incident occurred at Nuremberg Airport. At Nuremberg. Nuremberg. Right. And there wasn't any other incident you could have unearthed, no? The incident occurred at an airport in Germany

where the 64-year-old German passenger was changing planes on his way home to Dresden from a holiday in Egypt. To Dresden? Yeah. When he was told that new security rules on liquids meant he'd either have to surrender the vodka or pay to have it checked in a cargo...

Surrender? Anyway, that's true. It was you, Henning, wasn't it? So you get a point. Arthur. The subject of poison has always been an excuse to talk about farting. To wit, if you try to attack a bombardier beetle, it

will blast you with an explosive fart of boiling hot poisonous gas. The same as if you tried to attack my friend Bobby Lightwing at school. Adolf Hitler was very nearly poisoned when a doctor prescribed belladonna and strychnine to the Fuhrer to try and control his chronic flatulence. Hitler was not alone amongst prominent Nazis in having this problem.

He once held a farting contest with Herman Goering. Oh, come off it. That is simply slanderous. Are you saying that what you think Arthur said is slander and therefore not truth? I don't care if it's true or not, but I

don't want to hear it. So what did you think was true, Henning? I haven't given to hear it. So what did you think was true, Henny? I haven't given it any thought. Is a German fart different from a British fart? Oh, it's superior, I would assume. In what? In noise, smell, texture? Well, overall performance.

I think if it's got texture, it's not a fart anymore. That's all we've got time for on Start the Week. The man after whom Parkinson's disease is named, a certain Mr Parkinson, was suspected of plotting to assassinate George III with a poisoned dart. The dart narrowly missed the king as he sat playing cards with Bo Brummel, Bo Nash and Bo Diddley. Thank you, Arthur.

Right, at the end of that round, Arthur, you've managed to smuggle three truths past the rest of the panel, which are that when physically assaulted, the bombardier beetle ejects a hot mixture of gas and liquid from the tip of their abdomen. The second truth is that Hitler was prescribed belladonna and strychnine to try and control his chronic flatulence. These were taken in the form of a product called... That is foreign propaganda, and I'm not buying any of this. A product called Dr. Kostler's anti-gas pills. Hitler also took belladonna products

to ward off the first sign of Parkinson's disease, which they believe Hitler had. The third truth is that James Parkinson, the man after whom Parkinson's disease is named, was suspected of plotting to assassinate George III with a poisoned dart. I was going to buzz for that one. That rang true for you. Yeah, but I didn't want to buzz in and take up any time.

Anyway, that means, Arthur, you've scored three points. Three. OK, we turn now to Henning Weyn. Henning is currently performing a fringe show all about a typical German Christmas. Agonisingly forced merriment in the company of a few family members, although some reviews have been kinder. Your subject, Henning, is etiquette,

a system of rules and conventions governing acceptable behaviour within a particular community or social group. Off you go, Henning. Etiquette was invented by Jesus, who was fed up with the scrum that happened whenever he and his disciples sat down for supper. Eventually he said, right, that's the last supper I'm having with you lot.

And Judas, get your hand out the bread bowl. And the Roman occupiers, meanwhile, would retire to a vomitorium after eating. Bridget? I think that's true, that they vomited after. Well, it might be true that they vomited after meals, but not in the vomitorium. The vomitorium is the name for the exits

from public arenas like the Colosseum because the idea is that the people inside the Colosseum were, as it were, vomited forth through the vomitorium into the outside world which is a very disgusting way to describe leaving I hope that the audience here, when they leave don't think of yourselves as little molecules of sick being spewed out into the world that won't

help yourself esteem any romans had constant stomach ache as they thought it good manners at former dinners to eat in a recumbent position which everyone knows if they've read asterix of course everything in asterix is true apart from one or two glaring errors the idea that the people of France resist invasions for starters. Arthur. Well, I think they did think it was good manners to eat in a recumbent position. Yes, they did.

So do I. At dinner parties, wealthy Romans ate while lying in a reclining position, resting on their left elbow on three couches drawn up in a horseshoe shape around a table. However, Romans did also sometimes eat sitting or standing for less formal meals. But basically, it was like they were all ready

for the invention of the television. For just thousands of years. Unlike France, vomiting has always had an important place in history. Unlike France, vomiting has always had an important place in history. In the 15th century, Erasmus wrote that he was perfectly civilised to vomit, stating it is not vomiting but holding the vomit in your throat that is foul. Arthur. I remember the first year I came to Edinburgh, Erasmus had a one-man show on.

And I remember him saying that. Yeah. Well, yes, he did say that. Well done, Arthur. Well remembered. Yeah. It's in his 1530... I didn't realise you were coming to the fringe as early as 1530.

It was in De Civilitate Morum Puerilium, or On Civility in Children. It was a rubbish Civilitate Morum Puerilium, or On Civility in Children. It was a rubbish show. Erasmus advises, do not be afraid of vomiting if you must. Other advice offered includes, if you cannot swallow a piece of food, turn round discreetly and throw it somewhere.

And it is unseemly after wiping your nose to spread out your handkerchief and peer into it as if pearl and rubies might have fallen out of your head. In 18th century Arabia, it was considered polite to burp loudly after a meal. I know that to be true, because my father, who was a prodigious belcher, always said, yeah, ah, yeah, but if I was an Arab,

everyone loves it, you're meant to belch at the end of a meal. And I don't know if he was lying to me all these years, but I believe that to be true. No, it's a myth. My father has betrayed me. He was just a very, very ill-mannered man. But no, it is not true in Arabia, but it is slightly true of North and Central African custom.

You'll find it in Kenya and Nigeria. All that whole discussion sounded borderline racist. Well, you must have enjoyed it then. I was livid not to be involved. Hey. I was livid not to be involved. Now let's talk about a bit of the world that is civilised. In Germany in the 1900s, medical etiquette demanded that when a doctor gave a terminal diagnosis,

he should give the patient a glass of champagne. So it was always a bit of a worry when the nurse said, the doctor will see you now, and you heard a pop from the other side of the door. Everyone says Germany is the only civilised country in the world, but to be fair there's also our allies and fellow car makers, the Japanese.

And there have been more than 20 recorded fatal skull fractures from Japanese people bowing to each other. I think that's sort of plausible, because I mean, there must be from Japanese people bowing to each other. Arthur? I think that's sort of plausible, because, I mean, there must be so many people bowing, and, like, one of them might be drunk one day,

or you slip as you're doing the bow, and then, you know, out of all those bows, I think it's plausible that a few people might actually have died. You're absolutely right. Oh. Yeah. You're a fire. Yeah. Yeah. You're on fire. Yeah.

You're on fire. I'm so clever. There have been 24 recorded instances of people being killed or receiving serious skull fractures whilst completing the traditional Japanese greeting. Thank you, Henning. And at the end of that round, Henning, you've managed to smuggle one truth past the rest of the panel,

which is that in Germany, and indeed Russia in the 1900s, it was a tradition to give champagne to someone who was terminally ill. It was usually done between medics, though. You'd give it to a fellow dying medic when all hope was gone. And in 1904, Anton Chekhov was extended the privilege because he'd qualified in medicine some 20 years before. According to his wife, Chekhov's last words were, it's a long time since I drank champagne. But that means, Henning, you've scored one point. Next up is Bridget Christie. Your subject, Bridget, is jelly, a clear semi-solid food

substance set with gelatin to an elastic consistency which is consumed as a dessert. Off you go, Bridget. Jelly was invented in 1453 by Vlad the Impaler's cook. Her name, like Vlad the Impaler's mother, is unknown because women only started being named in the 1970s. Vlad was notorious for skewering his cooks if they didn't boil his eggs properly,

so she banned all cutlery, utensils, skewers and instruments of torture from the house and invented a food that Vlad could just eat with his bare hands and feet, which he did by the bucket load. Henning. Now, I'm terribly sorry. I did pay attention from the word go,

but who is that Vlad you're talking about? Vlad the Impaler. Vlad the Impaler. He run a kebab shop. Vlad the Impaler was an Eastern European ruler on whom the Dracula myth is based. Well, then I have it on good account that he was livid when the eggs weren't properly boiled in the mornings.

So now you've heard who Vlad the Impaler is. Just remember being child dead. So you're saying it's true that he skewered his cooks if they didn't boil his eggs properly? Yeah. He didn't. Sorry. You're thinking of Dave the Impaler.

He used to be. Not to be confused with Brian the Impaler, who's a character in The Lion King. Face hit. People from Newcastle don't eat jelly with their hands and feet, but the correct way, with a fork. King Charles II had an affair with jelly that produced two illegitimate jelly babies.

Unfortunately, they were his favourite flavor a spaniel flavor and so after taking them both for a long walk he ate them Ed I'm gonna go with the fact that his favorite flavor of jelly was made from spaniels you can make jelly from bones and I think he ate jelly that was made from dog bones well firstly that wouldn't make it span your flavour, would it? The fact that it was made from bones doesn't mean it's bone flavour. I just had an image of meat jelly,

which is, you know, meat jelly is a common thing. You line pork pies with it and stuff like that, and maybe you could have jelly that was from a dog. The more you talk about it, the more surprised I am that it isn't true. But it isn't. Bridget, carry on.

If you want to order jelly in an American diner, you have to ask for nervous pudding. If you ask for jelly, you'll get arrested. Steven Spielberg. Henning. Well, probably you have to ask for nervous pudding. You do have to ask for nervous pudding. Well done.

Nervous pudding is widely used as a term for what the Americans actually also call jello. If you ask for jelly, you apparently get jam. That's what they... Not jelly. It's funny, isn't it? Yes, that's going right into the trailer. Bridget.

Steven Spielberg is such a huge fan of jelly that he insists on having it on set every day when he's filming. Even the sound of E.T. walking was made by someone squishing their hands in jelly. Ed. I think that's true. Yeah, that is true. Foley artist John Rush used a wet T-shirt stuffed with jelly

to simulate the noise of E.T.'s waddling walk. A bored student thought that a sofa would be much more comfortable if it was filled with jelly, but it wasn't, so he made a waterbed instead. Jelly is not always made from jelly. Some jelly is actually made from the former British racing driver, Sir Stirling Moss. And some jelly is made from Irish moss. Arthur.

I could imagine jelly could be made from some form of Irish moss, although not that much now I think about it. No, you're absolutely right. Oh, good. Yes. Irish moss, also called carrageen, is a type of purplish seaweed commonly found off British coasts.

When boiled, it yields a nutritive jelly used in both foods and medicine. But that's the end of Bridget's lecture and you've managed to smuggle two truths past the rest of the panel. The first is that jelly should be eaten with a fork. This is mentioned in various 19th century etiquette books, including Manners and Rules of Good Society, which advises that jellies, blancmanges, ice puddings, etc. should be eaten with a fork, as should all sweets

sufficiently substantial to admit of it. And the second truth is that in the 1960s, San Francisco State University student Charles Hall, inventor of the modern waterbed, attempted to create a super soft item of furniture that would eliminate pressure points on the body by filling a huge vinyl bag with jelly. So the waterbed was originally going to be the jelly bed, but it didn't work.

And that means, Bridget, you've scored two points. Next up is one of the funniest men in Ireland, the thinking man's Jedward, Ed Byrne. Your subject, Ed, which I should point out here and now is entirely of Ed's own choosing and not one that I have in any way recommended or endorsed, is me. David Mitchell, a British actor, writer and comedian

Probably best known for the Channel 4 sitcom Peep Show And his comedic partnership with Robert Webb Off you go, Ed Born and raised in a Victorian workhouse Dave Danger Mouse Mitchell, as he was known, didn't have a hot meal... I think he may have had the nickname of Danger Mouse at school because I bet that's what he looked like.

I did not. Nothing so dynamic. His nickname was Penfold. It wasn't, but he's so much more likely to have been Penfold than Danger Mouse. Dave Danger Mouse Mitchell, as he was known, didn't have a hot meal until he was 20, didn't hold a girl's hand until he was 21, and it wasn't until the ripe old age of 33

that he first owned a colour TV, first tasted soft cheese, or first owned a double TV, first tasted soft cheese, or first owned a double bed? Bridget. Quite a few of those that I think... I think the, um... I mean, be honest, is there anything of this that you don't believe?

I think the double bed thing. I don't know why. Yes, that's true. Yes, it is, really. I like to be cosy, you know, in a single... To be honest, I hardly had any use for a larger bed. David excelled at sport from an early age. No one's pros at that one.

No, no. When asked in an interview about his greatest extravagance, he replied that he can't help spending money on gym equipment. He wrote most of Mitchell & Webb while on a running machine, likes to lift weights while memorising lines for Peep Show, and wrote much of his autobiography perched on a yoga ball. Bridget. I think the Peep Show one is not true.

Then why did you buzz? I don't know. You're asserting that I like to lift weights while memorising lines from Peep Show. I thought you might, but I think I'm probably wrong. No, that's not true. Ed. At the age of seven, David wrote a letter to Blue Peter

asking if he could become a producer. He's bound to have done that. Can I just finish it? At the age of seven, David wrote a letter to Blue Peter asking if he could become a producer as he felt it was, in his words, getting a bit stale and needed some of the dead wood gotten rid of. That is not true.

That is not true, Arthur. Ed. And at the age of five, he wrote a letter to Play School suggesting ways the BBC could solve its union conflicts. Growing up, David worked proofreading dictionaries and writing the acclaimed novel Cloud Atlas. Arthur. No, I mean, disregarding the Cloud Atlas thing, I think proofreading

dictionaries, maybe. You're right, yes. I, um... I don't know whether to do this in the third or the first person, but I slash he worked at Oxford University Press in my gap year. I've also worked as an usher at the Lyric Theatre in Hammersmith

and in the cloakroom of TFI Friday, where I'm reading interesting facts about myself out as if I'm badgers or something. You've got to feel sorry for David here. You did well to accept this, David. This is one of the most humiliating things I've ever seen in your time.

David Owens, eight different dressing gowns. Bridget. I think I do believe that. Eight different dressing gowns. That's too many, isn't it? It is too many. That is more dressing gowns than I own.

David owns eight different dressing gowns, one for every day of the week, plus a special travel dressing gown to be used exclusively when away from home. That bit, yeah. Yeah, that bit. Yeah, the travelling dressing gown. Yeah, that is true. The travelling dressing gown. Yeah, yeah.

OK, everyone, you can stop buzzing. Yes, yes, I do have a travel dressing gown. It packs away very small. David met his double-act partner, Alexander Armstrong, at Oxford, and their work together has now established David as an internationally renowned global brand, the only British comic to win a Grammy, the only sketch performer to win a Nobel Prize for Literature,

he is our light and saviour, and we wish him a never-ending reign of terror. All hail David Danger Mouse Mitchell. Well, at the end of that round, Ed, you've managed to smuggle two truths past the rest of the panel, which are that

David wrote much of his autobiography perched on a yoga ball, which he purchased to ease back pain. And the second truth is, at the age of five, I wrote a letter to play school suggesting ways the BBC could solve its union conflict. There was a period when the bit under the play school clock at the bottom stopped going round, and it was because of, I was told by my parents, because of a union dispute at the BBC.

And I think at their encouragement, I wrote a letter, and I got a reply accompanied by a BBC balloon, which was a balloon with BBC written on it of which I was very proud. Anyway, that means, Ed, that you've scored two points. David has been told that as a baby his first word was Hoover.

And yes, it probably was a bit precocious to shout it at the TV just after Bamber Gascoigne had said, name the 31st President of the United States. David once featured as a

subject on the quiz show The Unbelievable Truth and even read out some jokes about himself including this one, at which point the show completely disappeared up its own backside. Which which brings us to the final scores.

In fourth place, with minus four points, we have henning vane in third place with no points it's bridget christie and in joint first place with three points each it's this week's winners, Arthur Smith and Ed Byrne. We are the one and only. That's about it for this week from the Festival Fringe in Edinburgh. All that remains is for me to thank our guests. Goodbye. The Unbelievable Truth was devised by John Nesmith and Graham Garvin

and featured David Mitchell in the chair with panellists Ed Byrne, Henning Vein, Bridget Christie and Arthur Smith. Thank you.