Some men play golf. We write bad scripts.

on Mar 15 in Bristol, Culture, Frivolity, Projects, Writing tagged by Peter Blackman

A while back, some friends and I entered the South West Screen ifeatures competition. We had a logo and everything.

We got absolutely nowhere with our corporate sex farce ‘A Big Fassbender welcome to Bristol’ but we had a lot of fun putting the submission together. Some men play golf. We write screenplays which amuse us -  if noone else.

Anyway, what with the rebranding of this site, and the imminent arrival of other contributors (hopefully), it seemed a good time to share with the wider world some of our filthy wittering. So here’s a couple of scenes that didn’t make the cut - but still made us laugh. Inspired by the advice ‘write what you know’ we have here a scene featuring an idiot who works in advertising in London, and another featuring a sexual encounter between a Polish policeman and a rich bored housewife.

“Act 1, scene i.

London. Islington. A large apartment overlooking Upper Street. Interior. Bedroom. Early morning.

We see a the shape of a figure passed out face down in a large double bed. We hear loud snoring. The bedroom is empty of all furniture and personal items. Clothes are strewn on the floor. A mobile phone, face down on the bare floorboards, begins to ring. We see an arm reach out from beneath the duvet, pick up the phone and draw it back out of sight.

Michael - Hello? Oh. Hi. Yes. Totally ready. Half an hour? Fine.

The phone is thrown out from under the duvet. It clatters on to the hard bare floor. The duvet is pulled back, and we see the man underneath as he throws himself on to his back.

MICHAEL - Fuck.

We close up on his face as he rubs his eyes, stretches and puts his hands behind his head. We begin to hear Michael’s thoughts - he has the knowing, mischievous tone and pronounced cockney accent of many a modern movie.

MICHAEL - Half an hour? Is it enough? Is there time for a shower, shave, a sh.. and an interior monologue before my ex-wife arrives to take away our bed? From one of the first things we shared to one of the last things we split. Except of course we’re not splitting it. You can’t split a bed. What’s more, apparently it has these storage drawers which are really useful for her shoes.So she gets the bed. Anyway. My monologue - there’s got to be time really hasn’t there? After all, I’ve got to set the scene - let you know what the oh my fucking god is going on. It’ll settle you in. Make you feel at home in what, in about twenty minutes, is not going to be my home anymore. Plus of course, a nice long opening monologue in the script will appeal to the stars queuing up to play this part of me. Michael the hero. It could be Tom. Brad. Any of the Brits. A Fiennes. Or the bloke who does Bond.He’d be good. He’s already got the body and the swimming trunks. Whoever it is, they’ll all be well pleased to see a lovely long cock-a-nee voiceover to get stuck in and started with.

CUTAWAY:to a series of flashbacks to the previous day. As we do so, we hear Michael commenting on what we see.

MICHAEL - First rule of working in advertising -  no client meetings on a Friday afternoon. They get in the way of lunch, then drink, then drugs. They especially get in the way of sex - unless you’re having it with them. Which is not advisable.So - no clients. Now, remember that your body might be a temple during the week, but at the weekend it’s an adventure playground. And the weekend starts at Friday lunchtime. So get them in. We’re in The Ivy, where Leon, the creative director, always has a decent table reserved. Life can feel good when you’re there on a Friday. Some minor celeb spotting, cocktails and chablis, sticky toffee pudding and a client paying for it all. Ok, I know I said no clients -  but Richard from Autowindscreens is a laugh. Fifty plus, on wife number four, drives a Lambo, mad staring eyes, large personal fortune from windscreen replacement. And when we’re done here we’re going to Harrods with him to buy one of those pianos that play themselves. Like in western saloons, but these days with CD’s under the lid. So we end up in Harrods, giggling like schoolgirls as Richard writes out the cheque for £24,000 and pretends to play the Moonlight Sonata on his new toy.His mad eyes are revolving when the call comes through from Stef to say that the divorce has finally gone through, as has the flat sale, and I need to be out of our place and out of her life by 10.30am tomorrow morning. Which is fine. And, of course, not at all fine. And which means stepping up the prodigious intake of drink and drugs until such time as we are all in Spearmint Rhino and my eyeballs are bleeding with pain. And then I wake up. Which brings us up to now. So now you know. I am a moral and financial bankrupt who has fucked up his marriage. I’ve also fucked my career (but I don’t know that yet). And finally, I just can’t keep this up. This stupid mock-a-nee accent that is.It’s just shit isn’t it? I’m a nice boy from Bristol whose parents remortgaged the house to send him to a good school and I’m talking like one of the Kray twins. It’s got to stop. This whole voice-over thing also has to stop too. It’s exhausting. So, if you’re reading this Tom, Brad, Mr Bond trunks - that’s the last of the ‘me old china’ monologues.Sorry. It’s dialogue from now on. In my own voice.

We hear the doorbell ring.

MICHAEL - There she is. Early. So I won’t be ready and will look like a fuck up. Ah well, at least there was time for the monologue. Enjoy the show.

We hear the front door opening, and the sound of Stef and removal men walking in. We hear Stef going from room to room.

STEF - Mike? Mike?

She appears in the doorway of the bedroom.

MICHAEL- In here.

STEF- Not ready then?

MICHAEL - I thought I had another 20 minutes so I’ve been feeling sorry for myself and having a cry.

STEF - Just get up. I’ve got men waiting.We’ve exchanged and completed. The new owners’ll be here soon. You should have moved out weeks ago.

MICHAEL - Nowhere to go.

STEF - Small words. Get. Up. You. Twat.

Michael swings himself out of bed and stands up. He is naked. Stef is completely indifferent.

STEF - Clothes on. I’ll be in the kitchen.

MICHAEL - OK. Five minutes.Quick freshen up and I’m there.

STEF - NO. Get dressed. You’re not going to destroy the bathroom with your disgusting morning routine just before the new people arrive. Where’s your stuff?

MICHAEL - Storage.

STEF - Well you can go to your ludicrous gym for some boxercise, erotic spinning, male pole dancing or whichever class it is you use these days to pick up girls. You can have a shower there.

Michael makes as if to move toward the en suite shower room.

STEF - I mean it Mike. Make with the Clothes Show. Now.

Michael concedes defeat and begins to pull on his crumpled shirt and suit. As he does so, Stef gestures to the removal men that they can come in to the bedroom. She begins to strip the bed, bundling the duvet, pillows and linen into some bin bags. Michael makes great play of putting on every item of his clothing - no matter how battered and dirty they might appear. Cuff links are fastened. Belt buckled. Tie knotted into place. As the workmen struggle out with the heavy bed base, he continues to try to bait Stef.

MICHAEL - I give unto my wife my second best bed

STEF - Sorry?

MICHAEL - In Shakespeare’s will he only leaves Anne Hathaway, his wife of thirty years his ’second best bed’ For years eminent scholars thought of it as a snub. No evidence for that though.

STEF - Right. They just don’t work anymore Mike. The literary put downs. People just think: “what a cock. Why can’t he talk about X Factor like everyone else?”

MICHAEL - Philistines.

STEF - You’re really not an intellectual Mike. Just a bore whose read a book.

A tense, angry silence descends on the couple. Stef turns on her heel and follows the removal men out of the bedroom as they stagger down the stairs with the bed mattress. Michael exhales deeply and follows them. Under his breath we hear him say

MICHAEL - Harsh. But fair.

Exterior. The street outside the flat. As the mattress is loaded on to the removal van, another van appears in the street, carrying the belongings of the couple who are moving in. Michael follows Stef and the removal men into the street. He is holding an expensive motorcycle helmet. An attractive couple emerge from a sports car and say hello to Stef. She turns to Michael and snaps her fingers.

STEF - Mike. Keys.

MICHAEL - Yep.

He digs them out of his pocket and throws them at the new owners of the flat where they are caught by the man just before they would have crashed into the face of the woman.

STEF- Mike!

MICHAEL - Apologies.

STEF - We’re all done here. All out. Enjoy yourselves - it’s a lovely flat.

The couple murmur their thanks while keeping a very wary eye on Michael. In the background we see the new set of removal men begin to unload their van. The first item out and carried toward the front door is a cowhide Corbusier recliner.

MICHAEL - Oh. A Corbusier. How original.

NEW MALE OWNER -  Thanks. I could say the same about the Ducati.

MICHAEL - Touche. Which is my cue to fire up the Duck of Death and make a dramatic exit.

Watched carefully by the new owners, and Stef, Michael starts the Ducati motorcyle and pulls his helmet on. He cuts an incongruous figure on the bike in his suit and tie. He opens the throttle a few times in a show of bravado before pulling away and riding off down the street.

STEF - Sorry about that. He’s upset about the divorce. And losing the flat.

The new owners nod in sympathy. Then everyone’s attention is caught by the sound of the motorcycle slowing, turning, and being brought to a standstill by Michael so that it is facing back down the street toward them. After a moment of yet more loud revving of the engine, Michael speeds back down the street toward them, dropping a gear as he does and pulling an impressive wheelie, so that he passes Stef and the new couple with his front wheel at their eyeline. Once passed them, he drops the wheel back down and this time genuinely departs. Stef turns to the new owners.

STEF - Having said that. He’s also a colossal prick.

The new owners nod vigorously and then move off into their new home. Stef stands for a second or two in the street looking up at her former home, before shaking her head, turning, and walking off down the street.

Act 1, scene ii.

Bristol. Abbots Leigh, a small village on the edge of the city with pretensions to being a rural idyll / haven. A large, detached villa which would look more at home in Spain. It is a hot, sunny day. We move around the side of the house to reveal the extensive back garden with its tennis court and swimming pool. We hear nothing save the sounds of summer in the country - birds tweeting, grasshoppers. On the lawn is a sprinkler which is sending rhythmic jets of water across the flowerbeds. As we move nearer the edge of the swimming pool, another noise joins in this rhythm. It is low and guttural.Forceful yet constrained. As we pan across the sparkling blue of the swimming pool we see that there is a couple having vigorous sex on a sun lounger by the side of the pool. The woman has a towelling robe pulled up over her bottom and her face pressed down into the thin cushion of the lounger. Her eyes are closed and mouth tight with concentration. The man, thrusting energetically behind her is dressed in a police uniform, and simply has his trousers around his ankles. His truncheon and handcuffs clatter on the poolside tiles as he furiously sets about his work. His radio intermittently explodes into life. Their intercourse is energetic yet passionless. A physical rather than an emotional exercise. His face becoming red and sweat appearing on his brow, we see the policeman rip off his clip on tie and undo his top button, all without breaking his ’stride’. As we watch them we see that there is a poodle sat beside the lounger, at the woman’s head, watching with curiosity. As the policeman appears to increase his efforts, the poodle emits a low growl, and we hear the woman begin to mutter:

TRUDI - Yes, yes, yes. Soon. That’s it. Oooh,nearly there.

There is no response from the policeman. His face is now a rictus of furious effort and concentration.

TRUDI - Oh. Yes. That’s it. Oh yes, I am coming. Yeeees.

At these words, we see the policemans eyes snap open, and a wide grin appear on his face. As we see this, we also see him move so that he has clearly withdrawn his penis from Vicki and is shuffling around toward her face as fast as his trousers will let him

TRUDI - No, don’t stop. Don’t stop. What the fuck are you doing? Oh God no. Not another one. You’ve all been watching too much porn -aaaaaah

We see Trudi leap up from the lounger and jump away from her lover, as he is clearly now masturbating and shouting in heavily accented English

PIOTR - Tits or face? Tits or face?

TRUDI - Neither you Polish nutcase - oh Christ!

Piotris now bellowing loudly as he ejaculates. Without seeing any actual sperm we see Vicki running away from him, then the dog firstly staring, then after being caught full in the eye, yelping and running back to the house, and finally some small, delicate ‘plops’ as sperm lands in the swimming pool. As he finishes, so Piotr subsides physically and collapses onto the lounger. By which time Trudi is hiding behind the minibar set up under a large poolside umbrella.

PIOTR - I was good? Yes? I am finished.

TRUDI - I know. I think everyone can see that. For fucks sake Piotr - what got into you? Tits or face? Tits or face? You’re not some rap artist or childrens tv presenter.

PIOTR - I became carried away. I apologise.

TRUDI - I’m going to have to have the pool drained. Fuck. I mean, I know you get excited, but whatever happened to spit or swallow? When did that become tits or face?

PIOTR -  I am embarassed.

TRUDI - You’ve traumatised the dog as well.

PIOTR - I did not like her watching.

TRUDI - It doesn’t mean you to had to,er, shower  her.

Trudi is now beginning to see the funny side of what just happened, and is increasingly amused by Piotr’s solemn remorse.

TRUDI - Mind you. I don’t think she’d have swallowed even if you asked nicely.

PIOTR - You are now making the fun.

TRUDI - And can’t you turn the radio off?

PIOTR - Regrettably no. I am only on community visit, advising on prevention of forced entry or burglarising. I could not explain a switch off radio.

Trudi is now laughing as she pulls back on her bikini bottoms, smooths down her robe, and begins to make herself a drink.

TRUDI - Make yourself respectable. Paul is showing some advertising idiot from London around a ridiculously overpriced flat in Clifton this afternoon, so once he’s done there he’ll be coming back. Probably want a swim - it being so hot and all. Piotr pulls up his trousers and buckles everything into place.

PIOTR - I think I am in love with you Trudi.

TRUDI - Don’t be ridiculous.

PIOTR - I mean it.

TRUDI - I know you do. That’s what scares me.

PIOTR -  Your Paul he is a weak, foolish man. With girlish behaviours.

TRUDI - That’s the father of my children Piotr.

PIOTR - He has the limpness. I am black belt. I am Polish special forces.

TRUDI - You are father of three also. With lovely wife.

PIOTR - This is true….

Want to option the rights?

Offended?

Both?

Want to know what happens next? So do we. One further scene was written - but we can’t find it at the moment.