The Romantic Novelists' Association's Romantic Novelist of the Year Award
In a tea-rooms, sat at a flowery table-clothed table, and surrounded by paperback books are Jackie- fat, dark hair which is ridiculously volumised- and Jilly- identical, but blonde. Far too much badly applied make-up.
They address cam.
Jackie: (American accent)As I think has been discussed beforehandidly, I, I am the Chair Damseless of the my your we the Romantic Novelists' Association. And so I brandish the gavel that, at the last, will decide to whom this year's The Romantic Novelists' Association's Romantic Novelist of the Year Award will be awarded to. Yes. It's a verily lusted after post that I hold, don't you know. Anyone, as Jilly always says, anyone who's worth salt has held...
Jilly: (English accent)Worth their weight in salt, Jackie.
Jackie: ...A-right, well, anyway, it's a very hard post that everyone would like to lay their hands upon: really hard. It's verily much a hands-on job.
Jilly: To actually be Chairdamseless of the Romantic Novelists-apostrophe s Assoc full stop, comma, is a dreeeam of any nice, normal, beautiful young woman: I, for instance, would love to have in my hands the post that Jackie fulfils so rigorously, and the great load she takes on her shoulders.
Jackie: Yes, no, you've never been Chair Damseless ever? Have you Jilly, have you?
Jackie smugly bats her long, light blue eye-lashes; then, she uses her fingers to form brackets on either side of mouth, and she says:
Jackie: Have you?
One pair of Jackie's eyelashes falls off. She doesn't notice.
Jackie: You've never known the responsibility which comes with this high office, semi-colon, you'll never have to preside over a selection, a family selection, Jilly, of some of the finest, the finest of our age, I mean time, not age.
Jilly: And you mean minds as well, Chaise Damseless, too; maybe that's why you preside over them instead of being one of them?
Jackie looks around distractedly.
Jackie: ...Yeah...
Jilly: Shouldnst they be 'ere by now?
Jackie: Ah, Jilly, but! "Time and tide wait for no time". Ah... Who was it who said that? Was it Shakes...
Jilly: You did, Jack...
Jackie: -peare?
Jilly: -ie-yes! Ah, Shakespeare!
Jackie: He was good isn't he? What's your favourite of his?
Jilly: Oho! Just quite plainly and simply his best! My favourite of Shakespeare's is, the one that, Emiline Bronte-Sister liked sooo much, and which influenced one of her novels, oh which one was that, Jackie?
Jackie: Which one?
Jilly: No, not that one. The title's longer I think, it was...
Both are blank, and dead-eyed.
Jackie: ... Shall I tell you which is my favourite, Jilly? ...
Jilly answers not, so both remain silent...
Until the tinkle of the doorbell announces:
Penelope: (English accent)Hell-air! Hell-air!
She looks like Miss Marple.But in pink.
Jilly stands to greet Penelope. They curtsey at each other, deeply, and arthritically: then they swap their handbags.
Then Penelope kowtows- arthritically and with much modest adjustment of clothing- before Jackie. Jackie lets her outstretched hand be kissed.
Then they sit.
Penelope: Golly! Simply hideola outside! Like something from The Tempest!
Neither of them register this, just nod politely.
Penelope: Almost began raining. Fumph! Well, who are we expecting?
Jackie: Only the Board people.
Jilly: (To cam.) Oh, begging your manners, this is Pen-Penny-Penelope... Yes, Penelope. She's the Treasurer. The only Treasurer of the Romantic Novelists, and she oversees the fin-ahnces of many of our Novelists, all of whom have at least three names.
Jackie points ostentatiously; she regards her ostentatious point, considers it, and says:
Jackie: Yes, that's a good point.
Jilly: What can we say about our fellow Romantic Novelists, Jackie?
Jackie: What can't we say?
Jilly: Yes, that would be more interesting, certainly.
Jackie: Intelligent.
Jilly: Full-hipped.
Jackie: Large-hearted.
Jilly: Stomachs to match.
Jackie: Great hair.
Penelope: D'you reckon anyone else is going to come?
Jilly: Oh, thou! Honestly! Thou jokest, donst thou? Donst thou? Of-course they will come. This is the most important award ever! They will all flock here. You two have certainly flocked- I can tell just by looking atst thou.
Jackie to cam:
Jackie: Better get down to it, anyway. Listen up, chumps! This is the skinny: at about twilight o' clock the deal goes down, and one of our sorority, no, lady-ority, will be awarded, nay, crowned, as the Romantic Novelists' Association's Romantic Novelist of the Year Award, Associa...
Jilly: ...Yes. The winner will be announced at our Second Annual Big Ball, so that'll be two Balls we'll have under our belts and, actually, this Ball is noticeably more swelled than the other, Ball, so tonight's Ball will be, er, remarkably larger than our other, Ball.
Penelope: When was the Romantic Novelists' Association's Romantic Novelist of the Year Award, first, er, awarded, your Majesty?
Jackie: Oh, forever! Wherever there have been hearts and minds and thighs, there have been Romantic Novelists, and they have been giving awards since ever since.
Jilly: Some of the winners of our statuette-ette have been, oh, I don't know: Shakespeare... Emily Bronte-Sister... her sister Bronte-Sister, Anne... Frank. Jane Austen, Charlotte Web, Georgina Eliot.
Penelope: Now, did you know Georgina Eliot ended up by being a woman, but by the time her books were published he was still a woman, but Georgina was a male novelist, so he's very important, yes...
Jackie and Jilly nod sagely.
Jackie: There was that unfortunate incident at one awards show, years ago now Jilly, when the Bronte-Sister sisters kicked the shit out've Jane Austen 'cause Jane Austen was a Protestant, and the Bronte-Sister sisters were bitches.
Jilly exhibits the statuette-ette. Carved from one enourmous pink sequin.
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Jackie, Jilly and Penelope are still at table: many paperbacks are scattered about; Jilly and Penelope make suggestions from a list and Jackie writes.
Pen: Tea and Cucumber Sandwiches?
Jack: Agreed.
Jill: Tea and Toast for Two?
Jack: Yep.
Pen: Erm, Soft Boiled Eggs?
Jack: No, Penelope.
Jill: Cakes, Cream and Lots of Sugar?
Jack: Fine. Now... We should really think about what we're going to order.
Jill: Ah! Here comes the waitress, now.
Jackie tuts at Jilly.
Jilly: Oh, er... Parlour Maid.
Parlour Maid is beautiful. She modestly adjusts her very short skirt, pulling it down to just beneath the bottom of her classic maid's pinafore.
P.M.: Are you ready to order? Modums?
Jill: No, as a matter of fact, we are not. We haven't finished making our shortlist for the Over 50's finalists, yet. We're having nominations in the final draw made up from the Category winners, so as to make our finalists as representable as possible...
Parlour Maid just looks at her.
Jilly: So please, return in about, erm, anon- in about an anon.
Parlour Maid leaves beautifully.
Jack: Returning to the job-at-hand, ladies.
Pen: Okay, alrighteth, well, what about... "Seconds"?
Jack: Naturally.
Pen: "An Older Gentleman"?
Jack&Jill: No.
Jill: "Return To Tea and Toast For One: The Marmalading"?
Jack: Marvellous. And that's our Over Fifties.
Pen: How many more have we now?
Jack: Categories?
Pen: Yes.
Jack: Then say it, Penelope?
Pen: How many categories more do now we have?
Jack: That's better. It feels better, doesn't it. How many left? Oh, a few of them. Some, some. A few.
Parlour Maid slinks back to their table.
Jill: Oh, en chanted to meet thee. I'll have: tea, toast, for two, marmalade, some milk, some sugar, a knife. Two boiled eggs, some water, three and a half minutes, some pepper, a spoon...
P.M.: If you'll order from the menu. Modums.
Jack: Young madam? What, perchance, types of tea do you have, let's pray?
P.M.: ...Hot, full bodied, robust, traditional tea. It says so on the menu, modums.
Jack: Yes. But what type of tea?
PM: Traditional tea.
Jack: But, what, type, of... TEA?
P.M. Just 'cause you say it louder and slower, doesn't, mean, I'll, understand, YOU. What do you think I am? The French?
Jack: Well, what tradition is it from then? Does that make it any easier to understand?
P.M. It's just traditional.
Jack: In Germany it's traditional to invade the globe. So that's 'traditional'! You want me to drink 'war tea'? ...What region does the tea hail in?!
P.M. I don't get it.
Jack: Is it Assam? Is it Yorkshire? Is it... Assam?
Parlour Maid giggles at mention of Assam.
Jack: Smut. Act your age, you bawdy strumpet! Honestly! How old are you?
P.M.: Eighteen.
Jackie, Jilly and Penelope all growl.
P.M.: Order! Order!
Pen: Right. Hah, write! Haha... A smoked salmon.
Jack: An egg maisonette.
Pen: The cucumber and cream sandwiches.
Jack: All the Fruits of the Forest.
Jill: I always like the sight of Ladies Fingers covered in a thick, Spotted, Dick, with a creamy Fruit Cumpot.
Jack: Times four, Parlour Maid. Thank-you.
Parlour Maid leaves.
Jack: Now, ladies. Down to the really important business: Pudding.
Jilly and Penelope both nod and look serious.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The table groans under seven-tiered cake-stands, huge pots of tea,books, pastries, biscuits, plates of sandwiches, scones...
The three look a little worse for wear.
Pen: Me oh may, aym feelin' a mite woozy!
Jill: It's just the caffeine of the tea colliding with the sugar high you're currently experiencing. Pull through, pull through. Don't worry, soon it'll give you wiiings!
Jilly flaps her arms and chuckles.
Jack: Bingo-wings.
Penelope's hair has gone flat and her make-up is wrecked. Jilly pats her reassuringly while applying to Pen's face a blusher of jam using a scone of application.
Jack: Come on, Penelope. Chins up.
Pen: (Recovering) Are we, are we rewarding linguistic originality this year?
Jill: What do you mean?
Pen: Er, original use of language?
Jill: What?
Pen: Erm sort of clever one-up-mans-word-smith.
Jill: Wha'?!
Jack: She means new words for 'cock'. You know: 'Manhood', 'Hardness', 'Abortionist'.
Jill: Ah, yes. That is important and necessary work.
Pen: I was thinking more along the lines of original description, evocative metaphors, erm, dictionary stuff.
Jill: Oh, you mean the sort of stuff that is about people having life-threatening illnesses. Where people live in slums, or walk around eating burgers on the King's Highway, don't you?! Those books that question the use of life, and that use long, precise words that you have to look up in the word dictionary. No! I won't have it!
Jilly is brandishing a huge éclair.
Jill: Books should be about love, and the Long Grasses; breathless horse chases across bumpy-bumpy meadows and affiliated tranquil bucolics, where people cry: "You ride with such panache, Madamoiselle!" And I cry back at them as I thunder past, "Something very witty indeed!"
Jack: Amen!
Jill: Books should be about heroes; deep-chested, broad-shouldered manly men with enough stubble with which to light a match made in heaven.
Jack: Ah! Men!
Jill: Books should be about me getting a husband. A young one. One with a massive, massive fortune.
Jack: Don't worry, Jilly. It'll happen one day soon. When you least expect it! One day soon he will walk into your life! He'll move next door to you! And you slowly fall in love with him. But you'll fight your heart, because you've been hurt by love before; and learning to trust again, and learning to shave again, are hard things to do. He'll be charming, and macho...
Jill: Yes! Yes, he'll be plighting his troth back and forth across my face, but I will stay tight-lipped. Then one night he'll woo me, with rubies and champagne, and he'll woo me so long and hard and thick that he makes me have an epiphany. And after that I can love again!
Jackie and Jilly embrace tearfully. While still cramming cakes into their mouths.
Pen: ...But there's an evil ex-wife, a-lurkin' in the background!
Jack&Jill: No!?
Pen: And she's seductive, and sassy, and blonde, and twenty-three, and she wins back her man. Her name's ...Trixy, no: Harlotta Von Bikini.
Jilly cries and cries, putting lump after lump of sugar in her tea-cup, then filling it with cream and adding a drop of tea.
Jack: But don't worry, there's a sequel! And it explains how you managed to build up a business empire while suffering from your heart-break. And as a Single Lady living through that emotional yoyocoaster, you built up, scratch by scratch, a successful company selling: Kaleidoscopes. For the blind. And after a while that bastard you slept with and Harlotta will move away, and their vacant house will be bought by... Terrence! No- not Terrence, beause of Terry, or shudder: Tez... Rupert? Too tarty. Will?... Yeah. Will will do. Will will woo you too, and he'll be the one for you. He will love you true, your mum will love him, too. And he's even more handsome than that other bastard, the first neighbour you slept with. But, Jilly, don't mess this one up, too, this one has to last. Otherwise you'll just be that woman who sleeps with her neighbours.
Pen: And when he dies, Will will willingly will his fortune to you. And it will all be yours.
Jack: For surgery.
Jill: (Nodding) For surgery.
Jilly takes Jackie's hand, Penelope adds her hand.
Pen: For surgery.
Parlour Maid returns with a tray full of biscuits, cakes and puddings. Puts it on table.
The three eye it, twiddling their fingers, holding their breath. The Maid leaves and they swoop voraciously.
Close-up on the terrified face of a gingerbread man.
read a few jilly cooper books, read a few jackie collins books, watched University Challenge The Professionals featuring The Romantic Novelist's Association, and... kablooey! I like writing these idiots as ignorance is my strong point.
there're a few more scenes of them I've got written down somewhere... a discussion about enjoying a good, old-fashioned Dickens and other twottery.
what do y'all think? too long? unfunny? disunderstandable?