Marwood:
[voiceover]
If The Crow and Crown ever had life it was dead now. It was like walking into a lung. A self-sustained nicotine-yellow and fly-blown lung. Its landlord was a retired alcoholic with military pretensions and a complexion like the inside of a teapot. By the time the doors opened he was arseholed on rum and got progressively more arseholed until he could take no more and fell over at about 12 o'clock.
[the drunken, elderly pub landlord opens the till and it hits it him the chest and he almost falls down]
General:
Thought I was going for a minute. But no man's put me down yet. Have you had any training in the martial arts?
Withnail:
Yes, as a matter of fact I have. Before I became a journalist I was in the Territorials.
General:
Do you know, when you first came in here I knew you were a services man. You can never, never disguise it.
Withnail:
What were you in?
General:
Tanks. Afrika Korps. A little before your time. Don't suppose you've engaged, have you?
Withnail:
Ireland.
General:
Oooh, a crack at the Mick?
Withnail:
We'll have another pair of large scotches.
General:
These shall be my pleasure.
[he pours their drinks]
General:
What are you doing up here, then?
Withnail:
We're doing a feature for Country Life. Survey of rural types. You know, farmers, travelling tinkers, milkmen, that sort of thing.
General:
Have you met Jake? Poacher. Works the lake, but keep it under your hat, hm?
[they go and sit down at a table with their drinks]
Marwood:
What's all this army bollocks?
Withnail:
We got a drink, didn't we?
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05/03/2025 alle ore 07:51
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