Del: Rodney! Rodney you dipstick! Come ‘ere!
Rodney: What is it now, Del? Failed to sell fifty buckets of dog’s heads, eh? Trying to flog burned plastic dolls? We’re skint, Del. Skint.
Del: Not any more, son! Read ’em and weep!
Rodney: Tax refund. Three thousand pounds. We can pay the rent.
Del: Yep, and go out for a nice slap up meal and all. Cushdy!
Rodney: We might be alright, Del. We just might be alright.
Del: Yes. Finally we can live again. This time next year we’ll be…
Television: A state of emergency has been called as nuclear missiles are launched at the United Kingdom. Three minutes until arrival. People are advised to seek shelter immediately.
Del: What? Oh FUCKING HELL!
Rodney: ARRRRRRGH! WE’RE FUCKING DEAD!
Del: OH GOD! OH GOD! GET UNDER A BED RODDERS! ANYTHING! JESUS!
Rodney: WHIMPER. SOB.
Del: THIS TIME IN THREE MINUTES WE’LL BE FUCKING DEAD! OH JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!
(Fades to black, with no credits or audience laughter. BBC receives 50,000 complaints.)