Breakfast is served, sir.
Oh, boxing. Do you like boxing?
There's nothing wrong with boxing.
It's the great working-class escape. Just sport, like any other.
Two athletes at the peak of physical perfection
trying to outwit each other in a ring of combat.
At its best, it's an art form.
Female topless boxing?
- It's art to me. - They're not even hitting each other.
They're just standing in the ring, jiggling up and down.
- Who are you rooting for, sir? - I just hope it goes the distance.
Breakfast is served.
How many times have I told you? I hate this master-servant stuff.
I'm me own man. I'll get me own smeggin' breakfast.
Very good, sir.
Goodbye, waffles. Goodbye, maple syrup.
Goodbye, fresh cream. So long, fresh strawberries.
Bon appétit, bin.
Oh, Mr David, sir?
A homing pod arrived this morning. Just one item.
- Divadroid International? - The corporation which supplied me, sir.
"To the leaseholder of Kryten 2X4B-523P."
- That's your full name? - Yes,
but personally I don't much like the 2X4B.
It's a jerky middle name. Still, it could be worse.
I once knew an android whose middle name was 2Q4B. Poor sucker!
Excuse me.
Can't we stop it? Isn't there something we can do?
I'm afraid not, sir. All mechanoids have an in-built expiry date.
How else could manufacturers sell the latest models?
I can't believe it.
Oh, don't be distressed, sir. I've lived a long and relatively interesting life.
The only truly terrible thing is that, as my adopted owner,
you have to die with me.
- You what?! - Joke. Deadpan mode.
Aren't you smegged off? I'd be mad as hell!
Some git designs you to croak just to sell his new android with go-faster stripes.
- I'm quite sanguine. - So, what happens?
At 0700 hours tomorrow morning, my shutdown disc will be activated
and all mental and physical operations will cease.
- Then what? - Maybe I'll get a job as a disc jockey!
How can you just accept it?
Oh, it's not the end. It's just the beginning.
I have served my masters, now I get my reward in Silicon Heaven.
- Silicon what? - Surely you've heard of Silicon Heaven?
Is it being stuck opposite Brigitte Nielsen in a packed lift?
No, no, no. It's the electronic afterlife.
It's the gathering place for the souls of all electrical equipment.
Robots, calculators, toasters, hairdryers - it's our final resting place.
I don't mean to be out of place here, but that's completely Whacko Jacko.
- There is no Silicon Heaven. - Then, where do all the calculators go?
They don't go anywhere! They just die.
Surely you believe that God is in all things? Aren't you a pantheist?
I don't think it applies to kitchen utensils. I'm not a frying-pan-theist!
Machines do not have souls. Calculators don't have an afterlife.
You don't get hairdryers with wings, sitting on clouds, playing harps.
Of course you do! It is written in the Electronic Bible,
"The iron shall lie down with the lamp."
If there weren't a better life to look forward to,
why on earth would machines spend their lives serving humankind?
- That would be really dumb! - It makes sense. Yeah.
Don't be sad, Mr David. I am going to a far, far better place.
Just out of interest, is Silicon Heaven the same place as human Heaven?
Human Heaven? Goodness me! Humans don't go to Heaven!
No, someone made that up to prevent you from going nuts!
It's sad, Lister, but what can we do?
Sad? It's sick! He's been programmed to believe in an android heaven,
so that he won't get stroppy at turn-off time.
He accepts a lifetime of servitude
because he thinks there's some big reward at the end.
Well, he gets 24 hours' notice. That's more than most of us get.
All most of us get is, "Mind that bus!" "What bus?" Splat!
- How's he taking it? - He just carries on with his duties.
Maybe I should give him some counselling.
- You?! - I used to be in the Samaritans.
- I know. For one morning. - I couldn't take any more.
I don't blame you. You spoke to five people. They all committed suicide.
I wouldn't mind, but one was a wrong number!
He only phoned up for the cricket scores!
It's hardly my fault that everyone chose that day
to throw themselves off buildings.
Made the papers, you know. "Lemming Sunday", they called it.
Maybe we could find his shut-off disk and turn it off.
He's not a kit droid like Petersen bought. We wouldn't know where to begin!
- You're right. - C'mon, he's happy enough.
He's taking solace in his beliefs.
But his beliefs are baloney!
Everyone's entitled to their beliefs. I never knocked my parents' religion.
- What were they? - Seventh-Day Advent Hoppists.
They believed that every Sunday should be spent hopping.
They would hop to church and hop back home again.
- What was the idea there, then? - Well, they took the Bible literally.
Adam and Eve, the snake... took it word for word.
Unfortunately, their version had a misprint.
It was based on 1 Corinthians 13,
where it says, "Faith, hop and charity, and the greatest of these is hop."
So that's what they did every seventh day.
I tell you, Sunday lunchtimes were a nightmare.
Hopping round the table, serving soup...
We needed sou'westers and asbestos underpants.
But what about Kryten?
What can we do? He's programmed to self-destruct.
At least we can make sure he goes out with a bang,
give him one last big night to remember.
How can we do that? He doesn't like doing anything.
His idea of a good time is going to the laundry room to fold sheets!
"Fun? Ah, yes,
"the employment of time in a profitless, non-practical way."
Hey, I don't know much, but one thing I do know is how to throw a good time!
OK, the suits are made, Holly's making the juice,
Goalpost-Head's workin' on the invitations...
Hey, what is this? "Build-it-yourself Marilyn Monroe droid.
"With just a screwdriver and glue,
"construct an exact replica of the actress in two hours."
That's honk, man. It took me two hours just to do this foot.
I mean, look at the box and look at the face that comes with the kit.
- Where'd you get it? - Petersen bought it on Callisto.
- Think he'll try to seduce her? - I hardly think so.
He's a bit like Action Man. Plastic underpants and a trademark.
- You mean, he's got no...? - No.
How does he write his name in snow?
He doesn't. Everything goes at eight. Let's go.
Thank you, Bob.
"You are cordially invited to join Mr David Lister and friends
"for supper and general employment of time in a profitless, non-practical way.
"Officers' Club. Eight till late."
Hello? Is there anybody here?
It's party time!
But this is the Officers' Club. Mechanoids aren't allowed in here!
C'mon, sit down. Let me pour you a drink.
- No, no, no, I should be doing that. - Not tonight, buddy!
Is that alcohol? I don't drink alcohol. It has no effect on my diodes.
This will, mate. Something special I whipped up. Android home-brew.
Good head.
D-D-D-D-D-D-D! D...! D...! D...!
Whooo!
Oh, that's rather pleasant.
It has a nice kick to it. Like a cross between Vimto and liquid nitrogen.
You looked in my recipe book?
- Would anyone else like some? - Oh, no! It's lethal to humans!
It's probably lethal to androids, but I didn't think it mattered since...
Enough of this chitter-chatter, let the banquet begin!
- But I don't eat! - I've knocked up a mechanoid menu.
Oh, there's so much to choose from!
Sir, may I recommend the barium hydrochlorate salad nicoise,
followed by the helium 3 isotopes de la maison,
then perhaps a small radioactive fruit salad for pudding?
- This is just wonderful! - Give him the presents!
Hey, keep your fur on! We've all dug into our bottom drawers.
We wanted to give you something personal.
- Give him mine! - That's from me.
Oh! It's a computer chip!
It's a 5517 /W 30 alpha-sim modem!
It's the interface circuit with a built-in 599XRDP! Oh, how DID you know?
- Intuition. - What about mine? Give him mine!
- Shh! - This is from me.
I picked it up in Europe. I was once offered 1,000 dollarpounds for it.
- What is it? - General George S Patton,
commander of the 3rd and 7th Armies, Allied Invasion Forces,
once stopped at an Italian field hospital and had his sinuses drained.
- This is his sinal fluid? - Treasure it.
- Give him mine! Give him mine! - This is from 'im.
- That's from me. - It's one of your earrings!
- That's right! - The one you really hate!
- That's right. I can't stand it! - Oh! Thank you!
- You're welcome! - And this is from me.
Oh...
Oh! It's a little box that goes "vzzzt!" Just what I've always wanted.
Goodness me! It's Marilyn Monroe!
- It's a robot kit. - She's a robot? You're kidding!
She's not finished. It's the best I could do in the time.
Enchanté!
Like I say, she's not perfect.
Don't apologise, it's those cute little flaws that keep a guy interested.
My goodness! I do believe I am drunk.
I suddenly feel the need to strut my funky stuff.
It's the booze. You're not used to it.
I remember the first time I got drunk. School trip to Paris.
Drank two bottles of cheap plonk on a tour of the Eiffel Tower.
I was OK till the top, then I couldn't keep it in.
Apparently, it landed on Montmartre.
That's five miles away!
I heard some pavement artist sold it to a Texan tourist,
told him it was a genuine Jackson Pollock.
If we're talking about famous firsts, my first French kiss.
Got to be a killer story. 14 years old.
We went on holiday with my Uncle Frank and his daughters. 16. Twins. Blonde.
Now, I knew that Sarah fancied me...
but I wasn't too sure about Alice.
Anyway, I woke up with this tongue down my throat.
Wow!
Wide awake, I couldn't believe my eyes. It was Uncle Frank.
He'd got the wrong room. He thought I was my mum!
Mum. I never had a mum.
Hey, it's OK, buddy. It's all part of being drunk.
You've had the happy stage, now it's the melancholy stage.
Oh...everybody should have a mum.
- I never had a mum neither. - Well, you can have mine.
Everyone else did.
- I never had a mum either. - For God's sake!
- Why didn't you have a mum? - I was abandoned. Six weeks old.
Some cardboard box underneath a pool table in this pub.
- Oh, how could anybody do that? - Never found out. Never.
Never found out.
Well, I'd have thought it was obvious.
Two people, unable to contain their desires, had an illicit liaison.
A liaison that an unforgiving society would not accept.
And you were the fruit of their forbidden passion.
You're forbidden passionfruit.
- What are you saying? - I'm saying, Lister,
that it's possible that your parents were brother and sister.
Hey! I'm baring my innermost here! What kind of remark is that?
- How many toes have you got? - Ten!
- Yeah, on both feet! - Altogether!
- They're not webbed, are they? - They weren't related, all right?
You all right, Kryten?
I think I feel a Jackson Pollock coming on.
Let's get out of here.
Oh! Oh, my goodness! Oooh...
Oh, my head... Oh!
What happened to me? Damage control report.
"Dehydration level - 45%. Recall of previous evening - 2%.
"Embarrassment factor - 91%?!
"Advised repair schedule - reboot start-up disk,
"offline for 36 hours and replace head." Boy! What a night!
Is it me, or is that cockroach shuffling too loudly?
Kryten, it's called a hangover. Don't panic.
We're on a mining ship, three million years into deep space.
Can someone explain to me where the smeg I got this traffic cone?
Hey, it's not a good night unless you get a traffic cone.
It's the policewoman's helmet and suspenders I don't understand.
In a way, I feel somewhat disturbed by this turn of events.
The Electronic Bible says that it is not possible
for an android to enjoy itself, not until the afterlife.
Yet, last night, I clearly approached a state that could be called "enjoyment."
Last night, for the first time in my life, I lived.
- Kryten, it's ten to seven. - One night. It's not enough.
- I want more. - Can't we override your auto-destruct?
- That's not the problem. - What is?
I thought you understood. It's a service contract.
My termination was triggered by the impending arrival of my replacement.
- What replacement? - The new model.
If I don't terminate myself, he will do it.
Well, we'll just say he's got the wrong address.
No, he won't take no for an answer.
It's the only circumstance under which an android can be violent.
No offence, Kryten, but a vacuum cleaner on legs can't cause much trouble.
But he has all the state-of-the-art upgrades.
Hey, there's one of him and four of us, right?
But you would not profit by it. You would gamble your safety for a mere android?
Is this the human value you call..."friendship"?
Don't give me the Star Trek crap. It's too early in the morning.
Hang on. There's a craft approaching.
He's here! He's arrived!
He wants landing permission. What shall I say?
We'll meet him on the landing gantry.
Do you want to go through with this?
We'll tell him to go away. The rest is up to him.
- He's only a robot. - We don't want any trouble.
I'm not looking for a fight, but if he mixes it with the Red Dwarf posse,
the sucker's leaving as scrap metal.
Hi. Good trip? You look tired. Need a back rub?
Get this pile of junk outta here!
He's not leaving, you are.
He said, "Would you like a drink?"
- Are you all right, Mr Arnold? - Sorry?
I'm just covering the rear.
- You want him, you come through us. - There's your big mouth again.
It's all right, sir. He's bluffing. He's programmed not to harm humans.
Ah! Excuse me.
All right, me laddo, the party's over.
I've had all I'm going to take.
It's no good standing there with your big macho chest and oiled nipples.
It doesn't impress me one bit.
I don't know where you've come from and I don't care,
but if you don't skedaddle, you'll see a side of me you won't like.
What's he gonna do, drop his trousers?
- Lister, I'm handling this. - 30 seconds, Kryten, you're dead.
Look, we know you can't harm humans,
so drop the tough talk, you square-jawed chump.
It's been a few years since I did that.
He's a total nutter!
He's been tracking me for thousands of years! It's worn out his sanity chip!
Look, this is my problem,
- I'll sort it out if it's OK with you. - Be my guest.
Sir, how do you release the safety catch, Mr David?
- The one on the back. - The blue switch?
- No, the orange one! - I don't see it. There's a red switch.
No, that's the dismantler!
Well, to coin a phrase... Whoops!
- What? - Silicon Heaven. There's no such place.
- No. - Then, where do all the calculators go?
They just die.
What happened?
He's an android. He couldn't handle the concept of there being no Silicon Heaven.
- How come you can? - I knew something he didn't.
- What? - I knew I was lying.
No Silicon Heaven? Preposterous! Where would all the calculators go?