Friday Night Comedy from BBC Radio 4 - Dead Ringers - Christmas Day Special 2020

Episode Date: December 25, 2020

This special was recorded on Sunday 20th December.In a change to the usual format, the show listens-in to how the great and good are spending Christmas. Much like everyone else? Maybe not…Mark Drakeford finds a new way of addressing the people of Wales, while Nigel Farage thinks now’s the right time for a pub crawl.Topical satire from Jon Culshaw, Jan Ravens, Lewis McLeod, Debra Stephenson and Duncan Wisbey.The writing squad for the series: Nev Fountain & Tom Jamieson, Laurence Howarth, Ed Amsden & Tom Coles, Sarah Campbell, James Bugg, Jeffrey Aidoo, Alex Hardy, and Lewis Cook.Producer: Bill Dare. A BBC Studios Production

This is the BBC. This podcast is supported by advertising outside the UK. All day long. Taxes extra at participating Wendy's until May 5th. Terms and conditions apply. BBC Sounds. Music, radio, podcasts. Hi, I'm Angela Barnes, host of The Comedy Club. And before you settle in with this excellent podcast, I just want to let you know Sarah Millican told me how to win at Christmas. I like Yorkshire puddings because they're kind of showboat. Somebody could have done the rest of it and then my Yorkshire Puddings come,

ya-ta-ta-ta-ta, dancing in. Subscribe to The Comedy Club interview on BBC Sounds. Dead Ringers Christmas Special and to guide you through I shall regenerate into Craig Cash. Yeah. I shall regenerate into Craig Cash. Yeah. It's Christmas Eve in the Downing Street flat.

Boris? Boris? Boris? Oh, God, oh, no! I should have known in this not-at-all festive season that I would be visited by a horrific ghostly apparition. For goodness sake, Boris, I'm not a ghost. It's me, Teresa. Are you sure you're not a ghost? Just a woman with a vitamin D deficiency.

Pah! Cripes! Understood. But we are here to get you to change your ways. We? Who's we? Hello, Boris. Cameron! Enjoying the job? I thought you'd bought a caravan and become a hippie. That was the plan, but they told me they're into acceptance, free love and togetherness, but they drew the line at me.

We are the failed Conservative Prime Ministers of Christmas past. We're here to save the immortal soul of the Conservative Party and get you to do the honourable thing. I don't quite follow. Come on, Boris. I completely screwed up by losing the EU referendum, so I resigned. And I completely screwed up everything else by messing up a general election and failing to get my Brexit deal through Parliament, so I resigned. I don't see how that connects to me, though. For gods, Boris, come on, man. You failed to negotiate the Brexit deal you promised was oven-ready. failed to negotiate the Brexit deal you promised was oven ready. There are lorries queuing up from Dover to Tunbridge Wells. UNICEF is parachuting in food to feed Birmingham. And with Covid you've

left every tough decision until it's too late. You told the scientists you weren't cancelling Christmas. Oh no way. I love Crimbo. Ain't doing that speckies. And then at the very last minute, guess what? You cancelled Christmas. So do the decent thing and resign, just like we did. Of course. It's just hit me. I've been a wretchedly bad Prime Minister. Craven, opportunist and inept.

I must go. But first, by way of repentance, foie, I'll fling open my window and shout merrily at a small boy to go and buy a turkey. You! You there, small boy! Enough with the small boy crap, fatty. I'm David Davis, the Brexit bulldog of failed

Conservative Prime Ministers yet to come. Prime Minister David Davis? Still only a matter of time. PM Brexit bulldog. Suck on that, Barnier! In that case, I'd better stay on in, number 10, after all. Huzzah!

Fwah! In Cardiff, First Minister Mark Drakeford is in his kitchen. How do I know when the video's started? Oh, I put my... Oh, my headphones. Hang on. Let me call. Right. Morning, everyone. So, as you're all aware,

we've had to make a few changes to lockdown rules over the festive period, which some of you have found confusing, which is why I've asked everyone in Wales to join me on Zoom. Sorry, could you just wrap your presents in the other room, please, Clare and Swansea? Well, can you at least put yourself on mute, would you? Would you mind? Thank you.

And Tom and Carnarvon, you can peel the spuds later, can't you? Yeah. I need everyone to concentrate. OK? So, Christmas is going to work like so. We'll be on Zoom, and I'll just be making sure everyone's following the rules. But I will be wearing a party hat the whole time, so it's not all doom and gloom. Now, as you're all aware, you're allowed to have two households mixing over Christmas. And hang about, we were dropping down to one, weren't we? So if there's anyone who shouldn't be there, time to warm up, grab your coat and leave.

Go on. Come on, Linda in Aberyst, grab your coat and leave. Go on. Come on, Linda in Aberystwyth, you can put your shoes on quicker than that. And Mark in Pembroke, I can see you hiding behind the tree. No, no, you're not a decorative elf, I wasn't born yesterday. Now, as I've already mentioned, these rules are subject to change. So for now, I'll just sit here staring at you all until the next update and just forget

I'm here. What's that? You want me to go on mute? Yeah, fair enough. Meanwhile in Westminster, Home Secretary Priti Patel is still at work. Come.

Home Secretary, my team were wondering if they could go home now. At 6pm. Since when did we start doing half days? It is Christmas Eve. If you don't mind, I'm trying to wrap gifts for my family. This one is for my mum and dad. It's very thin. Is it a SIM card? Gift token? Open the card. Read it. Merry Christmas to my parents who've loved me and made me feel supported. And now I'm return, I give to you this paper that says you're being deported.

This is a deportation order. They must be very proud that their daughter's so powerful that she can now actually deport her own parents. Now this one's for Aunty Mimi. Guess what it is? Uh, deportation papers? Cousin Raj? Deportation papers? You're very good at this. You don't think your relatives would rather have a different Christmas present? Something a bit less deporty like socks or aftershave? So you don't like my gifts? Don't make me do something completely unintentional, which some do-gooder lawyers might mistakenly perceive as bullying. No, no, no, no, no. I actually think of being very generous.

Very generous? Oh. First the Windrush compensation scheme, now this. I must be losing my touch. the Windrush compensation scheme. Now this. I must be losing my touch. As night falls, the Starmer household has some seasonal visitors.

Ding dong merrily on high, in heaven the bells are ringing. Merry Christmas, dear stranger. Truly a time for forgiveness to all men. What? Jeremy? Diane? Oh, Keir. We did not realise this was your house. Just spreading the good word on this fine Christmas Eve of forgiveness. You know, letting bygones be bygones.

Good King Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephen. Reinstating Jeremy as an MP, deep and crisp and even-handed. Look, I let him back into the party. That's far enough. Whatever happens, good will, kind neighbour. Be that the left,

the hard left, or say a former leader who was the victim of a deeply biased investigation which was greatly exaggerated by the right-wing media. Jeremy, you can't just apologise, can you? Oh, come all ye faithful. It's not going to work. Joyful and momentum.

Oh, Jeremy Corbyn. I'm very busy. A donation then, perhaps, just for the caroling. Oh, what are you collecting for? Owen Jones' radical left-wing retelling of the snowman as an allegory of capitalism viewed through the prism of radical gender politics

and other lost causes. Harumph. Yes, Diane, harumph indeed. In Lapland, Santa Claus is busy in his grotto. Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho. Hello, Santa. Oh, you're a very tall little boy. I'm not a little boy. I'm Matt Hancock.

Oh, let me guess what you want for Christmas. Genuine tear ducts? Ho, ho, ho, ho. Shut up, fat man. I've come to tell you you're not delivering presents Genuine tear ducts. Shut up, fat man. I've come to tell you you're not delivering presents to the UK this year. What? The contract to deliver presents in 2020 has gone to someone else. You're fired. What? I've been a trusted

distributor of toys for boys and girls for centuries. We're not going to cling on to an international system for delivering toys that's run by someone with loads of experience delivering toys. We've deployed our own completely fair and transparent tendering procedure for the spreading of joy and love. And who have you selected? One of my drinking buddies. I don't know his surname, but I like the look of his dog. Does he have any experience in delivering toys?

Oh, goodness me, no, no, no. But he does have years of experience in making huge donations to the Conservative Party. Who would have guessed? When you see the tears of joy on the cheeks of our Treasurer when he runs downstairs, sees another huge sack of cheques and cries, Gary's been.

Well, it warms the heart. Hold on, Gary's just texted me. He's suddenly come into some money from another government contract so he's decided to enjoy the festive season in Barbados. Oh, hurrah! I'm back in business. Who said anything about you being back?

No, Gary's subcontracted the job. To whom? His dog. It's Christmas morning and a BBC newsreader gets a phone call. Hugh Edwards speaking. Merry Christmas to Hugh. I know what they've got, Hugh. What? Who's got? Who is this? I know every single present each member of the cabinet has got. Before they've even opened them, it's a huge exclusive.

Laura, it's Christmas Day. According to my mate Dominic, I mean, according to a well-placed source, Rishi's getting a Ted Baker grooming kit, Boris is getting eight World's Greatest Dad mugs, and Priti Patel's getting a copy of Mean Girls. Laura, Laura, there is something I've been meaning to say to you for a while. What? I think you need to take a day off.

A day for what? Christmas isn't a day for news. It's a day for family and getting slowly smashed in front of Finding Nemo. But you, if I don't get these hot juicy stories out of me, I genuinely think my appendix is going to explode in my face. Laura, Laura, take a deep breath. Get yourself a glass of mulled wine and go watch Strictly. OK, you're right, Hugh. Yes, I will.

There we are. Just as soon as I've recorded five episodes of Newscast and been through Matt Hancock's bins. Come on, mixed recycling. I know you've got an exclusive for me in there somewhere. At the Coleman household, Olivia and her husband are taking it easy. Oh, well, isn't this nice? Bet you're glad you've finished the crown so you can relax. Oh, absolutely, Ed.

Relax and think about our holiday next year. Shall we do Cornwall again? Oh, no, I was thinking more of a touring holiday. Of the Commonwealth, yes. The Commonwealth? Olivia, not with Covid. I think we should stay local. Oh, come on, Ed. Just 54

countries. We can do it in two weeks. We can leave the corgis with your mother. Olivia, we don't have any corgis. It's happening again, isn't it? No, I'm just a little overtired, that's all. I'll just check the oven to see if the venison's cooked. It is a nut

roast. One prefers venison. Pass me my shotgun and wellies and we'll away to Balmoral. Nothing like a bit of brunt sport at this time of year. Oh, no. Oh, it is happening again. Oh, she's taking over.

Oh, dear. Olivia, you have to fight it. I can't, Ed. No one can fight it. Claire Foy thought she was OK, but she ended up sleepwalking and knighting mediocre Tory backbenchers in her pyjamas.

Listen to me. Listen. You are not the Queen. You are my wife. You are Olivia Coleman, an actress. An actress? How interesting. And what do you do? Have you come far? Oh, I can't stop. Helen Mirren warned me, but I wouldn't listen. Jeanette Charles warned me too, but I just laughed it off. Right, Olivia, I am locking you in the bedroom. This is for your own good. How dare you! Unhand me or I'll... That frightened the blighter off. Just in the nick of time. Well done, Hector, who plays the Queen's husband. Now help one get the dining room table nearer to the window. I need to do my Christmas broadcast to the gnomes on the porch.

One's garden needs one. This is Anne Widdicombe. I can't come to the phone as I'm shielding from all seasonal illnesses. Flu, coronavirus, hope and joy. Merry Christmas, widders! Big Nige here. Goodwill to most men. I didn't know if I'd be bubbling with my children or my in-laws. Luckily, peace has broken out and none of them want me. So I've travelled to a Tier 2 area.

That's the kind of freedom of movement Nigel likes. Stick that right up your lockdown. I'm having a classic British Christmas, getting absolutely smashed on a yuletide pub crawl around every Wetherspoon in a 20 mile radius. I've already had a sherry in the Patriot Arms, a Guinness in the Royal Crown

and a flaming Zambuca in the tipsy gas bag. Only problem is I'm having to have a substantial meal every place I go. Already I'm on my third Christmas dinner. I'm having to have a substantial meal every place I go. Already I'm on my third Christmas dinner. I just went to the bathroom and was firing out sprouts like a tommy gun. Rat-a-tat-tat. Anyway, I've got six tequila slammers lined up,

and you've got until I've finished these six mince pies to get down here. Hello? Oi, barmaid. Another pint of the black stuff and a prawn cocktail. Ooh, ooh, my stomach. In Colchester, tough, baldy Ross Kemp is standing on a doorstep. I've come face to face

with the notorious bandits of Madagascar, looked into the eyes of the Munchiki gang in Kenya, but now I'm on an even more perilous mission because today I'm mixing with another household on Christmas Day. Is that you, Ross? Are you talking to yourself again, love?

Come in, come in, the door's open. As I enter my Auntie Mavis' tier two headquarters, I scan the corridor and to my horror, my worst fears are realised. No hand sanitiser on entrance. Luckily, I brought my own. Oh, come here and give your auntie a nice big hug.

I'm okay where I am. Two metres. Oh, we're not bothering with any of that social distancing rubbish. Oh, alright, Ross. How you doing? Steve, I didn't know you were going to be here. It seems I've walked into an ambush. I was told this was going to be a tete-a-tete, but there's a third household present, my cousin Steve.

You're just in sight for some carols. Oh, jingle bells, jingle bells. These mavericks are belting out carols at the top of their lungs. The potential to be caught in saliva particle crossfire is high. But then Mavis blindsides me with an even more life-threatening challenge. Look what I found! Who wants to play? I've witnessed this sort of rite of passage with rebel fighters in the Colombian jungle. Their game of choice was

Russian roulette. With Aunt Mavis, it's Monopoly. But what about all of the plastic pieces, the paper money, not to mention the dice? No, no, no, no, no. Let's not play Monopoly. Dodged a bullet there. I've got a much

better idea. Let's play Twister! Twister! Twister. Mission aborted. Mission aborted. Evacuate. Back in Cardiff, and Mark Drakeford is still at his computer. Er, David and Swansea,

that's not two metres and you know it. Oh, Bronwyn, that's a lovely looking mince pie. Did you make it yourself? Where was I? Sorry, yes. Coronavirus, yes. All looking good in Aberystwyth. Dylan, that's not your lovely wife Barbara, is it?

Well, for your sake, Barbara's not on this call. Right, I see a lot of you are about to crack on with your Christmas dinner, so I'll leave you to that but remember keep on being safe and for the love of God turn off your mics because I for one do not want to hear you tucking into your turkey with your mouth open

yes I'm looking at you Gwyn in Glamorgan Meanwhile in a Dublin bedroom Conall? Marianne? Meanwhile, in a Dublin bedroom... Conall? Marianne? Conall, Normal People has been named one of the cultural highlights of 2020. Right, sure.

Marianne? Yes, Conall? Is it because coronavirus decimated the arts and forced people to stay at home? Or because the viewers are all filthy perverts? Both, Conall. Oh. Marianne, should we go and have sex with some other people now? Because that's the kind of emotionally damaged thing we do.

No, to help spread the virus. We mightn't get the ratings for Series 2 if we just rely on perverts. We'll see about that, Conall. Let's have sex. Marianne, do you think we'll get more viewers than Mrs Brown's boys? Not if you keep talking, Conor. You've reached the voicemail

of actor-turned-musician-turned- politician-turned-homeless-pencil Lawrence Fox. I'm currently proving haemorrhoids are a government conspiracy by sellotaping a plug-in Dyson to my back passage. Loser! You old harrow-educated, dynastical

voice of the common man. It's the Nigelator. I'm following your lead. I'm breaking free of this Covid tyranny. The British demand our liberty and freedom. So I've collected all the empties and I'm downing the backwash. Take that, health Nazis! Nobody's cancelling my Christmas.

Oop! Sorry, cauliflower cheese can get a bit repeaty after six portions. I've hit a bit of a wall, lads. I'm averaging a Christmas lunch every 90 minutes. A tactical vomit behind the fruit machine and I'll be right as rain for pudding. But get here as quick as you can, Larry, or they'll make me eat your portion. Oh, sorry, mate. In the Starmer household, Sir Keir is hard at work.

I'm so sorry you couldn't be here spending Christmas with me, but at least we have FaceTime. So wonderful to see everyone. Of all of Labour's focus groups, you're my favourite. Yeah, are we getting paid? Of course. I'm particularly pleased to see you, Afro-Caribbean professional male in his early 40s who enjoys urban music, club football and US comedies such as The Office and Seinfeld. Cheers, Keir. 2020 has been a brutal year, but let's forget politics and just enjoy Christmas.

Now, do you know what my favourite Christmas song is? No, what is it? How should I know? You're the focus group. I'm asking you. Do you know what my favourite Christmas song is? These things are very important to the 18 to 30 female demographic who enjoy brunch with friends at the weekend, Pilates and listening to a broad eclectic mix of music from Cardi B to Fleetwood Mac. You must have some opinion of your own about what Christmas song is your favourite. Opinions of my own? Are you mad? In the immortal words of Kevin Costner in what you decided was my favourite film because of its broad appeal to both working class

voters and aspirational movie buffs, Field of Dreams, if you build a fence, I will sit on it. Having an opinion of your own is just asking for trouble. What if I blurted out, oh, white Christmas without thinking and triggered a Black Lives Matter backlash or, oh, fairy tale of New York, and then I'm trapped deep in the trenches of a culture war between lawrence fox and toby young on twitter it's just a christmas song can you be decisive for once i'm more than happy to be decisive once you've told me in what way i should be decisive which christmas song being my favorite would sway those voters in northern Redwall seats who deserted Labour at the last election? How about Do They Know It's Christmas?

Good. Now we're getting somewhere. My favourite Christmas song is Do They Know It's Christmas, an upbeat message of giving to the poor and a song which raised hundreds of millions for charity. That is most definitely, without question, my favourite Christmas song. Great. Yeah, great. But is the song's 1980s outdated white saviour narrative problematic in the woke landscape of 2020? What about driving home for Christmas?

What, encourage breaking the tier four curfew? Never. Santa Baby? Glorify rampant capitalism? Hardly. No, I can see I'm on my own here. Right, OK, I've made a decision. My favourite Christmas song is Frosty the Snowman.

Oh, fantastic. Great. Thanks, yeah. Well, he's a kindred spirit, Frosty. Upright, stoic and melts at the first sign of any heat. Somewhere in Tier 2, it's closing time at a weather spoons can't get used to the emptiness all my weather spoons are usually packed at christmas with people who couldn't get a table at the harvester it's been a tough year mr martin yeah and it's not just the covid i don't understand where the anti-Weatherspoon stuff has come from.

They've made the food even less appetising, chucked more Brexit propaganda onto the menus. People usually love that stuff. Well, the rest of the staff, anyway. You cancelled all their zero-hour contracts, remember? Oh, yeah. Good times. It's just me left. Actually, to be honest, I might as well fire you too.

Well, Tim, it's just me left. Actually, to be honest, I might as well fire you too. Well, Tim, it's just you again. Sat on a bar stool with a cold Christmas dinner and a pint of tasteless British bitter. No, no, no. My favourite words, British and bitter. Tasteless does come a close third, though. Nige. Of all the pubs in all of Tier 2...

I had to be sick in yours. No, actually, I think I can hold it in. You know, I couldn't leave you alone at Christmas. One old man drinking alone in a party hat. That's tragic. But two together? That's ever so slightly less tragic. Or more tragic.

I'm not sure. Thanks, Nige. Here's your pint. Oh, you'll need something to eat with it, though. Ah, that'll be my fifteenth substantial meal today, but what the hell. One more for the road. Turkey or gammon? Well, I think you know

the answer to that. Now, come on. It's our last Christmas in Europe. Let's celebrate. Cheers. Ah, not a lot of veg on this, Tim. And where's the pineapple for my gammon? Veg? Pineapple? You'll be lucky. Haven't you seen what's happening at Dover? Well, who needs pineapple? Or vegetables? Or foreign holidays? Or essential medical supplies? Not when we're sitting on a mountain of unsolved British rhubarb, turnips and welks.

Look at us, look at us, living us living our best lives yeah isn't it great how everything turned out exactly as we wanted yep totally independent totally in control totally alone yeah it's the hugs I miss haven Haven't had one since March. Nor me. March 1985. It's going to be all right, isn't it, Nige? Of course it is, Tim. Of course it is. And besides, if it isn't, well, just blame COVID.

Yeah, yeah, you're right, yeah. Merry Christmas, Nige. And a Merry Christmas to you too, you big scarecrow. Eh, puppy. Meanwhile, back at the Edwards household... Laura, what is it now? That's right, Hugh, you join me here live with the latest on this sensational news story. Laura, Laura, I've already told you it's Christmas Day.

There's nothing happening in Westminster. Which is why I am not in Westminster, Hugh, but in Bethlehem in the year 1 AD. Laura, I'm afraid you may have completely lost your mind. Fear not, say I, for mighty dread has seized your troubled mind, Hugh. Glad tidings of great joy I bring to you and all our viewers on the BBC News Channel. You do know we're not actually broadcasting.

But this happiest of days, Hugh, has been rocked by controversy. When the Holy Family arrived, they were told unbelievably that there was no room at the inn. And I have also been told by a well-placed source... Dominic Cummings again?

No, King Herod. Close enough. That the infant Christ is facing accusations of financial misconduct, Hugh. Laura, Laura, please. Just go home. This isn't worth it. Oh, you're right, Hugh. I mean, the Son of God taking on human form to redeem the sins of the world,

it's a big story. But it's not exactly Brexit. It's getting very late, but Mark Drakeford is still zooming at the kitchen table. So, anyone watched any good films today? No? I saw Shrek was on but I've seen it before.

Anyway it brings us almost to the end of Christmas Day. I've had a cracking time with you all. Some great memories I'll never forget like Mark and Gwent taking his laptop to the toilet with him and

well, just that one really. Before I go, I just wanted to say a big thanks to all of you for being so patient. I hope you've had a lovely, happy Christmas despite everything. Oh, I'm just being told, as of tomorrow, we're going to be back in full lockdown until April. Is everyone okay? I'll take that angry

stare from all of you as a yes and on that note I'm off to bed and a Merry Christmas everyone logging off The Christmas special 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 Amsden and Tom Coles, Sarah Campbell, James Bug, Jeffrey Adu, Alex Hardy and Lewis Cook. It was a BBC Studios production and the producer and creator was Bill Dare.