A Romany? The only caravan you’ ve been in was when you had that week at Cleethorpes
It’s teatime and, in his room, crafty Ambrose (Peter Jeffrey, far right, with Rigsby) is toasting a crumpet. When he hears Rigsby on the stairs he puts down the toasting fork and closes his eyes. Rigsby enters in an angry mood. RIGSBY: Now, come on Ambrose, my patience is exhausted. Where’s my rent?! AMBROSE: Rigsby! You shouldn’t barge in like that, you could’ve done untold damage. My mind was in complete repose. RIGSBY: You’re lucky. I wish mine was. Come on, where’s the rent? AMBROSE: I was about to enter Nirvana — the state of serenity and self-denial.
RIGSBY: Oh yeah? I bet you’re the first bloke to arrive toasting a crumpet. AMBROSE: For the moment, I had forsaken the world of the flesh, but pass me the butter, Rigsby.
RIGSBY: You can save all that rubbish for your customers — not that you get many customers these days. I passed your stall last Saturday — it was deserted.
AMBROSE: My gifts are not for the marketplace, Rigsby. I’m not interested in money. I am a mystic! RIGSBY: (Snorts) A mystic! AMBROSE: Yes, like the holy men of India, sitting there all day in their simple loin cloths, pushing rusty nails through their hooters. They don’t do it for money!
RIGSBY: What are you talking about? Of course they do it for money. You don’t push a rusty nail through your hooter just to see it come out the other side. It’s a job like any other. You know what your holy man does after a day’s work? He goes home — has a shower — takes one of his hundred suits from the wardrobe and drives round Calcutta in a pink Rolls-Royce. I wouldn’t have any trouble getting the rent out of them.
AMBROSE: Well, you’ll get your money, Rigsby just as soon as business picks up.
RIGSBY: And when’s that going to be? I know why there’s noone round your stall, mate. It was that tonic you sold to that woman. It was supposed to cure her lethargy. My God, it cured her lethargy all right — all her hair fell out.
AMBROSE: Well, that wasn’t my fault. She was supposed to swallow it, not rub it on her bonce. Rigsby takes a bottle from sample case. RIGSBY: You couldn’t swallow this stuff, it’d take the stripes off a zebra! You know she had to sit up all night with her head in a bucket?
AMBROSE: Look, if she’d followed the instructions she would have been perfectly all right. That’s a sovereign remedy that is. It cures rashes, pimples, flatulence, piles, blushing, stammering and foot odour. (Pause) And it’s not bad at getting stains out of suede, either. RIGSBY: Well, what’s in it then, apart from liquid dynamite? AMBROSE: I can’t tell you that, Rigsby! That’s a Romany secret.
RIGSBY: Romany?! You’re not a Romany. The only time you’ve been in a caravan was when you had that week at Cleethorpes — and then you came back on the Thursday. You don’t even look like a gipsy.
AMBROSE: Just because I don’t wear a spotted handkerchief and earrings it doesn’t mean I’m not a gipsy. I’ve got Romany blood, I have. RIGSBY: Then why don’t you get out and sell a few clothes pegs instead of sitting around here all day? AMBROSE: I could tell your fortune. RIGSBY: You can’t tell fortunes. AMBROSE: I can. I’m the seventh son of a seventh son. We have the gift. We can draw aside the misty veil of time and see the future. RIGSBY: You can’t see the future. Look what happened when that woman’s hair came off and her husband came round. We all knew what he was going to do with that starting handle, but you just stood there. He was bound to be distressed, wasn’t he? He goes to bed with a flaming redhead, and wakes up next to a billiard ball. If you’d have been able to read the future, you’d have shinned down the drainpipe! AMBROSE: I don’t use the gifts for myself. They are in trust for my fellow man. Go on — let me tell your fortune. Would you like the cards or the tea leaves?
RIGSBY: You don’t think I believe in that rubbish, do you? You know, I’m amazed at the gullibility of the British public. If they’re not having their palms read, it’s their bumps, or their handwriting, or their doodles. There’s even a bloke in Brighton reading women’s breast prints! He had a very nice pair through the post the other day. He wrote back predicting a glowing future for her, said she was deeply sincere with a sense of humour — she had a sense of humour all right, she’d made them with a couple of oranges. Turned out he’d advised a couple of jaffas to invest their money in America.