Delboy: Lovely jubbly, my son. Oi, GRANDAD. GRANDAD! OI! YOU DOZY OLD GIT!
Delboy: FUCKING WAKE UP YOU OLD CUNT!
(Rodders walks in)
Delboy: ‘ere, Rodders you dipstick, talk some sense into grandad, will yer? I need some money off ‘im, an’ he ain’t talking. Pretending to be asleep the tight old sod! OI!
Rodney: He’s dead, Del.
Del: You what?
Rodney: Dead, and has been for several years.
Del: Yeah, get the skeleton shit out of it, will yer? He’s starting to fucking stink. And while you’re at it, get down the market and get selling those old Betamaxes, yeah?
Rodney: No can do. It’s 2008, and nobody is going to buy them even for comedy value. We’ve got problems, Del. We’ve got no food, no light, no leccy, and we have a corpse for a grandad.
Del: DON’T YOU THINK I FUCKING KNOW THAT? Is his wallet still here? Bloody ‘ell, he stinks like a laundry van full of shit. (Retches, and is sick all over the corpse). Yeah, might freeze that for dinner. Oi, Rodney, hawk up some sick for your old brother.
Rodney: This is the pits. There is no humour here. We’re in a culture of debt, a rut of poverty. We’re manacled together in a spiral of dessication, and you’re eating your own sick. Face it Del, we’ve ‘ad it.
Del: AAAAAAAAAARGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh, god. OH MY GOD! OH FUCKING NO JESUS! What are we going to do RODDERS?
Rod: I don’t know, Delboy.
(Both weep uncontrollably. Rodney hammers at his own knees with a fist. Del starts to put his tongue through grandad’s sick covered skeleton holes, starting with the skull. The end credits roll. The BBC recieves 2837 complaints.)