nt: Living Room
A young man is talking to his parents
Son: Come on mum, sit down. I've got something to tell you.
Mum: But why not have a cup of tea first?
Son: Mum, please, just sit down. This is important.
Dad: What is it son?
Son: (on the verge of tears) Dad (beat) Mum. I think I'm Welsh.
Mum: Oh Darl..
Dad: You think or you know?
Son: (beat) I know
Dad: Since when?
Son: Since always I think. I believe I was born Welsh.
Dad: You were born in Bracknell. Unless... (turning to Mum accusingly)
Mum: (To Dad) Don't be silly dear. I'd never go with a Welshman. (Turning to son) No offence son. (Beat)
It's because I listened to Men of Harlech when you were a baby isn't it? And those trips to Aberystwyth when you were small?
Son: Don't blame yourself Mum. There's nothing to be blamed for. I'm fine!
Mum: I knew it all along you know. All that time spent moping around as a teenager.
Son: Yes! It was really my national dourness and pessimism!
Mum: It explains so much
Son: Anyway, I'd best away. Me and some of the lads are going to speak
Welsh around some english people for no other reason than to make them
feel uncomfortable..(beat) Ah, I feel so much better.
Dad: Now, we've got that out of the way might you be settling down with a nice girlfriend any time soon?
Son: Oh that? I like cock Dad, didn't you know? Anyway, Hwyl!
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Based on a true story
Int House: Hallway
A middle aged man, Bob, is pushing buttons on a fax machine. A young man, his son, Dave, walks up to him.
DAVE: Are you still using the fax machine. Why don't you send an email?
BOB: Son, I like faxes. You know where you are with a fax machine.
(The fax machine gets a ring tone and dials)
Voice From out of the fax machine: Hello? Hello? HELLLLOOOO?! Hello? FOr god's sake
BOB: FAX! It's a FAX! FAX!!
DAVE: Dad, she can't hear you. It's a fax machine. It hasn't got a microphone
Voice: Hello???
BOB: FAX!
(Fax machine hangs up)
DAVE: You've dialled a phone number, not a fax number. I bet that's what you've done.
BOB: Why doesn't she switch it over?
DAVE: Because it's not a fax number and she can't. She might be nothing to do with whoever you're sending a fax to.
BOB: Are you sure it's got ink in it
DAVE: Ink? The sending and receiving of faxes has got nothing to do with ink dad, we've been through this before.
BOB: Go check on your grandad
DAVE: Just cancel and redial
(BOB starts to open the fax machine to check for ink)
DAVE: It's nothing to do with...
BOB: Go check on grandad
INT Sitting room
Grandad is asleep in the armchair in front of the TV with his feet stretched out and crossed at the ankles. The dog, a labrador, comes in and starts to heave and then promptly throws up on grandad's feet.
We see Dave start to open his mouth and then stop again.
BOB: (From out in the hallway) FAX! FAX! FAX!
Dave sits down and places his head in his hands...
We hear the dog start to eat his own sick...
DAVE: (quietly) Good dog. Good dog
As said, this is based on a true story. It's actually a combination of two stories and is probably a waste of both. My father has an unhealthy relationship with the fax machine combined with a shockingly poor grasp of the technology behind it. This leads him to misdial regularly and then shout 'FAX!' at the fax machine. It was funny the first time. After the hundredth time it can get a little tedious, particularly after having explained the situation every time. He genuinely believes sending a fax requires ink and, of course, that shouting 'FAX!' will somehow make the person at the other end know what to do with it.
The other part, i used to babysit my grandad. When my grandad was living with us it seemed like my folks were always out every evening. This was a bummer because it meant i was in charge of grandad but also a good thing because i could sneak out the back and smoke a spliff. (This is also the reason i'd volunteer to walk grandad home, so i could smoke a jay on the way back). So, grandad is asleep. I'm buzzin out my tiny teenage mind, in walks the dog and throws up all over his feet. I sit there thinking "did that really just happen?" and eventually manage to snap out of it. I go to get a cloth and some water. While i'm doing that the dog's thinking "Hey, what's this? Food!" so the dog gets most of it up. Luckily, grandad is wearing patent leather slippers so it's fairly easy to wipe his feet clean. I'm trying to be as quiet as possible. He opens one eye at one point but goes back to sleep. Think i rewarded myself with another zoot.
Cool story bro etc...
A middle aged man, Bob, is pushing buttons on a fax machine. A young man, his son, Dave, walks up to him.
DAVE: Are you still using the fax machine. Why don't you send an email?
BOB: Son, I like faxes. You know where you are with a fax machine.
(The fax machine gets a ring tone and dials)
Voice From out of the fax machine: Hello? Hello? HELLLLOOOO?! Hello? FOr god's sake
BOB: FAX! It's a FAX! FAX!!
DAVE: Dad, she can't hear you. It's a fax machine. It hasn't got a microphone
Voice: Hello???
BOB: FAX!
(Fax machine hangs up)
DAVE: You've dialled a phone number, not a fax number. I bet that's what you've done.
BOB: Why doesn't she switch it over?
DAVE: Because it's not a fax number and she can't. She might be nothing to do with whoever you're sending a fax to.
BOB: Are you sure it's got ink in it
DAVE: Ink? The sending and receiving of faxes has got nothing to do with ink dad, we've been through this before.
BOB: Go check on your grandad
DAVE: Just cancel and redial
(BOB starts to open the fax machine to check for ink)
DAVE: It's nothing to do with...
BOB: Go check on grandad
INT Sitting room
Grandad is asleep in the armchair in front of the TV with his feet stretched out and crossed at the ankles. The dog, a labrador, comes in and starts to heave and then promptly throws up on grandad's feet.
We see Dave start to open his mouth and then stop again.
BOB: (From out in the hallway) FAX! FAX! FAX!
Dave sits down and places his head in his hands...
We hear the dog start to eat his own sick...
DAVE: (quietly) Good dog. Good dog
As said, this is based on a true story. It's actually a combination of two stories and is probably a waste of both. My father has an unhealthy relationship with the fax machine combined with a shockingly poor grasp of the technology behind it. This leads him to misdial regularly and then shout 'FAX!' at the fax machine. It was funny the first time. After the hundredth time it can get a little tedious, particularly after having explained the situation every time. He genuinely believes sending a fax requires ink and, of course, that shouting 'FAX!' will somehow make the person at the other end know what to do with it.
The other part, i used to babysit my grandad. When my grandad was living with us it seemed like my folks were always out every evening. This was a bummer because it meant i was in charge of grandad but also a good thing because i could sneak out the back and smoke a spliff. (This is also the reason i'd volunteer to walk grandad home, so i could smoke a jay on the way back). So, grandad is asleep. I'm buzzin out my tiny teenage mind, in walks the dog and throws up all over his feet. I sit there thinking "did that really just happen?" and eventually manage to snap out of it. I go to get a cloth and some water. While i'm doing that the dog's thinking "Hey, what's this? Food!" so the dog gets most of it up. Luckily, grandad is wearing patent leather slippers so it's fairly easy to wipe his feet clean. I'm trying to be as quiet as possible. He opens one eye at one point but goes back to sleep. Think i rewarded myself with another zoot.
Cool story bro etc...
Friday, June 29, 2012
To boldly go
Int: Bridge of Spaceship. CAPT GRANT, a human, is speaking to NARNON, a
blue hairy alien type; use your imagination. They are both sitting.
CAPT: So, what makes you feel you'd be right as a pilot?
NARNON: I'm a splendid communicator Captain Grant. I'm conversant in 400 languages including text speak and illiterate facebook chav.
CAPT: Oh, really? I could never get my head around it at the academy.
NARNON: It's not that complicated really. You just swap i's for y's and end every sentence with 'innit blud' and you're halfway there.
CAPT: It says here that you were almost part of the Technotronic Galaxial Royal Family.
NARNON: Yes. I was due to marry Princess Mardiothon but I just couldn't go through with it.
CAPT: Why ever not man?! Think of the money, the power, the pan, the van, the Boursin. Besides, I heard technotrons can do strange and wonderful things with their third inmurpredates.
NARNON: (beat) There will be things I'll miss about her but it would never have worked. The whole family support Accrington Stanley.
CAPT: Accrington Stanley? Who are they?
NARNON: A shit football team from the Northwest of England....originally. But now, they are part of the Neo-scouse Religious Soccer league. Games last days. Cars are ceremonially left on bricks and it's frowned upon if you don't chant (in scouse accent) 'Exactly' over and over again. I just couldn't do it anymore.
CAPT: So how did you get out of it then?
NARNON: Oh, I just whistled the tune to Please Release Me until she asked what I was singing. Then I sang her chorus while giving her the finger. I still have bruises on my dwarfinin.
CAPT: So, do you want the job.
NARNON: Don't you need to see any credentials. You've not asked if I can fly the thing yet.
CAPT: Fly? This is Transport for Pluto, Pal. We're on strike till next year. You'll have plenty of time to learn. Welcome aboard comrade.
CAPT: So, what makes you feel you'd be right as a pilot?
NARNON: I'm a splendid communicator Captain Grant. I'm conversant in 400 languages including text speak and illiterate facebook chav.
CAPT: Oh, really? I could never get my head around it at the academy.
NARNON: It's not that complicated really. You just swap i's for y's and end every sentence with 'innit blud' and you're halfway there.
CAPT: It says here that you were almost part of the Technotronic Galaxial Royal Family.
NARNON: Yes. I was due to marry Princess Mardiothon but I just couldn't go through with it.
CAPT: Why ever not man?! Think of the money, the power, the pan, the van, the Boursin. Besides, I heard technotrons can do strange and wonderful things with their third inmurpredates.
NARNON: (beat) There will be things I'll miss about her but it would never have worked. The whole family support Accrington Stanley.
CAPT: Accrington Stanley? Who are they?
NARNON: A shit football team from the Northwest of England....originally. But now, they are part of the Neo-scouse Religious Soccer league. Games last days. Cars are ceremonially left on bricks and it's frowned upon if you don't chant (in scouse accent) 'Exactly' over and over again. I just couldn't do it anymore.
CAPT: So how did you get out of it then?
NARNON: Oh, I just whistled the tune to Please Release Me until she asked what I was singing. Then I sang her chorus while giving her the finger. I still have bruises on my dwarfinin.
CAPT: So, do you want the job.
NARNON: Don't you need to see any credentials. You've not asked if I can fly the thing yet.
CAPT: Fly? This is Transport for Pluto, Pal. We're on strike till next year. You'll have plenty of time to learn. Welcome aboard comrade.
Friday, June 15, 2012
The warehouse sketch
INT: Warehouse. Dave is mid 50s, Rupert is early 20s, student looking.
DAVE: Is it you n me stackin' these pallets then?
RUPERT: Looks that way, yeah.
DAVE: I'm DAVE by the way, mate.
RUPERT: RUPERT
(DAVE looks digusted and confused)
DAVE: Err
RUPERT: I'm RUPERT
(Dave looks more confused)
DAVE: Ruth?
RUPERT: No, Ru..pert. You know, like Rupert the Bear.
DAVE: OH! Reaper.
RUPERT: No, Rupert. Rooooo Perttttt. But call me Rupe if you like.
DAVE: Oh! I get it. Of course. Sorry.
RUPERT: No worries.
DAVE: Right, shall we get on. Anyway, did you see the news? Blacks, pakis, immigrants, taking our jobs, Diana? Never a goal, offside, blacks, indians, shouldn't be allowed, the war, blacks, pakis.....
Fade to black
CAPTION READS 'THREE HOURS LATER'
Fade in
DAVE: Immigrants, shouldn't be allowed, taking our jobs, pakis.
RUPERT: Uh huh.
Bell rings.
DAVE: Right, that's break time.
INT: Break room, crowded with people drinking tea
DAVE: Hey guys, this is Reece.
RUPERT: err. Hi Everyone, I'm Reece. Pleased to meet you.
DAVE: Is it you n me stackin' these pallets then?
RUPERT: Looks that way, yeah.
DAVE: I'm DAVE by the way, mate.
RUPERT: RUPERT
(DAVE looks digusted and confused)
DAVE: Err
RUPERT: I'm RUPERT
(Dave looks more confused)
DAVE: Ruth?
RUPERT: No, Ru..pert. You know, like Rupert the Bear.
DAVE: OH! Reaper.
RUPERT: No, Rupert. Rooooo Perttttt. But call me Rupe if you like.
DAVE: Oh! I get it. Of course. Sorry.
RUPERT: No worries.
DAVE: Right, shall we get on. Anyway, did you see the news? Blacks, pakis, immigrants, taking our jobs, Diana? Never a goal, offside, blacks, indians, shouldn't be allowed, the war, blacks, pakis.....
Fade to black
CAPTION READS 'THREE HOURS LATER'
Fade in
DAVE: Immigrants, shouldn't be allowed, taking our jobs, pakis.
RUPERT: Uh huh.
Bell rings.
DAVE: Right, that's break time.
INT: Break room, crowded with people drinking tea
DAVE: Hey guys, this is Reece.
RUPERT: err. Hi Everyone, I'm Reece. Pleased to meet you.
The third group game sketch
FX: Crowd noise
Commentator: Not much has happened in this Euro 2012 match so far as we near half-time. TWO TIMING LOVE RAT picks it up near halfway. He passes to FREQUENTER OF AGING PROSTITUTES who quickly returns it. There doesn't seem to be anyway through and yes, I'm afraid it's going all the way back to SEEMS LIKE A NICE GUY BUT THAT'S WHAT WE THOUGHT ABOUT THAT WELSH CHAPPY; HE'S PROBABLY THE NEXT FRITZL.
Out on the sidelines BORING SPEECH IMPEDIMENT BUT DEFO NOT A TAX EVADER seems to be giving out some hurried instructions.
The goalie rolls it out to RACIST FRIEND CUCKOLDER who offloads it to DRUNKEN ASSAULTER. He turns, knocks it into FREQUENTER OF AGING PROSTITUTES who knocks a superb ball down the line to HORRENDOUS DIVING CHEAT. Oh, that's a lovely piece of skill to beat his man to the byline and he whips in a good cross and (beat) SHAMEFULLY OVERPRICED WIFEBEATER is there! but no, he holds it up and plays in AGING PROSITUTES (beat) AGING PROSITUTES scores!!
Oh! Doesn't it make you proud to be English?!
That's right on the stroke of half-time too. Game on. Now back to the studio where JUNKFOOD PEDDLING CRADLE SNATCHER is talking to NORTHERN MORON and BLATENT CLOSET CASE.
end.
Commentator: Not much has happened in this Euro 2012 match so far as we near half-time. TWO TIMING LOVE RAT picks it up near halfway. He passes to FREQUENTER OF AGING PROSTITUTES who quickly returns it. There doesn't seem to be anyway through and yes, I'm afraid it's going all the way back to SEEMS LIKE A NICE GUY BUT THAT'S WHAT WE THOUGHT ABOUT THAT WELSH CHAPPY; HE'S PROBABLY THE NEXT FRITZL.
Out on the sidelines BORING SPEECH IMPEDIMENT BUT DEFO NOT A TAX EVADER seems to be giving out some hurried instructions.
The goalie rolls it out to RACIST FRIEND CUCKOLDER who offloads it to DRUNKEN ASSAULTER. He turns, knocks it into FREQUENTER OF AGING PROSTITUTES who knocks a superb ball down the line to HORRENDOUS DIVING CHEAT. Oh, that's a lovely piece of skill to beat his man to the byline and he whips in a good cross and (beat) SHAMEFULLY OVERPRICED WIFEBEATER is there! but no, he holds it up and plays in AGING PROSITUTES (beat) AGING PROSITUTES scores!!
Oh! Doesn't it make you proud to be English?!
That's right on the stroke of half-time too. Game on. Now back to the studio where JUNKFOOD PEDDLING CRADLE SNATCHER is talking to NORTHERN MORON and BLATENT CLOSET CASE.
end.
Va Va Voom sketch
FX: Birdsong, sound of crickets and cicadas
FX: The sound of a car pulling up on gravel, a car door opens and closes
Hunt: Papa?
Older Frenchman: Nicole!
Hunt: Papa?
Older Frenchman: Nicole!
Leveson: (lots of reverb)
Mr Hunt?
(Beat)
(Clearer)
Mr Hunt?
Hunt: Huh? Where? Ah, yes Lord Leveson. I, er, don't know where I was just now? What were you saying?
FX: The sound of a car pulling up on gravel, a car door opens and closes
Hunt: Papa?
Older Frenchman: Nicole!
Hunt: Papa?
Older Frenchman: Nicole!
Leveson: (lots of reverb)
Mr Hunt?
(Beat)
(Clearer)
Mr Hunt?
Hunt: Huh? Where? Ah, yes Lord Leveson. I, er, don't know where I was just now? What were you saying?
Goodbye Mr Fry sketch
INT: 1950s Classroom, Black and white film
An elderly teacher walks in. We see two pupils, PERCIVAL and GATSBY
PERCIVAL: Hello Mr Fry!
GATSBY: Hello Mr Fry!
Mr Fry looks sad
MR FRY: Oh Hello boys
GATSBY: Are you ok sir?
MR FRY: Oh, oh yes my dear dear boy. It is marvellous to see you all.
GATSBY (TO PERCIVAL): I say, Mr Fry doesn't jolly well look happy at all. What could the matter be?
PERCIVAL (TO GATSBY): Oh, it's probably that he misses his wife, Gatsby. I've heard the other teachers mention it.
GATSBY: Sir! Are you sad about your wife?
MR FRY: Oh, no no boys, you don't want to hear any rot about that. Bally silly if you ask me.
GATSBY: But sir, anything we can do to help
PERCIVAL: Yes, sir
MR FRY: Oh, alright. My dear wife was the most amazing person. Could suck a golf ball through a hosepipe. We met through an advert she placed on one of those anonymous online dating sites. 'BBW MILF seeks MMF action'
(Smiles and looks into distance)
I'll always remember that. She was looking to get DP'd and film it to fund her crack and heroin habit.
We were married at once and for weeks and months we were happy, cruising the Basingstoke swingers scene. Oh boys, my boys, you're too young to know yet that life can start so hopefully, and so full of joy but before you know it you're in a darkened room with a gimp suit, a strap on and a pregnant dwarf. You can still Google it I think
GATSBY: Oh, sir. I'm so sorry.
MR FRY: Oh, my boy, my dear boy. Don't worry. She left me for the dwarf and they live in Norwich. They had a son. He went up to Cambridge, you know. Fine fellow. And I...I have my boys, my wonderful boys and my alcoholism and my pornography. I shall be just splendid.
And enough of this rot, turn your textbooks to page 77, quicksmart.
An elderly teacher walks in. We see two pupils, PERCIVAL and GATSBY
PERCIVAL: Hello Mr Fry!
GATSBY: Hello Mr Fry!
Mr Fry looks sad
MR FRY: Oh Hello boys
GATSBY: Are you ok sir?
MR FRY: Oh, oh yes my dear dear boy. It is marvellous to see you all.
GATSBY (TO PERCIVAL): I say, Mr Fry doesn't jolly well look happy at all. What could the matter be?
PERCIVAL (TO GATSBY): Oh, it's probably that he misses his wife, Gatsby. I've heard the other teachers mention it.
GATSBY: Sir! Are you sad about your wife?
MR FRY: Oh, no no boys, you don't want to hear any rot about that. Bally silly if you ask me.
GATSBY: But sir, anything we can do to help
PERCIVAL: Yes, sir
MR FRY: Oh, alright. My dear wife was the most amazing person. Could suck a golf ball through a hosepipe. We met through an advert she placed on one of those anonymous online dating sites. 'BBW MILF seeks MMF action'
(Smiles and looks into distance)
I'll always remember that. She was looking to get DP'd and film it to fund her crack and heroin habit.
We were married at once and for weeks and months we were happy, cruising the Basingstoke swingers scene. Oh boys, my boys, you're too young to know yet that life can start so hopefully, and so full of joy but before you know it you're in a darkened room with a gimp suit, a strap on and a pregnant dwarf. You can still Google it I think
GATSBY: Oh, sir. I'm so sorry.
MR FRY: Oh, my boy, my dear boy. Don't worry. She left me for the dwarf and they live in Norwich. They had a son. He went up to Cambridge, you know. Fine fellow. And I...I have my boys, my wonderful boys and my alcoholism and my pornography. I shall be just splendid.
And enough of this rot, turn your textbooks to page 77, quicksmart.
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