This is not a sit com, so apologies. It's the start of a book I am writing, which I would hope would be made into a Feature length Comedy drama for TV, or as a Brit Flick Film if I was incredibly lucky.
I have it mapped out with it's twists and turns but would really appreciate your comments on how the first few pages come accross. I'm used to script writing so would like feed back as to how readable it is. Are you liking the characters for example. Is it decriptive enough. It is too descriptive, is it boring etc
It is a bit of a read, so feel free to read a part and comment on the bit that you have read. It really will help me, good and bad feedback welcomed.
As Barry and Dave emerged from the car, they could see Chris Kirby making his way towards them. Chris was in his late thirties, fairly tall, and as far as everyone was concerned, he was a bit of a big head. Chris was the star opening bowler. Even in a team that was under performing consistently, Chris still came out with good figures. With 11 games played so far this season, and 67 wickets taken; Chris had managed to get almost 40 of them. He was the sort of guy that would remind people of past records, and he always kept a copy of the clubs fixture book in his back pocket. Every now and then, he'd bring it out and quote one of his records, which were printed towards the back in the honours section. If he wasn't as good as he was, he would certainly have been pushed out of the club by now. Chris runs a local café in Briar Street, about 300 yards from the cricket ground. Whenever asked, Chris always used to say that he was managing director of his own successful business, and he insisted on calling it a Bistro, always with poor French accent. Every week he would put on a Special of the Day, which invariably had a French name and involved some sort of braised meat in a rich gravy with onions. The lads at the cricket club were convinced it was the same dish that was given a different name each week. Chris did mix it up every now and then and once put "Soup Du Jour" on his menu and Barry had asked what it was. Chris remarked that it's Bean Soup and Barry shouted out in front of a modestly filled café, "I don't care what it's been, I want to know what it is now!" Chris hated the cricket team coming in; he felt they lowered the establishment with their full English fry up's and mugs of tea. In truth, they amounted to about half of the takings and Chris would be in trouble if they suddenly stopped coming.
"Hello gorgeous! The colour suits you sweetheart!" said Chris, chuckling at his own statement, as he skipped over whilst bowling a pretend cricket ball. Barry wasn't in the mood; he knew he looked silly, he knew he was in trouble. Barry opened the boot of the car took out his cricket bag, unzipped the bag, pulled out his trusty cricket bat and lifted it just above waist height, as if ready to receive a pitch from an American baseball player; "As you are so interested in colours, do you fancy changing your eye's from blue to black?" "Come on Bazzer, don't be stupid" said Dave, who now had both hands on the cricket bat. He had shifted his body round slightly, so as to get in between the two bickering players. Tension had been increasing in the last few weeks between these two for many reasons, Chris was the best bowler and Barry was the best Batsman, each blamed each other for not doing enough to get the win's they so needed. Barry blamed Chris for not getting enough wickets to finish off the opposition, where Chris blamed Barry for not notching up enough runs. They were also going up against each other every week for player of the match, and at the end of each season for the coveted Player of the Season award. The reality was that Little Copeley Cricket Club just didn't have enough good players. If they had just a couple more players as good as Barry or Chris, then they would be far higher up the table. The fact of the matter was that Little Copeley Cricket Club were bottom of the West Berkshire Cricket league, and everyone found it hard to take.
Both players had quickly calmed down, and the confrontation was over as soon as it had begun. It was Chris that lowered his guard first, before turning away and making his way to the changing hut. Dave put a consoling arm around Barry, while slapping his rounded stomach with the other hand, "Come on mate, don't let him get to you. Do your talking with your cricket bat!" The two of them made their way to the Cricket pavilion, the opposite way to Chris. Barry and Dave always made time for a quick drink in the pavilion before the game. It was only five past ten in the morning, but cricket clubs seemed to have their own licensing laws. Fred Batty had worked behind the bar at Little Copeley Cricket Club for more than 30 years. Fred was a fantastic cricketer in his day. He finally had to give up playing towards the end of the 1976 season when he snapped his cruciate ligament while delivering one of his awesome in-swingers. Fred still tells the story, to anyone who will listen, where he continued to play on for another five overs, enough to take the last three wickets for the win. Fred, knowing his cricket career was over at the age of 50, began to put in a few shifts behind the bar. Soon, when he retired from the police at 55, he was the full time barman at the club. Fred was now 81 and lived for the club. Although in his eighties, he breezed around the place as if he were still in his forties. "Usual fella's? Take it your driving Bazzer!" shouted Fred, across the deserted cricket club bar, even before the guys had reached the top of the stairs to the pavilion. "Thanks Fred" said Dave, making his way to the other side of the bar. He moved a few chairs back into place, straightened a table and then began drawing the curtains, letting the morning sunlight in for the first time today. "Oi Dave, since when have you taken an interest in house keeping? You're only doing that to avoid paying, you tight git!" said Barry, taking his seat on the large upright stool at the bar." "and I'll have a packet of Cheese and Onion crisps as well please Fred" Dave shouted back. Barry and Fred exchanged raised eyebrows as Fred plucked a fresh packet from the rickety wooden shelf to his left. Dave always started a game with a cold pint of lager, while Barry stuck to shandy, at least until after the game. Dave, now finished with his home improvements, joined Barry at the bar, and sat sideways with his elbow resting on the bar. There was a lot of movement going on outside, with a few players going through their pre-game routines. Some were on the far side of the field doing various exercises; some were jogging around the boundary line, while others were in the cricket nets. Barry went through a phase were he would feel bad about sitting in the bar while the others put in the work, but he soon figured that he's the best batsman on the team, and the others, well, they needed the practice.
Just as Dave and Barry were finishing up their drinks, Andrew Manning hobbled up the steps, using the banisters on each side to aid his climb. Andrew was a close friend of Dave and Bazzer's and although from a completely different walk of life, he was one of the lads, a genuine guy, with a heart of gold. Andrew works in the city as a financial adviser and often arrives at practice still dressed in his Gucci suit, straight from a client meeting. "What's the matter with you Hop-a-long?" shouted Barry, as Andrew reached the top of the Pavilion steps. "Poxy football injury" Andrew shouted back, grimacing as he stretched to pull out a nearby chair. Barry and Dave, having finished their drinks made their way over towards Andrew, who was now seated, with his right leg stretched out in front of him. "Didn't realise you played mate" said Barry, trying to see if there was any obvious signs of damage. "I don't, Arsenal lost and I put my foot through the telly" said Andrew, whose grimace was now a wide smile. "Bloody Idiot" said Barry, gutted that Andrew had got one over him, and as he said the words, he kicked out at Andrews outstretched leg and just made contact with Andrews sole. "Aaarrrgh, you fat bastard, what did you do that for, I really have done my f**king foot in, the stupid twat of a taxi driver run over my foot on the way home from a client meeting last night" explained Andrew "Don't believe you" stated Barry "He f**king well did, I've got the tyre marks to prove it" Andrew shouted back, rubbing his foot. "No, I mean I don't believe it was a client meeting, not on a Friday night anyway" "Alright, maybe I'd had a few sherbets with the lads, but as far as the missus is concerned, I was entertaining a client, anyway the doctor says I can't play cricket" Andrew sighed, disappointed "Didn't know he'd ever seen you play" roared Barry, as he slapped Andrew on the shoulder and made his way out and down the steps. "Shame mate, looks like we've got ourselves an Umpire though" Barry chuckled as he ambled away towards the changing rooms.
"Come On Bazzer!!" shouted Peter Reynolds, the club Captain. "You're the last one again!!" Barry was always the last to take to the field, not out of any sort of superstitious pre-match routine, just because he was lazy. "We've won the toss and we are batting first" Peter shouted over to Barry "Get your gear on!" "That's the only thing we've won all poxy season" Barry fired back as he perched on a nearby bench preparing to put his pads on. Peter Reynolds was the club Captain and the Chairman's son. Peter was a fairly likable sort of guy, but people often kept their distance, as they didn't get on with his father. He only kept his place in the team each week because he was the Chairman's son. It was very difficult for him to be dropped because one of the Chairman's main responsibilities is to appoint a Captain; one of the Captain's main responsibilities is to pick the team.
The game started and Barry soon got into his stride and was stroking the ball all over the outfield. After just 3 overs, the team began to collapse in an all too familiar fashion. Barry watched team mate after team mate playing silly shots, resulting in Andrew Manning raising his finger. Dave came in at number six and initially did well, helping the score to tick along to a more respectable 62 for 5, but as Barry and Dave looked as though they may push on and get a decent score on the board, Dave played a silly slog shot which was terribly timed. The ball hung in the air for an eternity as Barry did his best to put the Wicket Keeper off of his catch, but it was no good. The cheer went up and Dave was out! 62 for 6! "What did you do that for you idiot. I told you to play it cool, wait for the bad ball." Barry was angry and turned his back on his friend. Dave's face was red, out of embarrassment, but mainly anger. He couldn't think of anything witty or clever to reply with and could only muster five words …. "Piss off you fat prick!" Dave trudged off towards the Pavillion and passed Peter Reynolds walking the opposite way. Peter kept his head down and didn't want to enter into any conversation with Dave, he could see he was angry and wanted to avoid any confrontation. "Come on Bazzer, let's try and get a few more on the board" Peter was trying his best to get Barry to focus. He desperately wanted to win this game; the thought of going all season without a win was just too awful to contemplate. It was no good, Barry had lost it, and the very next ball was his downfall. The ball sat up nicely and Barry clearly got all his frustration out on that particular delivery. The Ball had been hit so hard, Barry had lost his balance. His body had swung round three hundred and sixty degrees and he was staggering backwards. He couldn't rescue his ill-timed ballet show and Barry's left leg came into contact with the bottom of the stumps. The bails seemed to come off in slow motion and for a moment there was confusion. Almost everyone had kept their eyes firmly on the ball and they were cheering at the sight of it clearing the boundary by what must have been a record distance. Unfortunately for Barry the Umpire and friend, Andrew Manning had been watching the Ballet show and his finger was raised.
