|
|
Home | Intro | Archive | Images | Links
TGNders #11 - Two Pints of Vodka and a Packet of Latex Gloves
The title music fades, and we see a wide shot of the square. It's early morning; Fighter of Foo, taking a break from cleaning up the square's never-ending graffiti, is picking his teeth with his broom; Rick Flair is scooting round on his tricycle stealing people's milk; and Dark One and Alastor are heading towards the Mary Rose whilst kicking an empty coke can along the pavement.
Cut to inside The Mary Rose. Retro Bob is dozing in the corner, a half pint of London Pride on his table. He's been drinking it for four days. Big Boss and Lizzy Pop are talking at the bar. Big Boss is looking tired and worried.
Lizzy Pop: “What's wrong, Big Boss? You look tired and worried.”
Big Boss: “I'm alright. Just not getting enough sleep at the moment, that's all.”
As he's speaking, there is a muffled thud from below and a barely audible cry of 'Bejesus!'
Lizzy Pop: “What was that?”
Big Boss: “Nothing! Just a mouse. An Irish mouse. And it certainly wasn't Tim, who as we all know is actually a robot.”
Lizzy Pop: “Okay...”
Big Boss: “Tell ya what, love, d'you think you could run upstairs and give the flat a clean? “
Lizzy Pop: “If you're sure you don't need me down here...”
Big Boss: “Yep. Oh, and stay out of the cellar.”
Lizzy Pop: “Right-o.”
As Liz leaves, The Dark One and Alastor come bursting in the door. They're both in their school uniforms. The Dark One appears to have drawn a moustache on his upper lip using a biro.
The Dark One (to Alastor): “Right, let me do the talking.”
He strides confidently up to the bar. Big Boss, now polishing glasses, barely acknowledges his presence. He's staring at a crack in the floor.
The Dark One: “Morning barkeep! Two pints of vodka, please.”
Big Boss pours two pints of Vodka and hands them over, all without looking up from the floor. He then wanders out the back muttering to himself. No money has changed hands.
Alastor tries to speak, but is overwhelmed at the site of fake soap-opera alcohol. Yes that’s right, it’s so weak it actually has less alcohol content than pure water and even Corinthians wouldn’t touch it if the world dried up.
In comes Retroid for his morning pick-me-up. He spies Retro Bob.
Retroid: “Oh Bob, you didn't sleep here again, did you?”
Retro Bob: (stirring) “Don't touch my stuff! Oh, morning Retroid.”
Retroid: “It's not good for you...”
Retro Bob: “But it wasn't my fault. I dozed off, and when I woke up Big Boss had already locked up and gone to bed. It's not my fault that no-one notices me. Anyway, where's Lady Boy?”
Retroid: “Ah. He said he had some personal business to take care of...”
Inside Dr Drake Ramoray's surgery. Lady Boy is waiting uncomfortably as Drake talks on the phone.
Dr Drake Ramoray: “I know, Alyson, sweetie, but what can I do? My hands are tied. Oh, just one sec, I've got another call coming through. Johnny, baby, how you doing?”
Lady Boy's gaze follows the phone line to the wall. It's disconnected. The oblivious Drake finishes his call.
Dr Drake Ramoray: “So what can I do for you, grandad?”
Lady Boy: “Well Doctor, it's my speech. One minute I'm speaking the Queen's English, the next I'm veering off into a ridiculous patois. Yu hearin I and I, pon dem battyman shufflin? See? What is it, some form of tourette's or something? Praise Selassie bun Babylon n ting...x”
Dr Drake Ramoray: “Hmm, well that is a poser.”
Lady Boy: “Shabba...x”
Dr Drake Ramoray: “I think the best thing I can do in these circumstances is prescribe this.”
He hands Lady Boy a video marked 'Buffy'.
Lady Boy: “What on Earth am I meant to do with this?..x”
Dr Drake Ramoray: “Hey, don't knock it. Try and knock one off whilst watching it, though, it'll do you a world of good.”
Lady Boy: “Bumberklut...x”
The camera flicks to The Mary Rose. It’s lunchtime, and everyone's enjoying their traditional liquid lunch. Corinthians with a bottle of whiskey in hand, Nuttey drinking a purple liquid that appears to be meths. The Baker is supping a bowl of soup and looking at the bread roll in disgust. (Partly because he disapproves of his own baking, but also because the script writer wanted to imply everyone is a piss head, and you can’t drink a bread roll. (Well, you can as of next episode – but that’s not now is it?)). A brewing company bigwig is laughing heartily and eating a pie stuffed with gold. At the bar, Rick Flair, still riding his trike, orders a pint of 'wife beater' and scoots over to the table Air Raven's sat at.
Rick Flair: “Whoooo! Your mum's got a crusty old chuff!”
Air Raven: “Ha ha. I love our little chats, Rick.”
Rick Flair: (slightly confused) “She's filthier than felchmonkey's porn stories!”
Air Raven chuckles happily.
Rick Flair: “Whooo! She's dirtier than the contents of Drake's secret draw! “
Air Raven: “Bravo!”
Rick Flair, crestfallen: “What happened? When did everyone stop hating me?”
Before Air Raven has a chance to answer, Rick bursts into tears and tootles off, lacking the motivation to even turn on his siren-hat.
Meanwhile, at another table, Rhin Ox is sat talking to Koff Drop and Koffdrop’s Muse. Neither is sure why.
Rhin Ox: “So it turns out it was the CIA who threw that brick at my grandadad. They make him the escape goat, see, and...”
Koffdrop’s Muse (interrupting): “Yes, anyway, weren't you telling us about your new job?”
Rhin Ox: “Oh yeh, I was working as a loliluloop man, it was great. I doing god for the community and I got a unefrom....”
We see a flashback outside the local school. The Dark One and Alastor are running terrified across the zebra crossing, screaming. Rhin Ox is chasing after them, brandishing his lollipop.
Rhin Ox: “Run for your lives, fcukers! “
We blur back to a poor excuse for alcohol blurred (I know I used blur twice, well thee times in the same sentence, but the cheap bastards can’t afford a thesaurus in the budget anymore) reality.
Rhin Ox: “But the school said I wasnt sateable. So now, I'm walkking for Zebedee.”
Koff Drop: “Doing what?”
Rhin Ox: “I'm his lock key. It’s a very impotent role.”
Koff Drop: “Right...”
At this moment, Rick Flair trundles up to his table.
Rick Flair: “Whoooo! You still hate me, don't you, slaphead?”
Koff Drop: “How could I hate such a mature, friendly and genteel person?”
Rick Flair: “But...but...what about you, Shite Ox?”
Rhin Ox: “Your a foney guy. Why would I hat you?”
Rick Flair (growing increasingly desperate): “Someone here must hate me!”
Apocalypse Dude: “But your little trike's so cute!”
Felt Monkey (turning slowly from the bar so as to avoid chafing from his pink PVC hot pants): “And the siren-for-a-hat look is so daring, it's practically gay!”
Lady Boy: “Best dressed chicken in town...x”
Retroid: “No-one's gonna get that, you old fool...”
Rick Flair: “Anyone? Anyone at all?”
Suddenly, Retro Bob stands to speak: “I'm very, very old. So old only the older members ... er, I mean, older regulars, remember me. Anyway, this means that I hate absolutely everything. So fear not, Rick, for I still find you to be an abomination, surely crafted by the hands of Lucifer himself!”
Rick Flair: (having not heard a word) “Right, so that's it then, is it? I'll be going now, shall I? “
Silence...
Rick Flair: “Slags, the lot of you! All I ever wanted was to be hated...”
And with that, Rick slowly begins to exit the pub. The song from the end credits of the Incredible Hulk TV show begins to play on the jukebox.
Rick Flair: (to himself) “They haven't heard the last of me. Mwa ha ha ha haaa.”
With peace restored, we cut to Corinthians and Felt Monkey, who are sat at the bar with Tim, who has a screwdriver sticking out of his neck. They're playing with his personality chip.
Corinthians: “I'm sure we'll be able to find your dream guy here somewhere. How about this one?”
Tim: “I need your clothes, your boots and your bike.”
Felt Monkey: “You're not backwards in coming forwards, are you? Still, bit too butch for my tastes.”
Corinthians: “Okay, how about this?”
She twiddles the screwdriver.
Tim: “I AM GALACTICOS, DESTROYER OF WORLDS, DEVOURER OF...”
Felt Monkey: “No, no, no, that won't do at all. does it not have anything a bit more...gay?”
Corinthians: “Hmm, lets see...”
She makes a violent stabbing motion with the screwdriver.
Tim: “Oh thank you, kind sir, I’m so glad to be rid of that oafish R2 unit. Impossible droid. Now, may I tempt sir with a gentle foot massage, or would sir simply prefer a tender kiss on the forehead?”
Felt Monkey: “Perfect!”
At this point, a heavily inebriated The Dark One staggers up to the bar. He's wearing his school tie around his head a la Rambo, and his moustache has smudged.
The Dark One: “schuse me miss, don't s'pose you've seen Alastor, have you? It's just I went to the toilet and when I came back he'd gone and (The Dark One is getting weepy) he's my best friend and I dunno what I'd do without him...”
Corinthians: “No love, I'm afraid I haven't seen him.”
The Dark One: “Oh right. Thanks anyway.” He collapses on the floor.
Felt Monkey: “Now, how am I going to break this to Inspiration?”
Corinthians: “Uh, did he just swallow his tongue?”
dr48: “Umm ...isn’t that your son, Cori dear?”
Corinthians: “I’ll give you my son in a minute if you don’t shut up.”
Confused, dr48 retreats, playing with his underwear under the kilt (either he’s not a real Scotsman, or it’s not really a kilt). Meanwhile on the other side of the pub, Apocalypse Dude is chatting to Dr Drake Ramorary.
Apocalypse Dude: “You've got to help me, Doctor! All of a sudden, my beard weighs a ton! It's giving me crippling back pain, and I can't even stand up straight anymore!”
Dr Drake Ramorary: “Well, in my professional, expert opinion, your beard is rank. Now get the hell away from me, fuzzball.”
Suddenly, a character we'd completely forgotten about leaps to his feet.
Raine: “Hey slags, looks like there’s someone new in the square.”
Everyone turns around to see what the commotion is about, everyone except Corinthians who is looking worried because she only has two bottles of JD left.
Raine: “Oi bitches, the other way, outside that window. Turn around the other way or I’ll have you’re fecking faces beaten in!”
Raine turns to talk to someone apparently behind the camera.
Raine: “Is that IT? Two lines? Why did you even bother? They were rubbish!”
Everybody turns and looks out open door in The Mary Rose (once more except Corinthians), where they see a horse and cart pulling up, complete with a coffin and many suitcases.
dr48: “Oi oi, looks like there someone new in the town.”
Instinctively everybody turns and looks at Felt Monkey.
Felt Monkey: (looking slightly confused) “What?”
An outraged Dr. Kong slams his bottle against the wall and storms out, slamming the door behind him. There's a brief pause before he sheepishly opens the door again so we can still see the new arrivals.
Felt Monkey: (Suddenly catching up.) “Oh right!”
His voice suddenly increases and octave and picks up an accent making him sound like he’s from SwindonFelt Monkey: "I wonder if they’re gay.”
The camera slowly moves outside through the door (as fast as the under-paid camera man’s dwarf legs can carry him) to the street, where we see a man wearing a black cape, black make-up and purple speckled waistcoat off-loading some of the suitcases from the back of the cart.
Smokin’ 666: (turning to woman standing next to him) “We’re finally here my darling.”
He grabs her by the waist, and plants a kiss.
Voodoo Chile: “Euuurghhh, get a room you two.”
Light Wind: “Sharup, just because your father and I love each other very much doesn’t mean we can’t express it in public!”
Bewildered by the fact that what Light Wind had just said didn’t actually make sense, even if it did seem to at first, a passing Dr. Kong (heading up to Dr. Drake Ramoray’s surgery) chips in...
Dr. Kong: “What?”
Cue canned laughter in the background, as we do Lewis @ Cube reaches for the coffin.
Lewis @ Cube: “Where d’you want the dead body guv?”
Smokin’ 666: “Ave a little respect mate, that’s my clothes in there.”
Lewis @ Cube: “Sure it wouldn’t be better off buried Six Feet Under or cremated?”
Smokin’ 666: (Slapping Lewis) “A little less of that cheek, you know how I’ve helped you out in the past, and this is how you repay me?”
Lewis @ Cube: (looking down at his feet) “Sorry, sir. Can I rest my feet soon please, the blood on the socks is starting to go crusty again.”
Smokin’ 666: “It’s always ‘me me me’ with you isn’t it! Just remember who it was that got you out of the situation with the blow up doll, wet suit and goat, aye? Imagine if those photo’s had hit the web.”
In the market we see Zebedee's three-wheeled van. Inside it, Zebedee is talking to Rhin Ox.
Zebedee: “Right lad, I've hired you for two reasons. You're physically fit, and you don't know what a union is.”
Rhin Ox: “I do! It when a man and a wombed man lather each other very much, and...”
Zebedee: “Yes, anyway, if you're going to be hawking Professor Zebedee's Nutritious Brain Oil, you're going to need the gift of the gab.”
Rhin Ox: “The gift in the bag? I lokked in your briefcase, but it was full of shredded paper...”
Zebedee (sighing): “I'm gonna give you elocution lessons, lad.”
Rhin Ox: “Oh that's all right. I know all about electriccushion; there's a bit in Bravo Two Zero, where...”
Zebedee: “No, elocution. How to talk proper like what I do. Now, repeat after me: 'The rain in Spain falls mostly on the plain'.”
Rhin Ox: “No it doesn't, ever since Bush put that saddlelite up to spy on the Cata-aliens it falls mostly on the mountain...”
Zebedee: “Oy vey...”
Inside a warehouse a clearly irritated Theory Of Games is sat alone, surrounded by musical instruments made from carboard boxes, elastic bands and old yoghurt pots. The legend 'Audiology's Audiological Laboratory' is painted on the wall. He watches the clock for a while, before getting up.
Theory Of Games: “Right, that's it, I'm gonna kill Ren, pink n’ yellow polka-dot bandana and all!”
Embarrassed that he was talking to himself, Theory Of Games stalks off to look for Ren Of Heavens. As he walks through the nearby park, he finds him, with Third Eye, sat on a bench. They're both obviously off their faces.
Third Eye: “My name makes so much more sense now...”
Ren Of Heavens: “See? Woah, look at that blade of grass; it's got, like, eight sides! And...and...and each side's got a million faces!”
Third Eye: “My brain's making noises...”
Theory Of Games (furious): “What the hell are you doing? You were supposed to be at band practice an hour ago! What are you doing hanging out with this loser?”
Theory Of Games stares at Third Eye, then realises his gaze has lingered longer on Third Eye’s sparkly blue eyes than it ought to.
Ren Of Heavens: “Relax, Theory. Me, Third Eye and Philip Schofield were just drawing some creative energy from the beauty of nature. Look, we wrote a song about an oven glove!”
Ren and Third Eye starts singing ''oven gove, you love it” repeatedly.
Theory Of Games: “Oven gloves? Philip Schofield? Gah, you're tripping you're nuts off, aren't you? How are we gonna get anywhere if you're just sat around hallucinating about lame kids' TV presenters?”
At that moment, a furious Philip Schofield appears from behind the tree he had been using as a lavatory.
Third Eye: “You're in for it now, dude...”
Philip Schofield: “How dare you, hmmm, how dare you? Here I was, enjoying a nice day in the park with my friends and then this! Who do you think you are to call me lame, eh? How many years' broadcasting experience do you have, huh?” (He's now punctuating his speech by jabbing Theory Of Games in the chest violently.) “Sure. I might not be as pretty as Fearne Cotton, but do you think she could present a multimedia wonderment like Test the Nation? D'you think that Geordie one who used to be on Byker Grove could host a trailblazing techno-stravaganza like Talking Telephone Numbers? "The closest we have to a male Carol Smillie" - not my words, oh no, but the words of The Daily Express' Simon Chinverdale.”
Theory Of Games: “Buh...”
Philip Schofield: “I'm gonna sue for defamation of character. See you in court!”
And with a wave to Third Eye and Ren Of Heavens, he strides off, only pausing to turn around and flick a middle finger at Theory Of Games.
Ren Of Heavens: “You know what the important life lesson here is, don't you Theory Of Games?”
Theory Of Games: “Umm...”
Third Eye: “Never call into question the talent or professionalism of minor broadcasting personalities, as you never know if they're waiting to defend themselves behind the next tree.”
Theory Of Games (clearly shaken): “You're all mentalists! All of you! I'm going home!”
Chanting a sanity-restoring mantra to himself, Theory Of Games makes his way home. On the way, he bumps into Rhin Ox by the river.
Rhin Ox: “Why good day to you sir. Prithee, how does fortune favour you today?”
Theory Of Games lets out a loud scream and jumps into the water.
Rhin Ox: “Shite, I thought I was doing alright.”
Back inside The Mary Rose. It's now evening, and everyone is getting happily sozzled. The brewing company bigwig is snorting diamonds and still laughing heartily; Lady Boy is singing 'On the Rivers of Babylon' on the karaoke machine; Apocalypse Dude is bent double by the door, being used as a footstool by Super Al; and Theory Of Games is warming by the fire, staring every now and again at Third Eye. However...
Back in the entrance to the pub. Rick Flair is breaking in to the cellar.
Rick Flair: “Hah, let's see how popular I am when I've replaced all their booze with inferior soda-stream style fizzy pop!”
He lets out a loud laugh, which resonates through the cellar and awakens the previously dormant prisoner, Tim.
Tim (through the tape on his mouth): “Ah! Thank feck! Help me, Big Boss has been keeping me down here for weeks!”
Rick: “Ahhh! A monster!”
Tim: “Ahhhhhh!”
Upstairs, the noise pierces the din of the pub.
Rhin Ox: “What was that cockyfonos shrieking?”
Runover Hedgehog: “It sounded like it came from the cellar. I'll take a look.”
Big Boss: “Wait! You mustn't! You can't!”
Runover Hedgehog: “And why not?”
Suddenly, Rick Flair and Tim run screaming from the cellar. The whole pub looks at Tim, looks at the Tim-bot, and looks at Tim again. Big Boss is already heading for the door.
Big Boss: “So long, suckers!”
At that moment, the previously-missing Alastor tumbles from the depths of Apocalypse Dude's beard. Big Boss' leg catches his prone body and sends him tumbling headfirst into the wall, knocking him to the floor, whereupon he is cuffed by Runover Hedgehog.
Apocalypse Dude: “Huzzah! My crippling back pain's gone!”
The screen blanks out leaving the viewer a little time to think, but hopefully not long enough to realise that for the story to follow Alastor had to have been in Apocalypse Dude’s beard for a number of episodes, despite having non-speaking Coca-Cola sponsored parts in all of them.
Runover Hedgehog: “...so you planned to use Tim-bot to commit a series of dazzling jewellery thefts, Big Boss? That's a pretty pathetic scheme. You were always gonna be caught.”
Big Boss (grimacing towards Alastor and Rick Flair): “I would've gotten away with it if it weren't for you pesky kids...”
Rick Flair: “Hey, I'm older than you are, mug.”
Big Boss: “Well then I would've gotten away with it if it weren't for you pesky kids and child-like adults, then. If that's all, officer...”
Runover Hedgehog: “One more thing. Why were you keeping the real Tim in the basement?”
Big Boss: “Oh, that was just for kicks, you know?”
Runover Hedgehog: “Well, the only kicks you'll be getting from now on will be from the regular and brutal beatings dished out by Her Majesty's finest prison wardens!”
The pub erupts in cheesy laughter, and the credits roll.
DUM DUM DUM DUM~!
Written by RenOfHeavens and dr48
Edited by dr48 and Corinthians9:25