Little Britley on the Water – Pilot Script.
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House of Nutters artist Chris Woodall’s initial pencil sketch.
Little Britley On The Water.
News Titles for the Little Britley nine-o-clock news. They are over the top and highly portentous. Images of plane/train crashes, children crying and starving, riot-police beating up protesters, etc. At the end of the montage come the headlines.
Shot of Lady of the Manor, Elizabeth Whitby looking confused.
Oxbridge: Strange goings on in her Ladyship's outskirts.
Shot of a Cat Litter Tray.
Oxbridge: Scandal in
Shot of Huge Explosion.
Oxbridge: Thousands die in successful UN Peace-Keeping Operation.
Shot of Adolf Hitler.
Oxbridge: And suspected war criminal is released due to lack of evidence.
We are now in the studio where Oxbridge Sellafield, an uptight news presenter sits smiling in a slightly robotic way.
Oxbridge: Good Evening, I'm Oxbridge Sellafield. This is the news. Some-time between 2 and this morning a strange geometric pattern of circles appeared in the grounds of Her Ladyship's Manor, "The Manor on the Hill", on the hill. Although the media have been kept from the premises to protect her Ladyship's right to fully enjoy her Corgis, one of our helicopters did manage to send us this…
Blurry shot of a crop-circle in the shape of a vagina in the Mayor's garden.
Oxbridge: …overhead view before his helicopter suffered from a completely innocent systems fault and spontaneously exploded. Our hearts go out to his family. We apologise for the extremely poor quality of this image. We can go live now to our "strange things on hillsides correspondent", Garth Grolsh… Garth.
Garth standing outside the gates of the Manor..
Garth: Yes, thank you Oxbridge. I'm standing outside the gates of the home of Her Ladyship Elizabeth Whitby. This hill top manor known to many, including the post office, as "The Manor on the Hill" last night witnessed, in as much as a Manor can actually be said to witness anything, a strange shape appearing as if from nowhere in the grounds of this "Manor on the Hill", on the hill.
Oxbridge: And what's the latest there, Garth?
Garth: Well Oxbridge, I can now confirm that there is in fact a strange crop formation which has, quite literally, physically appeared, in reality, as if from nowhere, in the grounds of her Ladyship’s Manor, The Manor on the Hill, on the hill, belonging to her Ladyship Elizabeth Whitby.
Oxbridge: Thanks Garth. And we'll be getting further updates as they happen.
Newspapers tumble towards us.
The first paper is the Britley Herald, a broad-sheet. The headline, next to a photo of the Crop-Fanny, is "Strange Shape in Her Ladyship's Garden".
The second paper is The Shag, a tabloid: "Her Ladyship in Frigid Husband Junkie Child Nude Garden Picture Shame.".
The third is The Daily Stalker, a radical underground paper: "Alien Life: The Proof at last?"
We hold on the Daily Stalker for a moment.
The kitchen Scene
We pull back from the paper to show Tony Blah sitting at his breakfast table with Cherie Blah frantically cooking eggs and cutting lines of coke on the kitchen work surface. Tony is reading the Stalker. He puts it down.
Tony: Are they allowed to show those on the front page?
Cherie: Breakfast darling? Ewan, SCHOOL!
Tony: I thought we’d put a D-notice on these, you know, crop thingies?
Cherie: (Puts a little mirror down in front of him with a line on it) If you don't have breakfast you won't get a head start on the day. I learned that in law school. Of course that was before I became the incubator for your brood. God I miss my Job! Ewan!
Tony: (Rolling up a Euro) Ewan! Education, education, education. Don’t make me repeat myself!
Tony: (Snorts the entire line, his eyes bulge and his veins throb for a moment. Then a huge smile fixes on his face and he is ready to face the world.) Right, where's Peter?
The back door opens immediately and in walks Peter Mandelbot.
Peter: Mr Mayor?
Tony: You're late.
Peter: Little bit of trouble in the old colonials. Nothing to worry about now. Nice and fluffy again.
Tony: (Throwing the paper at him) Have you seen this?
Peter: (Using a beam from his eyes he lowers the paper gently to the table): Of course, Mr Mayor.
Tony: Right, well, you know, I want the whole council assembled for a meeting. Oh and we need some sort of distraction for the press and the drones. Send Robin down to the allotments with a team of, you know, strong-arms. Get him to tell Saddam we want to read his diary. He hates that.
Peter: Right away sir.
Tony: Oh, and Peter?
Peter: Mr Mayor?
Tony: After the meeting, would you be so kind as to prepare the, you know (his eyes flash red)… lodge.
Peter: Of course, Mr Mayor.
Helicopter shot across industrial hell heading down towards Saddam's Allotments. They are an oasis of ill-looking green in an otherwise smog filled industrial desert. There is a shabby little run-down hut just inside the chain-link fence that surrounds the allotment complex.
Robin Crook and Saddam are standing outside the hut by a few sacks which are clearly labelled "Fertiliser". Britley TV is covering the event as are several paparazzi.
Robin: …and what I am saying to you, Mr Butaine…
View changes to Britley TV "live coverage" (small BTV logo appears and quality of image deteriorates)
Robin: …is that fertiliser is, (to camera) and I think everyone knows this, (back to Saddam) primarily used for the construction of weapons of messy destruction…
Saddam: (points at the sacks, he can hardly speak or understand English) Fertiliser.
Robin: I see. And that's your final answer, it?
Saddam: (nods sternly) Fertiliser.
Robin: Well then, Mr Bruce Wayne …
Robin: …your sanction breaking leaves me no choice. I shall be forced by my (to camera) ethical foreigner policy (to Hussein) to action my team of highly trained specialist weapons inspectors.
Out of BTV view. We see the weapons inspectors. They are three cowboy mechanics, completely unskilled and belligerent in that peculiar British working class way that is one part bully and one part frightened child.
Weapons Inspector One: Alright.
Weapons Inspector Two: (Wipes some snot from his nose) Alright mate.
Weapons Inspector Three: Afternoon.
Robin: …now then, we would like to begin by searching your wife's handbag, and then we'll go for a good rummage in your underwear drawer…
The council meeting room (Cabinet Office) at The Town Hall. Mandelbot runs the slide projector which is showing a sequence of blurry shots of the crop formation. They show the shape from various unfortunate angles and the whole thing is like a bizarre botanists porn-cinema.
Present are Tony Blah (Mayor), John Deskjob (Railway Station Manager), Jack Score (Chief Superintendent), Margaret Wrekett (Chamber of Commerce), Claire Snort (Charity Shop Manager), Mo Nolan (Youth Club Boss), Chris Smith-no-relation (Theatre Manager), Cuddly Dobson (Hospital Administrator), and Gordon Black (Town Accountant).
They have just started the meeting.
Wrekett: Well, no mistaking what it is, anyway.
Nolan: You can say that again.
None of the men have any idea what the object is.
Blah: Right. Right. Good. So we all, you know, know what it is.
Dobson: That's good enough for me Tony.
Deskjob: Well, I'm buggered if I know.
Blah: Ha ha ha, John, you grubby, old northerner you, you know what, you know, "it" is.
Deskjob: (like a hurt child) No Tony, I don't.
Blah: Well, don't worry, we'll get Jack…
Jack: (panicked) No not me….
Blah: Erm, right, okay Claire, to explain it to you after the meeting.
Snort: Don't worry John, I'll put you right.
Deskjob: Right. Good. Aye. (He farts) OOP, pardon.
Blah: Okay, so there's only one, you know, important question left.
Black: Who did it?
Smith: Should we offer visits to it as a lottery prizes?
Nolan: How did it appear in her ladyship's garden without anyone witnessing anything?
Score: Will it help if I have my son publicly flogged?
Blah: Well, yes, those are all, you know, very good questions, and there's nothing wrong with any of them, you know, provided they're spelt correctly with joindy-up writing, but I think, really, the key question is actually none of those, what we need to be asking ourselves, and you know, I'm an ordinary man….
Whilst he prattles on we pan around the room, they are all totally mesmerised by him, spirally eyes, the works. Except Mandelbot who carefully averts his eyes.
Blah: … And I, you know, ask myself ordinary things whilst I'm standing in the back garden, like, you know, any other chap in the street, watching the gardener adjust the stepping in the water feature, and I ask myself ordinary questions, real questions, important questions, and I think that the question we should be asking right now is this…
The camera is now back on Tony.
Blah: (As if revealing something fundamentally key to the nature of the universe) What is the council's position on this?
The hypnotic staring ends to make room for huge applause.
Wrekett: Great question Tony.
Deskjob: Aye, bloody brilliant.
Snort: (enjoying a Bunty style fantasy) Sigh.
Dobson: I think that I can honestly say that that is the best question I have ever heard.
A pager sounds. All assembled start frantically searching for their pagers. Mandelbot calmly retrieves his from his pocket and reads. He looks up and notices the room full of frantic councilmen.
Mandelbot: Oh for pity's sake. (Firmly, to all of them) I'm here. How can I possibly be paging you when I'm standing right here?
They all sit down.
Mandelbot: (To Tony) Apparently Reverend Susan's holding an emergency church service right now. He's saying it's a message from God.
Blah: Jesus, I mean, God, you know, that's clever.
Mandelbot: Getting good numbers too. And that's what matters.
Smith: Bums on seats.
Blah: Right, thinks he can out-spin me does he? Get him on the phone for me. I'll take it in my private chamber.
He storms off toward one of a number of doors leading off the room. This one has "Mayor's Private Chamber" written on it.
As we 'copter round the outside of the church we can hear Rev Susan (a man) addressing the congregation.
Susan: We will now
sing a new hymn composed for us this morning by the St Aitken Compositional
Society, specially to mark the occasion of this blessing on our
As the organ begins to play the camera bursts through the doors of the church and we pan over the packed pews full of sheep holding song-sheets. The organist is Elton John. The choir are all gorgeous young boys dressed in dog collars, bibs, and posing pouches with crosses on the pre-pubescent bulges. We arrive at the vicar after the first four lines of the hymn.
Congregation: Lord you are so mighty, so firm and stout and proud,
Your beard is long and pointy and you live up on a cloud,
You bless our town
You use a mighty biro in your big almighty hand,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hall-leeeey-looooo-yahhhhh.
Mr Faust the verger brings a mobile phone up to Rev Susan during the god-awful Hallelujah chorus. The mobile phone is giving off a worrying radioactive glow (as do all mobile phones we see in Britley once they are "on"). Vicar and verger talk to each other quietly under their breath.
Faust: Phone for you.
Susan: Oh Jesus, not now, I love this chorus.
Faust: It's Blah.
Susan: (with a gloating grin) Oh really? I'll take it in the office.
The office is at the back of the church, he starts to walk there, we follow him past the singing sheep. During the Hallelujah some of the singing has collapsed into bleating, but they come together again for verse two.
Susan: (into mobile) Hello? Tony? Sorry, I can't hear you past the rather huge congregation. Hold on a minute, I'm going in my office.
He pauses and holds the mobile phone up so that Blah gets a good idea of the size of his crowd who begin singing the next verse. Then he walks briskly towards the office and in. We follow him all the way.
Congregation: We are meek and pointless, we try the best we can,
And then you judge us by some rules that we don't understand,
We who breed in darkness, who toil and sweat and grunt,
Thank you Lord for sending us your mighty -
The door of the office slams shut.
Susan: Ah! Rock and roll! (puts the phone to his head and talks obsequiously) Hello Tony, sorry about that, you know but what with all these hundreds of -
The Mayors Private chamber.
Tony sits behind his desk on which is a row of phones. He is talking on a mobile. Behind him are loads of photos: Tony with his band. Tony in school plays, on holiday white-water rafting with Clinton and Bush, in a hot tub with the Spice Girls, on the front cover of Miss Girl, etc. He holds the phone using his shoulder as a clamp because he needs his hands free to finish making up a line on his Red Box.
Tony: Fuck you, Susan. Don’t give me any of that shit. This has about as much to do with God as it has to do with my twice-fucked arsehole.
Susan in his office. It's full of Satanist stuff, strewn around, like Lucifer's Bachelor Flat.
Susan: Tell it to the crowds, Tony. And if you had any idea what caused it you'd be holding a press conference instead of wasting your time on the phone to me.
A hurl of expletives distort out of the phone. He pulls it away from his ear and puts his hand over the phone. As he pulls it away to see if Blah has finished yelling we hear the odd word.
Blah: You listen to me you hypocritical sack of….. ram that cross up your self righteous….. (in a totally different tone) I'm an ordinary man, Susan, you know, with ordinary… (back to anger) and I won't be treated like your bitch...
Susan: Sorry Tony, gotta go, it's sermon time.
He disconnects the phone and puts it back in a Baphomet goat's head "phone holder". He crosses to the door of the office and stands for a moment with his hand on the handle.
Susan: Right Susan, keep it tight, start with the joke, schmoose into the morals, and end with the contemporary dance sequence. Thank you God, Thank you.
He throws the door open to a p.a. announcing "Heeeeeeer's Reverend Susan." The Crowd goes wild. Cut back to….
Tony's Private Chamber.
Tony is finishing off snorting his line. The phone is abandoned on the desk beside him.
Tony: Fuck. Hooo. Fuck. (He sniffs) Right.
He picks up the phone.
Tony: And another thing Susan… Susan? Hello? Mother-fucker.
The Council Meeting Room in the Town Hall.
Blah rejoins the others who are all talking on their mobiles. They end their calls explaining "Tony's back, gotta go" and the like and are all sitting attentively when Tony walks back in.
Tony: Okay, problem dealt with. Any other business?
Deskjob: Running the town?
Tony: Gosh John you simple relic of a kinder time, I would love to be, you know, in a position to do that with you now but I've got a very important meeting to go to and, you know, you've got an appointment with Claire, I believe.
Deskjob: Oh, right, eye, bugger-me my memory, eh?
Claire: C'mon John, let's go back and have a cup a tea and a spliff and I'll bring you up to speed with reality.
Mandelbot: It's time Mr Mayor.
He removes a James Bond like device from his pocket and enters a code. Several pagers start to bleep. Black is the first to retrieve his. The message says "LaundryMen Assemble!".
Black: Right, gotta go.
He makes a short dash to a door behind him, throws it open, and walks in. As he walks he makes a clanking sound.
Score: Ah, me too I'm afraid.
Smith: And me.
They exit through the same door.
Mandelbot: Shall we?
Blah: Well, you know, erm, lets.
After they go in the door slams shut behind them. On it is all sorts of Masonic type symbolism and carving. A small sign in the middle says "Laundry Room". After a short pause, it re-opens.
Dobson is sitting smiling to himself. He has not noticed that his pager, which is right in front of him on the desk, is bleeping.
Dobson: Yes Peter?
Mandelbot beams a thought at Dobson. We see it come out of his eyes and go into Dobson's Head.
Mandelbot: (Voice inside Dobson's head) I think my pager may be flashing.
Dobson: I think my pager my be flashing.
His arm moves puppet like to the pager, not so much grabbing it as bumping it, and his head lolls forwards as if reading. Mandelbot is now "driving" Dobson.
Mandelbot: Oh yes. Excuse me ladies.
Dobson: Oh yes! Excuse me ladies.
He makes a rather disturbing zombie-like exit into the Laundry Room and the door closes behind him.
Nolan: What do you think they do in there.
Wreckett: My mother always used to say to me that if a man's prepared to go into the laundry-room at all you shouldn't put him off by asking questions.
They both laugh like doorstep gossips. Then they go a bit glassy-eyed.
Nolan and Wrekett: Ahh, bless.
Wreckett: Cup of tea?
Nolan: Love one.
They start to leave, as they do so they pause at the projection of the crop-fanny.
Wreckett: What do you think?
Nolan: Neater than mine.
The Lodge (or "Laundry Room").
In contrast to the antique wood-and-leather charm of the town hall, the Lodge is a high-tech Bond-Villain’s Bunker where TV screens and computer racks mix uncomfortably with Masonic statues and plaques. In the centre of the room is an open floor-space. Blah, Black, Score, Smith, Crook, and Mordillo stand in a half circle facing Mandelbot. Mandelbot has Plunkett gimped up on a lead in one hand. In his other hand, he holds a melon-sized solid gold washing basket. All the others have dirty pants over their heads which do little to disguise them but do distort them rather amusingly. They are holding an opening ritual as we pan round the room.
Mandelbot: We pledge…
LaundryMen: We pledge…
Mandelbot: ….to gently lift stubborn stains from this world.
LaundryMen: ….to gently lift stubborn stains from this world.
Mandelbot: To soften with a rule of iron.
LaundryMen: To soften with a rule of iron.
Mandelbot: To colour balance with bias towards the brilliant whites.
LaundryMen: To colour balance with bias towards the brilliant whites.
Mandelbot: To keep the world not just clean, but really clean.
LaundryMen: To keep the world not just clean, but really clean.
As they talk we pan
past two banks of TV screens (among other stuff). One, labelled "Ground Zero",
shows images of Little Britley. The
other, labelled "Ground >= Zero", shows images of Bedrock,
Blah: Right, first things first. What the fuck is it supposed to be? Anyone?
Mordillo: I can honestly say I have never seen one of those in my life.
Smith: And me.
Cook: For god's sakes, it's a fanny.
Blah: Oh right! 'Course it is. Never seen one this well, you know, lit.
Mandelbot: But no ordinary fanny, this. Observe gentlemen.
A complex pattern of geometrics is overlaid over the photograph.
Mandelbot: This fanny is vast. A simple fanny, and yet, when analysed correctly, a demonstration, in vaginal form, of the workings and proof of Pythagoras' stolen theorem.
Score: The science that proves the existence of the soul.
Black: That's one clever fanny.
Mandelbot: Clever indeed. The social implications of just one of its labia could plunge the markets into chaos.
Blah: Jack. Seal the area off. No-one goes in or out of that fanny without my permission.
Score: 10-4 Affirmative Charlie Roger.
Score: (slinking off) Nothing.
Mandelbot: So, who has the power to put it there? Ideas, gentlemen?
Mordillo: Secret military device?
Cook: No not this time, gentlemen.
Blah: The socialists?
Smith: The Village People?
Black: I'll bet it was aliens. Like the bastards who put me in this cursed iron torso. Damn them!!!
He beats his chest with rage, several clanks.
Mandelbot: So then, three options: The socialists, the Village People, and aliens. Discounting the impossible that leaves socialists and aliens.
Mordillo: What are the socialists up to now?
Mandelbot: Hang on.
He pushes a button. The screen display changes to show the working men's club. Tony Been and Arthur Scar are sitting at the bar looking thoroughly pissed off. Water drips. A cobweb has been spun between them.
Mordillo: Oh, there they are look, bless.
Blah: Doesn't look like they've been, you know, anywhere in days.
Mandelbot: I concur. Option Two then… Aliens. (Sinister chord).
Mordillo: I'll make enquires.
Blah: Okay, call me later on the mobile.
Blah: Lovely man. Safe hands for the future.
Mandelbot: We need a story for the press, something to throw the drones off the trail.
Cook: Er… Miss Wet-T-Shirt of Little Britley Competition?
Blah: A reunion gig for my band?
Smith: A short season of one-act plays by gay playwrights?
Black: Tell them it was hoaxers.
Mandelbot: That's a good idea, Gordon, but they won't buy it unless we can actually produce the so-called hoaxers on camera.
Blah: I'll handle that. I've got a couple of friends in exactly the right, you know, place.
Musical Number set around Hesser and Darke's House of Nutters, the Britley Asylum.
Darke: When the Prozac that they give you makes you crazy
And you feel like going and shooting up the school
Hesser: Ah, If the armed response team misses
You can bet your life that this is
Darke: Where they'll send you and we'll
Both: Drug you up and leave you here to drool.
McNutter: When you can't hand another customer another happy meal
Hesser and Darke: You're welcome at the house of nutters!
StressedOutHippyChickNutter: When you feel a little guilty that your husband ordered veal
Hesser and Darke: You're welcome at the house of nutters!
PregnantChildNutter: If your twelve years old and up the duff
BritneySpearsNutter: Or sweet sixteen and not!
GeniusNutter: If television’s not enough
LamaNutter: Or if you talk to god
All Nutters: You're welcome…
Darke: I'm Darke
Hesser: And I am Hesser
Darke: When you're brain is in a mess a year with us
Will have you quiet as a mouse
Hesser: I'm Hesser
Darke: And I'm Darke
Hesser: And that pervert in the park
Is going to end up barking starkers
Darke: You'll all end up barking starkers!
Both: We'll all end up running starkers round our house.
A mobile phone rings. Nutters run screaming back inside. Hesser answers it.
The Mayor's Private Chamber.
Tony on his mobile.
Blah: Hesser? Tony? Listen old man I need to borrow a couple of your inmates for a few days for some minor spinning. Could be good for you, too.
Hessers eyes are widening with every word.
Hesser: Really? TV, you say? Her Ladyship you say? Well, yes, it has been a bit lonely and quiet up here. Darke and I were only saying the other day how nice it was that people listened to us when we -
The Mayor's Private Chamber.
One of the other phones is ringing.
Blah: Hesser can you hang on a second. I've got, you know, another call.
He puts the mobile down and presses the intercom.
Blah: Betty, can you have that call put through to my mobile.
Betty Smoothjoy: Yes Mr Speaker.
Blah: It’s not the speaker talking Betty, th..that's an intercom, er..it's me… Tony. I mean, you know, how many times do we have to go through this?
Betty: (Humouring the intercom) Mr speaker, Mr speaker.
Blah: Right. Thanks Betty. Just put it through to the mobile.
Picks up the mobile.
Blah: Mayor Tony.
Mordillo: Heir apparent here. Got a little tip off from some friends of mine who were out walking in Her Ladyship's Gardens last night. Yes, at . Some people like walking at night, with their friends, near bushes. Anyway, according to them you should tell your men to start digging at the clitoris - whatever that is.
Blah's Private Chamber.
Blah: Right. Thanks Michael. Cherie sends spanks.
He pushes a button on his phone.
Blah: Hesser! Still there? Good. Listen, change of plan. Won't be needing you after all. Still, nice song. Thanks. Bye then.
The sound of the phone disconnecting.
Hesser and Darke stand outside in the cold. A cardboard box blows past. It's all a bit sad.
Darke: Who was that?
Hesser: That was Blah. Phoned up to say he doesn't need us.
Darke: Oh. Pity.
Hesser: Said he liked the song, though.
Darke: Oh. Well, that's something. I suppose.
Crook and Score are standing to one side as about forty uniformed officers dig in the background. It is a frenzy of activity. A car screeches up and Tony Blah gets out and runs up to them.
Score: Well, we're having a bit of trouble finding it Tone.
Crook: Well, I thought I knew where it was but… erm…
Two Jags pull up together. A man in traditional Elizabethan serving clothes gets out of the front one, runs to the passenger door of the back one, and opens it. Deskjob steps out and strides confidently up to the group.
Deskjob: Give us a spade then, eh?
Dam-Busters Type Music. Camera pulls up and above as Deskjob strides heroically to the clitoris and plunges his spade in. He digs down twice before his spade impacts on something.
Deskjob: By thunder, there's sommat 'ere!
He is joined by policemen. In a flurry of digging they unearth a huge padlocked trunk. They lift it out and stand round it. A thud comes from inside.
Deskjob: What the bloody hell is that?
Mandelbot beams in.
Mandelbot: I'll take it from here.
He disintegrates the lock with a heat-ray from his eyes. Slowly the trunk creaks open to reveal….
…Two writers, dressed uncomfortably in tight tweedy jackets. They are pseudo-anarchists from the local university. They probably write a column in the daily stalker.
Blah: (arriving) Who the, you know, you know, fuck, fuck, are they?
Writer One: What took you so long? We could have suffocated in there?
Writer Two: How could you not have thought to check the clit?
Cook: We wanted to be sure there were no perimeter mines first.
Blah: Yeah, Yeah, you know, Yeah.
Straw: Yes, a..a..and we needed to dust the fanny for fingerprints. Due process, you know.
Writer Two: You didn't know what it was, did you?
Mandelbot: Oh, but we did. The question is… how did YOU know?
Writer One: What?
Mandelbot: Pythagoras' Stolen Theorem has been kept from the people of Britley for centuries. Millennia. And you think you can reveal it and walk away? Like it was a childish prank?
Writer One: Pythagoras's what?
Writer Two: We're satirists, mate. You know, satire.
Blah: How is drawing a big picture of a ladies, you know, naughty hole, satire?
Writer One: It's a cutting edge prank.
Writer Two: It's daring and cheeky.
Mandelbot: Shall I have them killed?
Blah: Yes, better had I suppose, just in case they, you know, tell the Theorem to anyone else.
Writer One: What?
Mandelbot: (addressing two of the police) You two. Please arrange to have these gentlemen regrettably shot whilst trying to escape.
Writer One: We're not trying to escape.
The writers are being led away.
Writer Two: We just wanted to get on the telly.
Writer One: Come on, look, let's be sensible. You can't kill us for calling her Ladyship a cu-
A shot rings out.
Mandelbot: Well, that's that. I'd better get back to my alcove and recharge.
Blah: See you in the morning then.
Mandelbot: Right you are.
Blah: Oh, erm, Peter. You haven't got any, you know, any…er..
Peter hands him a huge back of cocaine.
Blah: Right. Night then.
Mandelbot beams out. Blah walks past the police who are packing up the site. He makes a call on his mobile phone.
Blah: Hi. Noel? Liam? My place, tonight. Bring Patsy and Kate and any other bitches you can gather up, you know how Cherie is, threes never enough… yeah, yeah, I got the stash…. you know, contacts… I'm a powerful man me… most popular mayor in the history of Little Britley. Yeah, yeah, see you later.
We follow him past Cook and Score, who salute him proudly, and out through the gates of the manor on the hill, then the camera pulls back and up to show the manor and the night sky.
An alien saucer hovers above the skyline. We zoom over to the window. Two aliens are looking down towards the commotion below.
Alien1: F'r Christ's sake Flugnuggle, you drag me half way across the galaxy for this?
Alien2: I'm telling you Jimbimblefig, It was here yesterday, a huge great gestavenfloob. Massive.
Alien1: Wow. The life-forms on this planet must be having such a good time.
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