Okay so this "Sun "N" Surf", a studio-audience-based sitcom pilot wot I wrote about 5 years ago when I first started trying my hand at TV comedy. I've learned a a great deal more about structure / character / plot etc since I wrote this, so please don't think this is the way I'd tackle a script now.
It's overlong and about as subtle as an elephant's fist up the bum and flawed in many other ways but I'm posting it here because I used it as a "calling card" script at the time, and the characterization and dialogue got me noticed and eventually got me working alongside a BBC producer on a sketch show, which in turn led to more work with other comedy bods etc etc etc.
Anyway, here it, warts and all if you can be arsed.
"SUN "N" SURF
(PRE-TITLES SEQUENCE)
SCENE 1. INT. CHURCH CONFESSIONAL BOOTH. DAY 1. [09.15]
WE SEE AN OLD PRIEST SITTING IN THE DARKNESS OF HIS CONFESSIONAL BOX, SMOKING A ROLLY AND READING THE SUN.
THE NEWSPAPER HEADLINE READS
"NIPPLE-LESS CORPSE FOUND IN LAYBY (TURN TO PAGE 3 FOR EVEN MORE RED-HOT NIP-ACTION)"
THE PRIEST IS LISTENING TO A SONY WALKMAN AND NODDING HIS HEAD IN TIME TO THE MUSIC, WHICH WE CAN CLEARLY HEAR IS DEPECHE MODE'S "PERSONAL JESUS".
HE SEES A SHADOWY FIGURE THROUGH THE PARTITION GRILL AND QUICKLY TURNS OFF THE MUSIC, CLEARING HIS THROAT.
PRIEST:
What can I do for you my son?
SERIAL KILLER:
(SINISTER, HISSING VOICE) Forgive me
Father, for I have sinned.
PRIEST:
I see. Then you are in the right place. What is the nature of your sin my child?
SERIAL KILLER:
I have taken something without the owner's consent, Father. Something close to their...heart.
PRIEST:
Indeed? Well, the Lord would certainly look favourably upon your returning that which you have stolen, my son.
SERIAL KILLER:
Oh, I don't think they'd want them back now Father. You see, they've gone off.
THE PARTITION GRILL QUICKLY SLIDES OPEN AND A LEATHER GLOVED HAND DARTS THROUGH THE HOLE AND THROWS SOMETHING AT THE PRIEST.
WE SEE IT'S A PAIR OF NIPPLES, ONE OF WHICH LANDS IN HIS LAP, THE OTHER STICKING COMICALLY TO HIS FOREHEAD. (THE ONE STUCK TO HIS FOREHEAD HAS A GOLD RING PIERCING)
THE NIPPLES ARE A GREENISH HUE AND HAVE OBVIOUSLY SEEN BETTER DAYS.
THE PRIEST CROSSES HIMSELF DESPERATELY.
PRIEST:
Sweet Jesus And The Mary Chain!
FROM THE KILLER'S P.O.V. THE PRIEST'S DOOR IS YANKED OPEN AND WE SEE A SHADOW DARKEN OVER HIM AS THE KILLER SLOWLY DESCENDS, HIS HIGH-PITCHED GIGGLE GROWING EVER MORE MANIC.
HE'S BRANDISHING A HORRIBLY-SHARP LOOKING SCALPEL.
THE PRIEST UNCONCIOUSLY COVERS BOTH HIS NIPPLES WITH HIS INDEX FINGERS WHILST SHAKING HIS HEAD.
PRIEST:
No! Not my little tweakers, please! Nooooo!
BLACKOUT TO A BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAM AND TITLES.
SCENE 2. INT. SUN 'N' SURF. DAY 1. [12.15]
SUN 'N' SURF IS A HYBRID OF AN INTERNET CAFÉ AND TANNING SALON.
IT COMPRISES OF A FEW DELAPIDATED PC'S, A SMALL KITCHEN AREA WHERE CURLY 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 IS FANNING THEM WITH A COPY OF 'BULLA' MAGAZINE.
INSTEAD OF PLASTIC TOE-SPACERS SHE HAS TEN CIGARETTES BETWEEN HER TOES, ONE OF WHICH IS LIT.
SHE TAKES THE LIT CIGGIE, HAS A DRAG, AND REPLACES IT 'TWIXT HER TOES.
AN EXTREMELY BURNED-LOOKING YOUNG WOMAN (TRACEY) STEPS GINGERLY OUT OF ONE OF THE TANNING BOOTHS AND HEADS FOR THE EXIT. SHE'S OBVIOUSLY IN PAIN, AND CARRYING TWO FULL SHOPPING BAGS.
TRACEY:
Tara Moira. See you tomorrow.
MOIRA:
See you Tracey love. (NOTICES SOMETHING) Oh I think one of your shopping bags've bust. You're leaving a trail of cornflakes.
TRACEY LOOKS BEHIND HER.
TRACEY:
Oh bloody hell...oh it's alright. It's just me skin.
TRACEY EXITS THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR.
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:
Morning Mum.
MOIRA:
Oh here he is. Max bloody Factor. (SARCASTICALLY) Good afternoon Dallas, pleased you could make it.
DALLAS SQUINTS AT HIS WATCH.
DALLAS:
Oh. Afternoon. 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 for a little lie down please Mum?
MOIRA:
Can you balls! The local Fatwatchers club are coming round for a complimentary tanning session this afty. 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 that internet dating agency I joined. Them photos I sent should've stirred a few loins. They'd better have anyway. I ruined 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 bloody 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. 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? But 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:
(SHAKES HEAD IN DISBELIEF)
I just don't know how you can do it to yourself Mum. Do you have the faintest idea what Botox actually is?
MOIRA:
Aye. The best thing that's happened to womankind since Tom Selleck.
DALLAS:
It's a deadly neurotoxin derived from the Botulism bacteria.
MOIRA:
(PAUSE) I was with you up to the word 'deadly'.
DALLAS:
Well, it's poison Mum. You're putting poison into your body. Don't you think that's wrong?
MOIRA THINKS FOR A MOMENT, TAKES A HEFTY DRAG ON HER CIGGIE, THEN REPLACES IT BACK BETWEEN HER TOES.
MOIRA:
No. Anyways, you can talk, all them Van Morrisons you packed away last night.
DALLAS:
Van Helsings. Anyway, that's different. I drink because I'm depressed. Racked with angst about the futility of my existence. And shit. That's why I'm a Goth.
CURLY MINCES IN FROM THE KITCHEN HOLDING A GREASY-LOOKING SANDWICH.
CURLY IS PLUMP, IN HIS EARLY FORTIES, AND WEARING A TIGHT WHITE T-SHIRT, TIGHT JEANS WITH A PAINT-SPLATTER EFFECT, AND A VERY, VERY OBVIOUS BLACK TOUPEE.
CURLY: (VERY CAMP)
No it's not. You're a Goth because that girl you fancy at college is. You just want to get into her knickers. End of. Or her barbed wired G-string or whatever the freaky bitch wears.
CURLY TAKES A BIG BITE FROM HIS GREASY BUTTY. TOMATO SAUCE DRIBBLES DOWN HIS CHIN. DALLAS FLINCHES.
DALLAS:
Magenta's got nothing to do with it actually. I became a Goth to rebel against the mainstream.
CURLY: (THROUGH MOUTHFUL OF FOOD)
Oh right. And it's normal for an
anti-establishment Goth's favourite album to be the My Fair Lady soundtrack is it?
DALLAS LOOKS AROUND QUICKLY TO SEE IF ANYONE HEARD HIM.
DALLAS:
Mum! You said you'd never tell!
CURLY:
She didn't have to! Don't forget I only live in the flat next door. 'Get Me To The frigging Church On Time' blasting out your bedroom at all hours. And don't think I can't hear you in the shower singing "O Wouldn't It Be Lav-erly" .
DALLAS:
(LOOKING AROUND DESPERATELY)
Curly, please! Mum, tell him!
MOIRA:
It's nowt to be ashamed of Dallas. You've always loved musicals ever since you were a babby. The first words that ever came out your gob were 'Ga- goo- Lloyd-Webber'.
DALLAS MOANS.
DALLAS:
Oh God... my head.
MOIRA:
Never mind son, a bit of hard graft'll take your mind off it. There's no better cure for a hangover than an honest day's work and a deep sense of job satisfaction.
DALLAS: (DEFEATEDLY)
I...yeah I suppose.
MOIRA:
Good lad. Now finish me toes. And mind me fungal infection. It's weeping.
SHE GIVES DALLAS THE NAIL PAINTBRUSH AND LEANS BACK IN HER CHAIR, READING BULLA.
DALLAS STARTS TO PAINT HIS MUM'S TOENAILS WHILST TRYING NOT TO BE SICK. CURLY LOOKS ON WITH INTEREST, CLAPPING HIS FOOD-FILLED MOUTH RIGHT NEXT TO DALLAS' EAR.
FADE TO:
SCENE 3. EXT. STREET, OUTSIDE SUN 'N' SURF. DAY 1. 1.30 PM.
FROM THE P.O.V. OF THE SERIAL KILLER, WE SEE HIM HIDING IN SOME BUSHES ACROSS THE ROAD FROM SUN 'N' SURF, BREATHING HEAVILY AND GIGGLING DISTURBINGLY.
HE CHECKS THE COAST IS CLEAR, THEN SCUTTLES BEHIND A PARKED CAR.
HE CAN NOW SEE MOIRA AND CURLY THROUGH THE WINDOW. CURLY'S READING A MAGAZINE AND MOIRA'S SAT AT ONE OF THE COMPUTERS.
HE POINTS AT MOIRA WITH A LEATHER-GLOVED HAND.
SERIAL KILLER:
(HISSING)
Whore. Whooore! Whhooooooo....
THE KILLER BREAKS OFF INTO A COUGHING FIT BECAUSE OF HIS STUPID VOICE. HE HEARS A VOICE BEHIND HIM AND WHIRLS AROUND. IT'S A COPPER.
COPPER:
You alright mate? Do you want a hankie?
THE COPPER OFFERS HIM A TISSUE.
THE KILLER TAKES IT.
SERIAL KILLER:
Oh, err...yeah cheers pal. Bad throat.
COPPER:
You wanna get that seen to mate. Makes you sound like a serial killer or something.
THE COPPER LAUGHS AND WALKS OFF, HUMMING THE THEME TUNE TO THE BILL.
THE KILLER GIVES HIM THE FINGER, THEN LOOKS BACK AT MOIRA THROUGH THE WINDOW.
SERIAL KILLER:
Whooooore! (COUGHS AGAIN) Oh never mind.
SCENE 4. INT. SUN 'N' SURF. DAY 1. 13:32.
MOIRA'S ON THE COMPUTER IN THE INTERNET CAFÉ SECTION. CURLY'S SAT NEXT TO HER, READING BULLA MAGAZINE.
HE CURLS HIS TOP LIP IN DISTASTE AT WHAT HE'S READING.
CURLY:
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?
CURLY:
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 it's hideous murky depths. It's the articles that get me. Listen to this. (HE FLICKS THROUGH THE PAGES) "My Baby Has Three Legs, But She's The Most Beautiful Tripod In The World".
(TURNS TO ANOTHER PAGE) "My Hysterectomy Hell; Drunken Doc Leaves Anaesthetic Trolley In Womb Cavity" .
MOIRA:
(TAPPING COMPUTER KEYBOARD)
And your point is?
CURLY:
Well it's just relentless 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 old Magnum P.I. videos anyway.
CURLY:
...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)
Yeah all right Curly! That's why I've joined this online dating agency thing isn't it? To find meself another bloke before bits of me start seizing up and dropping off.
CURLY:
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?
CURLY:
It's a long time to be alone, petaldust. 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.
CURLY:
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!
CURLY:
Well bend me backwards over Beckham! Let's see then!
CUSTOMER:
Erm...waiter, could I have...
CURLY: (INTERRUPTING)
Another few minutes to think about your order? Of course sir.
CURLY BOTTOM-BARGES MOIRA OVER ONTO ONE HALF OF HER SEAT AND SQUEEZES IN NEXT TO HER.
CURLY:
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 IS 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?
PRODUCER: (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.
TIM 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 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.
TIM BEGINS TO SOB QUIETLY.
TIM:
Somebody love me, please!
CURLY:
Jesus. Taxi for Mr Sadbastard!
MOIRA CLICKS THE MOUSE. A REALLY GOOD-LOOKING GUY IN HIS LATE THIRTIES TO EARLY FOURTIES APPEARS.
HE IS 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 CURLY BOTH LICKING THEIR LIPS. (SYNCHRONIZED, LICKING FROM LEFT TO RIGHT)
JEFF:
Well, a little bit about me. I'm basically a fun guy to have around, I'm not short of a bob or two, and I'm...well, let's just say 'sexually adventurous'. I'll try anything once. (WAGGLES EYEBROWS) Drop me a line sometime. Ciao! (THINKS FOR A SECOND) Actually, no weeing games. I won't try that. 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 HITS THE 'PRINT' BUTTON.
SHORT PAUSE AS MOIRA AND CURLY SIT AND STARE, MOUTHS HANGING SLIGHTLY OPEN. JEFF'S DETAILS BEGIN TO PRINT.
CURLY:
(NONCHALANTLY) Right. So. Does it have his number there?
MOIRA:
Not telling!
CURLY:
Give!
MOIRA:
No! Mine! He's mine!
CURLY:
Gimme that frigging paper...
CURLY TRIES TO GRAB THE PAPER FROM THE PRINTER BUT MOIRA GETS TO IT FIRST.
A SHORT SCUFFLE ENSUES, CURLY AND MOIRA DANCING AROUND THE ROOM, AS CURLY ATTEMPTS TO GRAB THE PAPER FROM MOIRA.
MOIRA STUFFS THE PAPER DOWN HER KNICKERS.
CURLY: (GASPS)
So not fair! You know that's forbidden territory to me!
MOIRA:
Hah!
CURLY LOOKS AT THE COMPUTER SCREEN AND GRINS.
CURLY:
Hah!
MOIRA:
No!
CURLY 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.
CURLY:
Let...go...you...vile...hag!
MOIRA:
Never!
CURLY GETS TO THE COMPUTER, AND MANAGES TO RAISE HIS HAND UP TO THE KEYBOARD.
HIS FINGER FINDS THE 'PRINT' BUTTON, AND PRESSES IT, JUST AS THE PC TURNS OFF.
CURLY:
Uh? No!
HE TURNS TO LOOK AT MOIRA, WHO HAS THE PC'S POWER CABLE BETWEEN HER TEETH, PLUG DANGLING.
SHE GROWLS AND SHAKES HER HEAD LIKE A TRIUMPHANT TERRIER. CURLY GETS TO HIS FEET.
CURLY:
Well keep him then you rotten selfish bitch! He's too good to be true anyway. He's probably a murderer or something. I hope he kidnaps you and shags your fallopians out!
MOIRA:
So do I!
CURLY STANDS UP AND STROPS OFF TOWARDS THE CUSTOMER WHO SPOKE TO HIM EARLIER.
HE IS NOW SUDDENLY ALL SWEETNESS AND LIGHT.
CURLY:
Are you ready to place your order now sir?
(SHOUTS AT MOIRA OVER HIS SHOULDER) Fag Hag Slag!
CURLY SCOWLS AT MOIRA, THEN TURNS BACK TO HIS TERRIFIED CUSTOMER, SMILING LIKE AN ANGEL.
MOIRA STORMS OFF.
CUT TO:
SCENE 5. INT. GROTTY TANNING BOOTH. DAY 1. [13.45]
DALLAS HAS AN APRON ON AND A FLORAL HEADSCARF. HE IS ON HIS KNEES, MOPPING UP A HUGE POOL OF SWEAT WITH A SPONGE FROM THE SURFACE OF ONE OF THE SUNBEDS.
HE DRAGS A METAL CONTAINER OUT FROM BENEATH THE SUNBED AND WRINGS THE SPONGE OUT INTO IT.
THE CONTAINER HAS THE WORDS '70% PERSPIRATION, 30% MASTURBATION' PRINTED ON THE SIDE.
DALLAS LOOKS TRULY DISGUSTED AS HE SQUEEZES THE BODILY FLUIDS FROM THE RAG. HE DROPS THE SPONGE INTO THE CONTAINER AND IS REWARDED WITH A SPLASHBACK DIRECTLY INTO HIS FACE.
TENDER MUSIC BEGINS. DALLAS BEGINS TO SING EMOTIONALLY IN A CRACKED, FALSETTO VOICE.
GRAMS:
BACKING MUSIC TO OLIVER'S 'WHERE IS LOVE'.
DALLAS:
Whe-er-er-er-ere is love?
Does it fall from skies above?
Is it underneath the willow tree
That I've been dreaming of...
THE MUSIC STOPS ABRUPTLY AS THE BOOTH DOOR SUDDENLY SWINGS OPEN AND HITS THE SLOP CONTAINER.
THE FLUID RACES UP THE SIDES AND OVER THE EDGE, STRAIGHT INTO DALLAS'S LAP.
IT'S MOIRA.
MOIRA:
Come on you. Lunch break. I need you upstairs. (LOOKS HIM UP AND DOWN) And clean yourself up lad. You're bringing the tone of the place down.
SHE STUBS HER FAG OUT ON THE WALL, THEN EXITS, SLAMMING THE DOOR BEHIND HER.
MUSIC STARTS AGAIN.
GRAMS:
CLIMACTIC ENDING TO OLIVER'S 'WHERE IS LOVE'.
THE SWEAT SPLASHBACK HAS MADE HIS EYE MAKE-UP RUN, AND IT GIVES THE IMPRESSION THAT HE'S CRYING. (WHICH HE MIGHT BE, WE CAN'T TELL)
DALLAS:
Wher -er-er-ere
Whe-er-er-er-ere....is....love?
ON THE LAST WORD 'LOVE', WE SEE DALLAS FROM AN OVERHEAD CAMERA AS HE PITIFULLY SINGS TOWARDS THE HEAVENS, AS IF HE'S PLEADING WITH THE GODS THEMSELVES.
MUSIC CRESCENDOS, THEN RESTS.
MOIRA: (O.O.V.)
(SCREECHING) Dallas!
BLACKOUT TO:
SCENE 6. INT. INTERNET CAFE. DAY. [13:49]
CURLY SITS AT THE COMPUTER THAT MOIRA SWITCHED OFF. HE QUICKLY LOGS ONTO THE DATING SITE.
HE TALKS ALOUD AS HE TYPES.
CURLY:
Name, Moira...Lovett....enter. Please enter password? Frig. What would she use as a password on a dating site? Could be anything. Erm, erm...(HE TYPES THIS IN A DEVIL-MAY-CARE WAY) 'desperateforashag'.
PC: (V.O.)
Password accepted, please proceed.
CURLY STARES AT THE SCREEN IN AMAZEMENT.
CURLY:
I am spending way too much time with her. Right. Viewing history...Jeffrey Palmer...phwooar...contact details...phone number...home address. Bingo.
HE PUTS HIS HANDS TOGETHER AND PRAYS.
CURLY:
Oh heavenly God up in...heaven. Heareth my plea-eth to thee-eth. Let not this greatly-endowed hunk of manflesh slippeth through my grasp. I asketh not for much, just to make him gay for a day. A daygay. One who'll definitely have sex with me though. A daygaylay. After all he did say he'd try anything once, so let him try me, God. He'll never go back after a taste of Curly Wurly. Please help me O Lord, anyway you owe me one. Remember the 1978 harvest festival? Mum gave me a tin of No Frills Happy Shopper beans to take to school but I swopped it for a tin of John West skipjack chunks. Amen. That should do it.
SCENE 7. INT. FLAT ABOVE SUN 'N' SURF. DAY 1. [14.01]
MOIRA'S ON THE PC IN THE POKEY FLAT ABOVE THE SHOP THAT SHE SHARES WITH DALLAS.
MOIRA:
(TALKING AS SHE TYPES) … Café Corfu sounds great, see you at eight, love Moira. Kiss kiss. PS, can't wait to see your enormous…nah, too forward. (SHE DELETES THE LAST SENTENCE) PS, looking forward to stroking your massive…oh balls to it, forget the PS. Save, and…send. Hah.
DALLAS TRAIPSES INTO THE LOUNGE AREA, AND FLOPS INTO HIS CHAIR.
MOIRA STANDS IN FRONT OF HIM AND THRUSTS HER HAND DOWN THE FRONT OF HER JEANS.
MOIRA:
Here. I've got something for you.
DALLAS RECOILS AND SQUEALS. MOIRA FISHES THE PIECE OF PAPER WITH JEFF'S DETAILS ON IT OUT OF HER PANTS AND GIVES HIM IT.
MOIRA:
Guard that with your life.
DALLAS HOLDS IT BETWEEN HIS THUMB AND FOREFINGER.
DALLAS:
What is it?
MOIRA:
A one-way ticket to Orgasmville, that's what. And that wiggy nonce isn't getting his thieving paws on it.
DALLAS UNZIPS A POCKET AND PUTS THE PAPER IN. HE FLICKS THROUGH THE CHANNELS WITH THE TV REMOTE.
MOIRA:
What time is it anyway? Is Falcon Crest on? I wanted to see whether Melissa got to inherit the vineyard even though she kidnapped a baby then spent six months on a ufo.
DALLAS SHAKES HIS HEAD.
DALLAS:
No. Looks like a newsflash. Hold on…that's St Chad's church up the road!
HE TURNS THE VOLUME UP.
ANDY COLGATE, NEWS REPORTER:
...is the fourth body discovered in the region in as many weeks. We asked Detective Inspector Dawkins what he made of this latest gruesome discovery.
D.I. DAWKINS:
Yes, it is true that Father Tucker's corpse bore all the hallmarks of the previous killings. Obviously I can't go into too much gory detail here for fear of upsetting the victim's loved ones, except to say that he'd been gutted like a haddock, and the serial killer had chopped off both his nipples, probably as some sort of grisly trophy. We are recommending at this time that residents of the Backworth area lock all doors and remain inside.
DAWKINS HOLDS UP THE DISGUSTING GREEN NIPPLES THE KILLER THREW AT FATHER TUCKER.
D.I. DAWKINS
Incidentally we also found these decomposing buds of pleasure at the scene, and if their owner is watching, please contact lost property on 020 693...
DALLAS TURNS THE TV OFF AND LOOKS UP AT HIS MUM, OPEN-MOUTHED.
MOIRA:
Father Tucker? Isn't that the God-Bod that barred me from the Church jumble-sale for twatting that old woman with her own walking stick?
DALLAS NODS.
MOIRA:
Served her right anyway. She should've known not to get into a ruck with me over a Quigley Down Under video.
DALLAS:
Mum, there is a serial killer right on our doorstep. I'm locking the doors. We have to stay inside till the all-clear.
MOIRA:
You do what you like. I've got a Botox appointment and a date with King Dong to keep.
DALLAS:
What - the boxing promoter?
MOIRA:
King Dong, not Don King! He's called Jeff. Jeffery Palmer. I met him through that dating agency. Sporty type, you know. God, he's gorgeous. I'd crawl naked through a barrel of broken glass just to sniff his sweaty jogging bottoms. He just sent me an email. We're going out tonight.
DALLAS IS AGHAST.
DALLAS:
Mum, are you completely insane?
MOIRA:
What do you mean?
DALLAS:
There's a serial killer on the loose and you're going on a date with a total stranger? What if it's him?
MOIRA:
Oh don't be such a spanner. He's not a murderer. Doesn't look the type.
DALLAS:
Oh really? What do murderers look like then?
MOIRA:
Well I don't know. Stripey jerseys. Bad skin. Knives for fingers.
DALLAS:
So…you think that all murderers look like Freddie Kruger.
MOIRA:
Well I don't know do I? I've never met one. Look, he's handsome, he's wadded, and he's got a packet that'd make Linford Christie weep. I'll take me chances.
DALLAS:
Mum, you don't under…I mean, you can't be…oh I give up. It's your funeral. Your nipples come to that.
MOIRA:
(DREAMILY) I bet he's wandering around now in a lovestruck daze, repeating my name over and over. Moira...Moira...Moira...
MIX TO:
SCENE 8. INT. HORRIBLE DINGEY FLAT. DAY 1. [14.09]
THE FLAT IS IN NEAR-DARKNESS, AS THE CURTAINS ARE DRAWN.
IT IS HORRIBLY UNKEMPT, WITH RUBBISH STREWN EVERYWHERE.
THIS ENTIRE SCENE IS VIEWED IN GRAINY BLACK AND WHITE THROUGH THE P.O.V. OF THE UNKNOWN SERIAL KILLER.
SERIAL KILLER: (O.O.V.)
(FAMILIAR HISSING VOICE) Moira...Moira...Moira...
THROUGH THE P.O.V. OF THE KILLER, WE SEE A BLOWN-UP PHOTO OF MOIRA HELD IN HIS LEATHER GLOVED HANDS.
HE SWEEPS AWAY SEVERAL MOULDY OLD CUPS, POT NOODLE CARTONS ETC FROM HIS DESK, AND PLACES THE PICTURE DOWN.
HIS FINGERS STROKE MOIRA'S CHEST TENDERLY FOR A SECOND, AND THEN THE OTHER HAND SLASHES AT IT MADLY WITH A SCALPEL.
SERIAL KILLER: (O.O.V.)
(IN THE STYLE OF THE FAMOUS 'PSYCHO' KNIFE-SLASHING MUSIC)
Nips! Nips! Nips! Nips!
THE KILLER GETS UP AND WALKS ACROSS THE ROOM, RUNNING HIS FINGERS LOVINGLY OVER HIS POSTERS ON THE WALL AS HE GOES.
(ALL THE TIME WE CAN HEAR HEAVY BREATHING AND GRUNTING.)
THE FIRST POSTER IS A DEPICTION OF JASON VOORHEES (FROM FRIDAY 13th), SECOND POSTER HANNIBAL LECTER, THIRD POSTER MICHAEL BARRYMORE.
THE KILLER APPROACHES A SIDEBOARD AND WE SEE THERE IS A FURBY ON IT THAT HAS BEEN COMPLETELY STRIPPED OF ITS SKIN, EXCEPT FOR ITS HEAD, WHICH REMAINS INTACT.
THE EVIL BASTARD HAS FASHIONED A TINY SKINSUIT OUT OF IT, AND HE PUTS IT ON HIS HAND, THEN MOCKINGLY PARADES IT UP AND DOWN THE SIDEBOARD IN FRONT OF THE POOR FURBY, USING HIS FINGERS AS LITTLE LEGS.
HE IS HUMMING AND GIGGLING TO HIMSELF IN A HIGH-PITCHED AND RATHER DISTURBING MANNER.
THE FURBY'S EYES SNAP OPEN SUDDENLY. IT BEGINS TO TALK AS THE MADMAN'S GIGGLING GETS EVER MORE MANIC, RAISING THE END OF THE SCENE TO A CRESCENDO OF EVIL.
FURBY:
You're my friend. Will you take care of me? Take care of me? Take care of me?
BLACKOUT TO:
SCENE 9. GEFAHR'S COSMETIC SURGERY CLINIC. DAY 1. [15.13]
MOIRA IS SAT ON A CHAIR IN THE SURGERY. WE SEE A SIGN ON THE WALL WITH A PICTURE OF A SMILING DR GEFAHR IN BETWEEN A PAIR OF 'BEFORE' AND 'AFTER' PHOTOS.
THE 'BEFORE' PHOTO DEPICTS A WOMAN IN HER EIGHTIES, WITH LONG SAGGING BREASTS HANGING SO LOW THAT THEY ARE VISIBLY POKING OUT FROM BENEATH THE HEM OF HER SURGICAL SMOCK.
THE 'AFTER' PHOTO DEPICTS THE EXACT SAME OLD WOMAN, ONLY THIS TIME SHE'S GOT THE PROUD, PNEUMATIC CHEST OF A 20-YEAR-OLD.
A SLOGAN BENEATH THESE PICTURES READS "YOU'LL GO FAR WITH DR GEFAHR".
DR GEFAHR ENTERS THE SURGERY CARRYING A CLIPBOARD. HE IS A JOLLY-LOOKING FELLOW, WITH RUDDY CHEEKS AND AN EASY SMILE.
HE'S QUITE SHORT, BUT IMPECCABLY DRESSED, CRISP WHITE LABCOAT OVER A PRESSED SHIRT AND TIE.
DR GEFAHR:
Ah Mrs Lovett. Wonderful to see you again. I trust Sun 'N' Surf is treating you well. (HE EMPHASISES THE 'N', AS IF HE'S UNUSED TO SPEAKING COLOQUIALLY.)
MOIRA:
(RUDELY) It's paying your rip-off bills, isn't it?
DR GEFAHR:
Yes, well...quite. Now, what can I do for you today?
MOIRA:
Well Doctor Gefahr, I've come to ask your advice on hanging curtains correctly.
DR GEFAHR GIVES A CONFUSED SMILE.
MOIRA:
I'm here to get the other half of me bloody fizzog botoxed, what the bloody hell do you think you can do for me?
DR GEFAHR:
(HURT) There's no need for sarcasm Mrs Lovett. My mother was sarcastic. 'Of course you'll get a girlfriend, Todd.'' Of course short men go far in life.' 'Of course you'll leave home before you're forty'.
DR GEFAHR FALLS SILENT FOR A MOMENT, LOST IN BAD MEMORIES.
HE REALISES THAT MOIRA IS LOOKING AT HIM STRANGELY, AND CLEARS HIS THROAT.
DR GEFAHR:
Ahem...I'm sorry.
MOIRA:
You bloody will be if you balls this up mate. I've got a date tonight. A hot one.
DR GEFAHR:
A date? Oh but that's wonderful Mrs Lovett. He's a lucky man indeed. Going anywhere special?
MOIRA:
Yeah. Cafe Corfu on Gasworks Street. Mr Pappas's put rubber flooring down now so there's not so many people injured by flying broken plates. Anyway, I want to look me best, and that means not looking like a stroke victim every time I smile.
SHE SMILES LOP-SIDEDLY AND POINTS TO HER FACE.
DR GEFAHR:
Of course Mrs Lovett, but... (LOOKS AT HIS CLIPBOARD IN CONCERN) ...you do realise that with this...frankly enormous amount of Botox you've requested that your facial mobility may be severely impaired. In fact there are cases where people's smiles have never entirely returned back to normal.
MOIRA:
How do you mean?
DR GEFAHR:
Well, not wanting to unduly alarm you, but...
DR GEFAHR WALKS OVER TO THE WALL AND PULLS A CORD GRIMLY.
A LARGE PICTURE OF A HORRIBLY-GRINNING CHERI BLAIR DESCENDS.
MOIRA IS VISIBLY SHOCKED.
MOIRA:
Oh Christ get rid of it, please.
DR GEFAHR PULLS THE CORD AGAIN AND THE PICTURE DISAPPEARS.
MOIRA:
No, you can't talk me out of it. Me mind's made up.
DR GEFAHR:
Very well.
FROM BEHIND THE SEAT HE PRODUCES AN ENORMOUS SYRINGE, ABOUT A FOOT LONG.
DR GEFAHR:
This may sting a little.
HE BRINGS THE NEEDLE POINT CLOSE TO MOIRA'S FACE.
DR GEFAHR:
(APOLOGETICALLY) Or a lot.
FADE TO:
SCENE 10. INT. CAFE CORFU. NIGHT 1. [23.03]
MOIRA IS SAT BY HERSELF AT A TABLE. THERE IS A HALF-EMPTY BOTTLE OF OUZO IN FRONT OF HER.
SHE'S COMPLETELY PISSED. MR PAPPAS APPROACHES HER.
MR PAPPAS:
You have been erm...how you say...standed up by heartless English bastard bitch?
MOIRA NODS DRUNKENLY AND TAKES ANOTHER SWIG OF OUZO STRAIGHT FROM THE BOTTLE.
WELL, SHE TRIES TO, BUT SHE CAN'T FEEL HER LIPS AND SHE JUST POURS IT DOWN HER CHIN.
MR PAPPAS:
I am sorry very much for this, innit. In Greece we have saying that goes, "Man who treat woman badly should have testicles boiled in chilli, seasoned with fresh chilli, and forced up anus. With more chilli.' There is not much love cheats in my country. But we must close soon. Would you like me to call a bastard taxicab?
MOIRA:
(WITH MOUTH HARDLY MOVING DUE TO THE BOTOX) No. Mile maul Murly.
MR PAPPAS:
Excuse me?
MOIRA: (WITH GREAT EFFORT TO SPEAK)
I'll…call…Curly. He'll pick me up. He might be a wiggy old pooftah but he's my best...my only friend.
MOIRA LETS OUT A STRANGLED SOB, BUT HER FACE DOESN'T MOVE.
MR PAPPAS:
Bebaios. Argus! The phone please!
ARGUS THE BARMAN THROWS A CORDLESS PHONE OVER TO MR PAPPAS.
IT FALLS SHORT BY ABOUT FOUR FEET, BUT BOUNCES OFF THE RUBBER FLOOR AND LANDS PERFECTLY IN MR PAPPAS' HAND.
MR PAPPAS:
Eycharisto, Argus.
HE GIVES THE PHONE TO MOIRA. SHE TAKES IT AND DIALS A NUMBER.
MR PAPPAS:
And next time, you not to mix Botox with Ouzo. You bastard lucky you can move at all, innit.
CUT TO:
SCENE 11. INT. JEFFREY PALMER'S BEDROOM. NIGHT. [23.05]
CURLY: (OOV)
Thank you God! Thank you God! Thank you God!
THE CAMERA FOLLOWS A TRAIL OF CLOTHES ACROSS THE BEDROOM FLOOR, AND UP PAST THE BEDSIDE CABINET, PAUSING FOR A SEC ON A FRAMED PICTURE OF JEFF, MOIRA'S DATE, POSING IN HIS VERY TIGHT (AND VERY FULL) SHORTS.
CAMERA STOPS ON CURLY, SAT ON THE SIDE OF THE BED. WE DON'T SEE THE ACTION, BUT HE'S OBVIOUSLY BEING GIVEN A BLOWJOB BY JEFF.
HIS WIG KEEPS THREATENING TO FALL OFF, AND HE KEEPS PUSHING IT BACK INTO POSITION.
CURLY:
Thank you God! Thank you God! Thank you God!
CURLY'S MOBILE PHONE RINGS. HE RETRIEVES IT FROM THE TABLE AND SWITCHES IT OFF.
CURLY:
(LOOKING HEAVENWARD) Next harvest festival it's Marksy's tinned salmon for you, mate! Oh! Thank you God! Thank you God! Thank you God....
FADE TO:
SCENE 12. EXT. STREET. NIGHT. [23.32]
MOIRA IS WALKING DOWN THE STREET MUMBLING DRUNKENLY TO HERSELF.
SHE PASSES A DARK ALLEY, AND SUDDENLY A GLOVED HAND GRABS HER, COVERS HER MOUTH, AND SHE IS DRAGGED INTO THE ALLEY.
MOIRA:
What the f...
THE HOODED FIGURE PUSHES MOIRA INTO A CORNER AND PRODUCES A GLINTING SCALPEL.
WITH HIS OTHER HAND HE REMOVES THE HOOD. IT'S DR GEFAHR.
DR GEFAHR:
Hello Mrs Lovett. Wonderful to see you again.
MOIRA:
Dr Gefahr!
DR GEFAHR:
Indeed, whore. Surprised? I see loverboy didn't turn up. What a shame.
MOIRA:
He must've got lost, that's all. Probably stuck up a back alley somewhere. So you're the…
DR GEFAHR:
Areola-obsessed serial killer? Oh yes.
MOIRA:
But I don't understand. You're a cosmetic surgeon. Don't you see enough nipples in your line of work?
DR GEFAHR:
Yes! Yes I do damn it all. Far, far too many. I used to be a tit-man you know. Oh yes, I enjoyed a good old gawp at page 3 as much as the next sexist. Until I took this job, that is. Day in and day out, norks to my left, norks to my right, and every single one a travesty of the female form. Saggy ones, floppy ones, bee-stings, space-hoppers, flat ones, fat ones, square ones, oh yes!! Square ones! Do you have any idea what handling a square tit can do to a man's mind? There isn't even a medical term for it! What on earth do you call a breast with right-angles?
MOIRA:
Erm...a Rubik's Boob?
DR GEFAHR:
Oh yes. Very clever. Well you won't be laughing in a minute, Mrs Lovett. My mind has been poisoned by mis-shapen mamms and I shall have no peace until I have defaced every putrid pleasure-peak in the world. Now, if you would be so kind as to pathetically beg for your life, we can get started.
HE RAISES HIS SCALPEL MENACINGLY.
MOIRA:
Oh please Dr Gefahr, don't kill me. I'll do anything, honestly.
MOIRA'S FACE ISN'T REALLY MOVING MUCH BECAUSE OF THE BOTOX, AND ALTHOUGH SHE'S NOW BEING SINCERE, SHE ACTUALLY APPEARS THAT SHE'S BEING SARCASTIC.
DR GEFAHR:
Mrs Lovett, I believe I have already told you I don't care for sarcasm. I'm about to butcher you like the filthy pig you are, don't you understand?
MOIRA:
(STILL STRAIGHT-FACED) I'm not being bloody sarcastic, oh someone please help me, the mad doctor's going to kill me!
SHE SOUNDS REALLY SARCASTIC NOW.
DR GEFAHR:
Stop it! You're ruining the moment! Beg properly!
MOIRA:
Oh please don't cut my nips off oh great Doctor, I beseech you, you're reeeeally scaring me.
DR GEFAHR CLAMPS HIS HANDS OVER HIS EARS.
DR GEFAHR:
Stop it! Stop it, Mother! I'll leave home, I will! I'll leave and you'll never be able to undermine my confidence again!
HE STARTS BACKING AWAY FROM MOIRA, IN A WORLD OF HIS OWN.
DR GEFAHR:
Mummy, Mummy, Toddy want his dummy.
HE BACKS AGAINST THE WALL AND SLUMPS DOWN INTO A CROUCHING POSITION.
HE PRODUCES A CHOPPED-OFF NIPPLE FROM HIS POCKET AND POPS IT IN HIS MOUTH LIKE A DUMMY.
HE MAKES DISTURBING BABY NOISES AS HE ROCKS GENTLY BACK AND FORTH.
MOIRA:
I'll er...I'll just be off then shall I?
DR GEFAHR:
Mama?
DR GEFAHR'S TENUOUS GRIP ON REALITY HAS FINALLY SLIPPED AWAY.
MOIRA BACKS SLOWLY OUT OF THE ALLEY THEN RUNS LIKE HELL TO THE ECHOING SOUND OF THE DOCTOR YELLING.
DR GEFAHR:
Mamaaa! Toddy done poo-poos!
CUT TO:
SCENE 13. INT. SUN 'N' SURF. DAY 2. [12.01]
MOIRA IS SAT BEHIND THE COUNTER, LOOKING TRAUMATIZED, AND SMOKING THREE CIGGIES AT A TIME, ONE BETWEEN EACH FINGER OF HER RIGHT HAND.
SHE'S WEARING A LEOPARD-PRINT SATIN NIGHTDRESS.
DALLAS COMES IN WITH A CUP OF TEA.
DALLAS:
There you go Mum. You should really go back to bed, I've got everything in hand here.
SHE TAKES A DRAG AND BLOWS THE SMOKE OUT. IT GOES STRAIGHT IN DALLAS' FACE. HE WAFTS THE SMOKE AWAY.
DALLAS:
God's sake Mum. Three at the same time can't be good for you.
SHE RAISES HER LEFT HAND FROM BEHIND THE COUNTER AND WE SEE THAT SHE HAS ANOTHER THREE CIGARETTES IN THAT ONE TOO.
SHE TAKES ANOTHER DRAG.
DALLAS TURNS THE VOLUME UP ON THE PORTABLE TELLY.
DALLAS:
Okay, it's on.
WE SEE THE LUNCHTIME NEWS.
NEWSREADER:
...now seems that the serial killer's reign of terror has finally come to an end. Dr Todd Gefahr, a local cosmetic surgeon, was found with a pocketful of nipples, fast asleep in a cot in Mothercare. Police eventually coaxed him out with a rusk, and were able to lead him into a police car, telling him it was an ice-cream van. He is currently remanded in a padded play-pen, pending psychiatric reports.
DALLAS TURNS THE TELLY OFF.
DALLAS:
There you go Mum. It's all over now. You go back up to bed. You'll feel better soon.
MOIRA:
Well I couldn't feel any bloody worse, could I?
THERE'S A GIGGLING SOUND AND A VIBRATION FROM ONE OF THE TANNING BOOTHS.
MOIRA:
What was that? You know there's only one person at a time allowed in the tanning booths, Dallas. Are you trying to bankrupture me or something?
SHE MARCHES OVER TO THE BOOTH.
DALLAS:
Mum, no…I wouldn't do that if I were…
SHE BANGS ON THE BOOTH DOOR.
MOIRA:
Oy! Out of there in three seconds or I'll bolt you in and barbecue you!
THE DOOR CREAKS OPEN. AND CURLY STEPS OUT SHEEPISHLY, COMPLETELY NAKED EXCEPT FOR A PAIR OF ANTI-UV GOGGLES, HE'S CUPPING HIS GENITALS. HE DOESN'T HAVE HIS TOUPEE ON.
CURLY: (NERVOUSLY)
Oh. Hiya sweetie. Thought you were taking the day off.
MOIRA:
Curly? What are you doing in there? And where's your head-ferret?
JEFF STEPS OUT OF THE BOOTH, ALSO NAKED AND CUPPING HIS GENITALS, (ALTHOUGH HIS HANDS LOOK A LOT FULLER THAN CURLY'S)
CURLY'S WIG IS STUCK TO JEFF'S STOMACH, JUST BELOW HIS BELLYBUTTON.
EVERYONE STARES AT IT.
END OF EPISODE.
so chalk me up as one of the idiots!