These are the first two scenes from another sitcom of mine that I've recently rewritten after leaving it for a few months. An earlier draft of this sitcom is the one that my agent PFD read, and took me on. They've wanted me to rewrite it for a while - (there was a bizarre serial killer in the original plot that they wanted me to replace with something else) Anyway, that done, here's the first bit.
I should mention it's very silly indeed - cartoonish surreal in places and a complete departure in tone from the mobster comedy drama I posted earlier. I kind of see it as a BBC Three thing, which no doubt will have a lot of you sucking air through your teeth, but as ever, I'd be interested in your thoughts.
I also should mention the actual setting was based on a real place in Stockton called Sun And Surf, (now defunct) which was basically two grotty shops knocked together, separated by an archway. At one end was a tanning salon and at the other an internet cafe. The characters Moira and Jamie are based on the real owners of the shop. (Obviously heightened for comic effect).
Ta.
Sun And Surf
A studio / audience sitcom, written by Lee Henman
SCENE 1. INT. SUN 'N' SURF. DAY.
SUN 'N' SURF IS A HYBRID OF AN INTERNET CAFÉ AND TANNING SALON.
IT COMPRISES OF A FEW OLD COMPUTERS, A SMALL KITCHEN AREA WHERE JAMIE MAKES UNAPPETIZING BUTTIES, AND SOME GRUBBY-LOOKING TANNING BOOTHS.
MOIRA HAS HER FEET UP ON THE RECEPTION COUNTER AND HAS BEEN PAINTING HER TOENAILS. SHE'S FANNING THEM WITH A COPY OF 'BELLA' MAGAZINE.
INSTEAD OF PLASTIC TOE-SPACERS SHE HAS TEN CIGARETTES BETWEEN HER TOES, ONE OF WHICH IS LIT. SHE TAKES THE LIT CIGGIE, AND HAS A DRAG.
ON THE COUNTER IS ONE OF THOSE CHOCOLATE FONDUE FOUNTAINS THAT EVERYONE GOT FOR CHRISTMAS AND USED ONCE. MOIRA DIPS THE FILTER END OF HER FAG INTO THE MELTED CHOCOLATE AND SUCKS IT OFF.
MOIRA:
Mmmm. Choccyfags. Heaven.
ONE OF THE TANNING BOOTHS OPENS AND A BRIGHT RED, SEVERELY BURNED-LOOKING YOUNG WOMAN (TRACEY) STEPS GINGERLY OUT OF THE BOOTH AND HEADS FOR THE EXIT.
SHE HAS TWO WHITE CIRCLES AROUND HER EYES WHERE HER GOGGLES HAVE BEEN, AND SHE'S OBVIOUSLY IN CONSIDERABLE PAIN.
TRACEY:
Shit, them tubes're strong. Ooo. Christ, me flesh...burning...God the pain.
SHE OPENS THE FRONT DOOR.
MOIRA:
Same time tomorrow then Tracey love?
TRACEY TURNS SLOWLY
TRACEY:
Yeah. Just a two hour session though. You have to look after your skin, don't you?
TRACEY HOBBLES OUT INTO THE STREET. THE DOOR SHUTS.
TRACEY: (O.O.V.)
(SCREAMING) Oh God, not sunlight!
DALLAS ENTERS FROM THE SIDE DOOR THAT LEADS TO THE UPSTAIRS FLAT, LOOKING A LITTLE WORSE FOR WEAR. HE'S DRESSED IN TYPICAL GOTH GARB, COMPLETE WITH HEAVY BLACK EYE LINER.
HE NOTICES HIS MUM WITH HER BARE FEET ON THE COUNTER AND PULLS A NAUSEATED FACE.
DALLAS:
Oh God….
MOIRA:
Oh here he is. Max bloody Factor. Afternoon Dallas, pleased you could make it.
DALLAS SQUINTS AT HIS WATCH.
DALLAS:
Oh. Sorry.
MOIRA:
Heavy night was it?
DALLAS:
Mmm. Vampire night at Blaises. Two Van Helsings for a quid.
MOIRA:
Van who sings?
DALLAS:
Van Helsings. It's a Goth cocktail. Four parts Baileys to three parts crème de menthe, with a big chocolate crucifix in it. (HE GRIMACES AND SWALLOWS HARD.) Can I go back to bed please Mum?
MOIRA:
Can you balls! The local Weightwatchers club's coming round for a tanning session this afty, and I dread to think how much sweat there'll be left on them sunbeds after they've finished. You'll need a ship's bilge pump, never mind a sponge.
DALLAS GRIMACES AND SWALLOWS AGAIN.
DALLAS:
Lovely.
MOIRA:
Plus I need to check how I'm doing on lovefinder.com. Them photos I uploaded should've stirred a few loins. They'd better have anyway. I knackered a perfectly good bra making it into a peek-a-boo. And I went through six pairs of pants before I got the crotchless look right. Me knicker drawer looks like I've been groped by Edward Scissorhands.
DALLAS:
Mum, please. Dad'll be turning in his grave.
MOIRA:
He can go onto full spin cycle for all I care! (SOFTENS A LITTLE) Look, I know you miss your Dad, Dallas, but I can't let the grass gather moss beneath me feet, can I? I want to start life anew, while I'm still attractive to men.(SHE COUGHS SOMETHING UP, THEN SWALLOWS IT BACK DOWN) That's why I've got a Botox appointment later on.
DALLAS:
Eh? You had Botox done last week didn't you?
MOIRA:
Yeah, but I could only afford to get one side of me face done. Look.
SHE SMILES AT DALLAS EXTREMELY LOP-SIDEDLY. TO ILLUSTRATE, SHE PUSHES THE DEAD SIDE OF HER FACE UP WITH HER HAND, THEN LETS GO.
THE DEAD SIDE DROPS DOWN AGAIN. DALLAS REACTS.
A BEEPING ALARM SOUNDS AND A MALE ELECTRONIC VOICE, SOUNDING FOR ALL THE WORLD LIKE HAL 9000, SPEAKS.
ELECTRONIC VOICE:
Warning. Maximum tanning period exceeded.
DALLAS:
What was that?
MOIRA:
(GRINNING PROUDLY) New machine. Booth two.
DALLAS PULLS BACK THE CURTAIN ON BOOTH TWO TO REVEAL THE NEW TANNING MACHINE, "THE DICKINSON 9000...MAKING YOUR FUTURE ORANGE".
IT HAS A LIFESIZE PICTURE OF DAVID DICKINSON ON IT, GRINNING AND HOLDING THUMBS ALOFT. THERE'S A BIG SPEECH BUBBLE COMING FROM DAVID THAT READS "£4.99 A MINUTE? CHEAP AS CHIPS!"
DALLAS:
The Dickinson 9000? But that's been banned in 17 countries! The tubes're powered by depleted Uranium, for God's sake! It's got a carbon footprint the size of Sheffield!
MOIRA:
I know, that's why I got it cheap! Lovely, innit?
THE ALARM RINGS OUT AGAIN
ELECTRONIC VOICE:
Warning. Risk of serious harm imminent.
DALLAS:
(HORRIFIED) Don't tell me someone's in there!
MOIRA:
(SHRUGGING) Yeah, some geezer. He's paying by the minute, who cares?
DALLAS:
Well how long's he supposed to be in?
MOIRA:
Two, maybe three minutes.
DALLAS:
And how long's it been now?
MOIRA:
No more than two and a half.
DALLAS:
Right. (CHECKS WATCH ANXIOUSLY)
MOIRA:
Hours.
DALLAS:
Hours?!. We'd better get him out, Mum. It's starting to smell like grilled bacon in here.
MOIRA:
That's Jamie in the caff you daft sod. Anyway, he's paying a fiver a minute in there. Another quarter of an hour and I'll have enough to get the other half of me face botoxed.
MOIRA GRINS EXTREMELY LOP-SIDEDLY. DALLAS SHAKES HIS HEAD.
DALLAS:
No, I'm sorry Mum. I won't be witness to a human barbecue just so you can inject deadly viruses into your flappy bits.
DALLAS APPROACHES THE TANNING BOOTH AND KNOCKS ON THE DOOR LIGHTLY.
DALLAS:
(KINDLY) Excuse me, are you alright in there?
QUICK SHOT OF MOIRA MIMICKING HIM MOCKINGLY
MR LOWDER: (O.O.V.)
(GIELGUD-TYPE THESPY-VOICE) Yes, fine thank you, dearheart. Bit hot. I'll probably have a dip in that lovely cool-looking oasis in a second.
DALLAS:
(TO MOIRA) Oasis? What's he on about?
MOIRA:
Hmmm. Maybe you should get him out then. I think he just saw a mirage.
DALLAS:
Oh God. I think it's time for you to come out now. I'm opening the door for you.
MOIRA WALKS OVER TO JOIN DALLAS, HOBBLING BECAUSE OF THE CIGGIES STICKING OUT FROM BETWEEN HER TOES.
MR LOWDER: (O.O.V.)
Oh, very well.
DALLAS PRESSES A BUTTON AND THE TANNING BOOTH DOOR SLIDES OPEN IMPRESSIVELY WITH A HYDRAULIC HISS.
MUSIC:
2001 A SPACE ODYSSEY THEME (Sprach Tharathustra)
DALLAS AND MOIRA PEER INTO THE BOOTH, BUT CAN SEE NOTHING BUT LOTS OF STEAM, BACKLIT WITH ETHEREAL BRIGHT LIGHT.
MOIRA:
(SQUINTING AGAINST THE GLARE) Where is he?
DALLAS:
Look!
THROUGH THE STEAM AND LIGHT WE SEE SOMETHING MOVING EERILY, A BLURRED, THIN, ALMOST ALIEN-LIKE FORM.
DALLAS AND MOIRA UNCONCIOUSLY TAKE A STEP BACKWARDS AS THE BEING SLOWLY EMERGES TO THE CRESCENDO OF THE MUSIC.
IT'S MR LOWDER, AND HE'S AN ALBINO. HE HAS A SHOCK OF CURLY WHITE HAIR, COMPLETE WITH WHITE EYEBROWS.
HE'S NAKED BUT FOR A PAIR OF Y-FRONTS, AND HE'S CLUTCHING A FRAMED PHOTO OF DAVID DICKINSON.
HE HOLDS THE PHOTO TO THE SIDE OF HIS FACE FOR THEM TO MAKE A COMPARISON.
MR LOWDER:
Well? Has it worked? Am I even darker than the great leathery one himself?
DALLAS AND MOIRA SHAKE THEIR HEADS SLOWLY.
MR LOWDER:
I see. Would I be right in assuming that my complete lack of skin pigmentation has had a detrimental effect on my efforts to secure a tan?
THEY BOTH NOD THEIR HEADS APOLOGETICALLY.
MR LOWDER:
F**k.
CUT TO:
SCENE 2. INT. SUN 'N' SURF. DAY 1. 13:32.
MOIRA'S ON THE COMPUTER IN THE INTERNET CAFÉ SECTION OF SUN AND SURF.
JAMIE (OVERWEIGHT, 26, OBVIOUSLY GAY) ), MINCES OUT OF THE KITCHEN, HOLDING A PLATE WITH A BACON BUTTIE ON IT IN ONE HAND, AND MOIRA'S BELLA MAGAZINE IN THE OTHER WHICH HE'S ENGROSSED IN. WITHOUT LOOKING UP FROM THE MAG HE DUMPS THE BUTTIE ON A TABLE AS HE WALKS, KNOCKING AN OLD MAN'S TEA EVERYWHERE.
HE SITS NEXT TO MOIRA AT THE PC, STILL UNABLE TO TEAR HIS EYES OFF THE MAG. HE CURLS HIS TOP LIP IN DISTASTE AT WHAT HE'S READING.
JAMIE:
Do you know Moy, this magazine of yours reminds me of an old woman sat on a park bench with her legs open.
MOIRA:
You what?
JAMIE:
Well, it's like, you really want to stop looking, but it just kind of...draws you in against your will. Forcing you to peer deeper into its hideous murky depths. It's the articles that get me. Listen to this. (HE FLICKS THROUGH THE PAGES) "My Prolapse And Me, The Day I Sneezed My Fallopian Tubes Out".
(TURNS TO ANOTHER PAGE) "My Hysterectomy Hell; Drunken Doc Leaves Anaesthetic Trolley In Womb Cavity" .
MOIRA:
(TAPPING COMPUTER KEYBOARD)
And your point is?
JAMIE:
Well it's just relentless gynecology isn't it? Listen. Apparently one in two menopausal women suffer from Atrophic Vaginitus, dryness of the intimate area.
HE PULLS A FACE.
MOIRA:
Urgh that's horrible! Well, it'll never happen to me. Not as long as I've got me Ronan Keating pictures anyway.
SHE WHIPS A PICTURE OF RONAN KEATING OUT OF HER POCKET AND KISSES IT.
MOIRA:
Oh Ronan you wobbly-voiced sex-leprechaun…you'll keep me moist forever.
JAMIE:
...And apparently some lose their memory as well, poor cows. The chemists must be full of fifty-year-old women who've forgotten they came in for a tube of fanny-lube.
MOIRA:
(ANNOYED NOW) Yeah all right Jamie! That's why I've joined this online dating agency bollocks isn't it? To find meself another bloke before bits of me start seizing up and dropping off.
JAMIE:
Ahh bless, I know love. It must've been hard for you since your Terry died. How long's it been now?
MOIRA
Ooo God, I don't know. After a while, time sort of seems to lose all of its meaning. Six...maybe seven weeks?
JAMIE:
(NODDING SYMPATHETICALLY) It's a long time to be alone, princess. I think you're doing the right thing with this dating agency. Attractive woman like you. You'll be beating them off with a shitty stick.
MOIRA SMILES LOP-SIDEDLY.
JAMIE:
Don't do that sweetie. You look like Jackie Stallone's reflection in the back of a spoon.
MOIRA STOPS SMILING.
PC: (V.O.)
You have...two...personal messages.
MOIRA:
Oh my God oh my God oh my God! I've got messages!
JAMIE:
Well bend me backwards over Beckham! Let's see then!
CUSTOMER:
Erm...waiter, could I have...
JAMIE:
(INTERRUPTING) Another few minutes to think about your order? Of course sir.
JAMIE BOTTOM-BARGES MOIRA OVER ONTO ONE HALF OF HER SEAT AND SQUEEZES IN NEXT TO HER.
JAMIE:
Right, budge up fat arse, and press that button.
MOIRA CLICKS THE MOUSE.
PC: (V.O.)
Message...one.
ON THE PC'S MEDIA PLAYER WE SEE A FAT, SHINY-FACED MAN IN HIS LATE FORTIES. HE'S WEARING A BRIGHTLY-COLOURED BOW TIE AND A STRAW BOATER.
DESPITE HIS JOLLY DRESS, HE LOOKS VERY SERIOUS. HE REACHES DOWN BENEATH THE TABLE AND PRODUCES A CASSETTE PLAYER.
TIM:
(MOROSELY) Am I on?
CAMERAMAN: (O.O.V.)
Yeah, you're on mate.
TIM:
Right. (SIGHS HEAVILY) Hi Moira. I'm Tim, and if you want a date full of fun, madcap laughs and hi-jinx, then I'm your man.
TIM PRESSES A BUTTON ON THE CASSETTE, AND 'MAKE 'EM LAUGH' FROM 'SINGING IN THE RAIN' STARTS TO PLAY.
HE BEGINS TO MIME HALF-HEARTEDLY TO GENE KELLY'S WORDS.
TIM:
Make 'em laugh
Make 'em laugh
Don't you know everyone wants to laugh
You start off by pretending
You're a dancer with grace
You wiggle 'till they're
Giggling all over the place
And then you get a great big custard pie in the face
Make 'em laugh
Make 'em laugh
Make 'em laugh !
TIM TURNS HIS HEAD UPWARDS AND HIS BOW TIE STARTS TO SPIN.
THE BATTERIES RUN OUT ALMOST AS SOON AS IT STARTS AND IT DIES WITH A PATHETIC WHINING SOUND.
HE BEGINS TO SOB QUIETLY.
TIM:
Somebody love me, please!
JAMIE:
Jesus. Taxi for Mr Sadbastard!
MOIRA NODS IN AGREEMENT AND CLICKS THE MOUSE. A REALLY GOOD-LOOKING GUY (JEFF) IN HIS TWENTIES APPEARS ON THE SCREEN.
HE'S WEARING A PLAIN NAVY CUT AWAY T-SHIRT, REVEALING HIS TANNED MUSCULAR ARMS.
JEFF:
Oh Hi Moira, my names Jeff. You'll have to excuse the sweaty t-shirt. Just got back from the gym. Four hundred press-ups aren't as easy they used to be, I can tell you.
QUICK SHOT OF MOIRA AND JAMIE BOTH LICKING THEIR LIPS. (PREFERABLY SYNCHRONIZED, LICKING FROM LEFT TO RIGHT)
JEFF:
So, a bit about me then, I'm basically a fun guy to have around, not short of a bob or two, and I'm...well, let's just say I'm 'tri-sexual', as in I'll "try" anything once. (LAUGHS AT HIS SHIT JOKE, THEN THINKS FOR A SECOND) Actually, no poo games. I won't try poo games. Get in touch. Ciao!
THE CAMERA REMAINS ON JEFF FOR A FEW SECONDS AS HE STANDS UP. HE IS WEARING VERY TIGHT SPORTS SHORTS, THROUGH WHICH WE CAN SEE THE COMICALLY-LARGE BULGE OF A MAN ENDOWED LIKE A SILVERBACK GORILLA. (ASSUMING SILVERBACKS DO INDEED HAVE BIG KNOBS)
THE SCREEN GOES BLANK. IN A DAZE, MOIRA JABS THE 'PRINT' BUTTON SEVERAL TIMES.
SHORT PAUSE AS MOIRA AND JAMIE SIT AND STARE, MOUTHS HANGING SLIGHTLY OPEN. JEFF'S DETAILS BEGIN TO PRINT.
JAMIE:
(NONCHALANTLY) Right. So. Does it have his number there?
MOIRA:
(SUDDENLY JERKED OUT OF REVERIE) Not telling!
JAMIE:
Give!
MOIRA:
No! Mine! He's mine!
JAMIE:
Gimme that frigging paper...
JAMIE TRIES TO GRAB THE PAPER FROM THE PRINTER BUT MOIRA GETS TO IT FIRST.
A SHORT SCUFFLE ENSUES, THEM DANCING AROUND THE ROOM AS JAMIE ATTEMPTS TO GRAB THE PAPER FROM MOIRA.
MOIRA STUFFS THE PAPER DOWN THE FRONT OF HER JEANS.
JAMIE:
(GASPS) That's so not fair! You know that's forbidden territory to me!
MOIRA:
Hah!
CURLY LOOKS AT THE COMPUTER SCREEN AND GRINS EVILLY.
JAMIE:
Hah!
MOIRA:
No!
JAMIE TRIES TO GET TO THE PC, BUT MOIRA TACKLES HIM TO THE GROUND.
SHE HOLDS ON TIGHT TO HIS LEGS AS HE DRAGS HIMSELF BY HIS FINGERNAILS EVER-CLOSER TO THE COMPUTER.
JAMIE:
Let go...you vile...hag!
MOIRA:
Never!
JAMIE GETS TO THE COMPUTER, AND MANAGES TO RAISE HIS HAND UP TO THE KEYBOARD. HIS FINGER FINDS THE 'PRINT' BUTTON, AND JABS IT, JUST AS THE PC TURNS OFF.
JAMIE:
Uh? No! No!
HE TURNS TO LOOK AT MOIRA WHO STILL HAS HOLD OF HIS LEGS, BUT NOW ALSO HAS THE PC'S POWER CABLE BETWEEN HER CLENCHED TEETH, PLUG DANGLING.
SHE GROWLS AND SHAKES HER HEAD LIKE A TRIUMPHANT TERRIER. JAMIE GOES TO TAKE IT OFF HER BUT SHE SNARLS AND SNAPS AT HIS FINGERS.
JAMIE:
Ooo! Bitch!
