I assume you called in regard to the mortgage payment on Castle Plunkett...
unfortunately still delayed by what seems to be our endless postal strike.
Dear sir, I must once again remind you my first name is not Dick...
nor is my last name Face.
It is simply Peter, Peter Plunkett.
No, I was not given a middle name, but had I been...
I feel certain my mother would not have chosen...
"Low-life Shit-for-brains Peckerhead."
Well, you obviously know a side of Mother I have been happily sheltered from.
Nevertheless, I marvel at your colorfully creative...
which flow so trippingly from your razor-like tongue.
The hotel is in tiptop condition.
The renovations are proceeding at a... What?
- Why shouldn't I bother? - Peter, who are you calling?
Oh, Mother, will you please get off the line?
Turning the castle into a theme park?
Gee, what an interesting notion. In... In Malibu?
What is Malibu?
I see. You want to move the castle to Malibu...
which I am to presume lies on the western corner of those United States.
Mr. Brogan, if I cannot send your payment...
how on earth do you expect to transport an entire castle across the sea?
The number of stamps alone is mind-boggling!
Well, I can assure you, Mr. Brogan, that if it goes on much longer...
I will take this check, which I am holding in my hand...
And personally ferry it across the water to England and mail it to you myself.
That's how much I care.
What postal strike?
Shut up, Mother!
I don't think that kind of language is necessary, Mr. Brogan.
So, what you are saying is that...
if I don't come up with the money in three weeks...
you will foreclose and take over Castle Plunkett.
Have you heard of the quality of mercy, Mr. Brogan?
You haven't read your Shakespeare, Mr. Brogan.
Oh, there you are!
Taking the easy way out, you naughty boy!
Mother, this is not easy. It is very, very difficult.
Just because you haven't got a guest in the place, you're in hock to that fellow Brogan.
Your father's so worried he's tearing his hair out!
Mother, Father has been dead for a decade!
And what about your grandmother, how do you think she feels?
- Mother, Grandmother is dead, too! - She's still upset.
Oh, very well. I apologize profoundly to the ghosts of my ancestors...
for making a mess of their ancestral home.
- Hold that. - I'm not going to help you.
How many ghosts are there here?
there's Great Auntie Nan and Uncle Toby...
and that nice Elizabethan lady...
and the nun who was walled into the closet...
and Oliver's bastard, who never came out of the library.
- Mother? - What, darling?
- What a wonderful idea. - What, darling?
- Ghosts? - Ghosts.
A wonderful tourist attraction.
Katie, take this down!
Castle Plunkett! The superbly restored edifice...
in the heart of that incomparably beautiful Irish countryside...
also known to be the most haunted place on the Emerald Isle!
Here the dead outnumber the living!
This castle contains more ghouls, ghosties, long-leggedy beasties...
and things that go bump in the night than on any other place...
on this revolving, revolting, maggot-spinning Earth!
We can promise you banshees, pookas, ghouls of all descriptions!
The one thing we won't promise is a good night's sleep!
But there are no bloody ghosts here.
I know, but there will be! We'll invent them!
Yes, Mr. Wilson.
The accommodations are strictly modern, in so far as renovations...
have been consistent with maintaining the ectoplasmic ambiance...
of Castle Plunkett and environs.
Like you, Katie, for instance.
You high on a wire would be magnificent as a flying banshee!
A little dry rot, selective damp, some fungus here and there.
Ghosts need such things to exist. Thank you.
Patricia. Patricia. You could be a mermaid...
or Lady Godiva.
- Anybody dead down there? - Only the corpse, Eamon.
What the shagging hell are you doing up there?
Genius, bud, pure genius. Just you wait till they see it.
The bloody hand to the front.
And the bloody feet at the rear.
Look, what in the name of God is that? We're not doing "The African Queen".
Would you get me the shagging fish I asked you for?
Smile, Katie, smile!
You have to smile. The Americans are coming tomorrow.
Now, Eamon, you little genius, one more time.
Ready, steady, go!
Jack, what are you doing?
It's a little champagne. To us, to Ireland...
your homeland, Loch Ness monster, guys in skirts...
That's Scotland, Jack.
I knew that... I knew that.
- I got it, honey. - Oh, Jack. I've just taken two Valium...
- and now you drown me in champagne. - I got it. I got it.
God, next thing you know you'll want to have sex.
- Want champagne? - No.
I suppose sex is out of the question?
I think I should be the tart on the horse and you should be the hag in the tree.
I think I should go home.
Just give me the hair back.
On our left we have the Haughlin Bog...
home to more grisly and gruesome murders...
than any comparable spot in the universe.
The fierce, fighting O'Flahertys would pile down from the Knockmealdown Mountains...
and pillage and rape women and children, nuns and priests...
- We have children here. - ...even Christian brothers and...
God help us all, the occasional sheep or goat.
Now here, within the confines of Castle Plunkett itself...
we come to the infamous Wailing Willow, from which the Brogan Banshee...
angis reputed to wail and howl from time to time.
They're coming, Katie, they're coming!
- Get ready to show them all you have! - Scare the Jesus out of them.