Ludlow, Shropshire. Killian Redgrave, an immensely respected High Court Judge, returns home from a long hour’s ping-pong at the Judicial Recreation centre. Thanks to the enforcement of an archaic local by-law, Killian is forced to live with two other judges in a stylish penthouse flat, and sleep in a wall-mounted bag, like human meat on a space ship. His face often sticks out like a delightful little mole, as he paws the sleep from his eyes, wrinkles his nose and gives a tiny sneeze. He whistles, but he will only whistle the note B flat. B flat is the only note not to appear in the Pulp single “Disco 2000”, which was playing when he watched his mother choke on her own hand.
His joy is soon to be interrupted, however, when he hears a scuffling from the inside of his flat. Today is to be a day like any other, except it will be messier, and more unusual.
[voice is hard and dramatic, except when giggling, when it is extremely camp] What’s that? My spider sense is tingling. [giggles] Hmm. That feels rather nice. Hmmm. But something must be wrong. It‘s Hilary. He’s in danger! [giggles again] A ha! Oh, ride on time! This spider sense is lovely! I’m having big fun!
Hilary Winters. One of the dying breed of male Hilaries. Hilary in this context is actually short for Hilarious, because when men are called Hilary, it is extremely funny indeed. Hilary is currently in his bedroom, struggling for his beliefs under the most aggressive Christian Union in the UK. The Ludlow Christian Union believe that the law of Man is as nothing next to the mighty Word of God. So they steal Chunky Kit Kats and set fire to cars.
[Grunting] No, it’s mine. I need it. I use it when I’m shopping.
[Struggling] But I want it. Your soul will bring me closer to God.
[not grunting] Isn’t that what your own soul’s for?
[not struggling] Don’t be so naïve. Just give me the sodding soul, you cow.
[door dings, door opens]
Killian! Help me! I’m being sat on.
Well, if it isn’t my nemesis, Keith. Keith, big man in the Christian Union these days, I hear.
Curses! I’m hopelessly outnumbered. I shall leave. See you.
Bye.
There’s no need to be nice to him, Hilary.
Oh. Right. Booo!
Did he get near your soul, Hilary?
No. I didn’t tell him where I keep it.
Where do you keep it?
(coyly) I’m not telling you.
Oh, go on. You can tell me. [emotionlessly] I’m your friend.
[soppily] You’re my best friend. It’s six inches up my fat hairy arse.
Oh, for… What’s it doing there?
It’s not my fault. It fell down there after I reversed over a hump-backed bridge.
Well don’t let it drop out. The last thing I want to find is your soul in the laundry basket.
Don’t worry. It’s quite stuck. I tried getting it out with one of my girlfriend’s vibrators. I put blu-tack on the end.
And?
No joy. [pause] Actually, that’s not true. Plenty of joy, but it didn’t get my soul out. And I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the blu-tack since. Although I’ve kept the vibrator to try and get it back out with ever more Blu-Tack.
Please don’t say hair and hide together when
we’re talking about things up your arse.
As we so often do.
Hello again.
Hello, Keith! Would you like to borrow my car?
Stop being nice to your enemies, Hilary.
Stupid thing, really – I forgot my tirade. Can I?
Go on then. But quickly.
Our war with the godless judiciary will continue! I will return, with an army of loving hate, and I shall wear your souls as grisly trophies around my neck. OK?
[friendly again] Next week?
Week after. I’m having my Alsatian bleached and died blue so that people will talk to me.
Blimey. He’s fast. I’ll give him that.
[after a brief silence] In the icy wastes of the Arctic, it is so cold that eskimos have to cut holes in the ice just to let the fish breathe. However, in the blistery heat of the Sahara Desert, people bury themselves alive in T-Bag shaped pyramids, and shoot the sun with lasers – vainly believing that this will bring about the night.
This is the story of three judges who live in Ludlow, Shropshire, where the weather is changeable, but largely clement. It’s called the [clumsily pronounced] M’lud Life.
Hilary, do something dangerous. Attack me.
Why?
I’ve just had this Spider Sense put in. It tingles when I’m in danger. Just run at me, screaming, and waving this stick about. Tell me you’re going to kill me.
I’d feel ridiculous. And it wouldn’t work. You’d know I didn’t mean it.
Well, mean it then. Be feral; run around in your baggy boxer shorts, trying to stab me.
No. I’m not going to. I’m just not that type of judge, Mr Redgrave.
Hello, Jools. How’s your day been?
Magic. Bloody magic.
Where did you get the jungle vine from?
Shop.
We’ll get it hung up for you. It’s not quite the same when you just run into walls with it wrapped around your neck. You just look like a fool.
Smart. Bed. [door slams]
The last judge, Lord Julian Porter. Although he thinks he became immortal after buying some pegs from a gypsy, the real reason he hasn’t aged at all for the last ten years is the release of certain enzymes, triggered by a regime of furious masturbation. As I speak, Lord Porter is shooting gum bullets into the shower.
OK, so to help neutralise the Christian threat, I’ve taken several steps. I’ve had some purple knockout gas, à la Batman, installed into the lift, which is the only way into the flat. I’ve installed a trap door in the lift too, like in the Children’s TV programme Trap Door, and there’s a bank of CCTV … TVs … over there, so that Jools can look at everyone else in the tower block shagging. Like that film. With that bird.
Hey, look at this. According to the ding-o-meter...
Ding-o-meter?
Yes. It counts the amount of times that the lift goes “ding”. All lifts have them, so that ding pollution may be monitored.
[out-of-characteristally American] That is so not true. . you’s jerking my dick.
No, I’m not. Ding pollution occurs where there is such an excess of dings that other noises, such as parp and splat cannot be heard. Allow me to demonstrate.
Regular sound effects. Parp, ding, splat, whistle. Parp, ding, splat, whistle.
See – the four comedy sounds in perfect harmony. But if you introduce another ding, you disrupt the natural balance.
Parp, ding, ding, splat-whistle. Where splat-whistle occupies one beat and melt into each other.
The ding is cramping the splat-whistle. Add more dings, Mr Maestro!
The parp is compromised! Two more dings….
More dings – including a strained clockwork speeding up effect, and a sproing!
The logical conclusion is chaos. I rest my case.
Take it all back and tell me you’re lying. Because I know you’re lying, and I’ll going to mess around with you unless you tell me the truth.
You believe what makes you happy.
I certainly will. Right now, I’m believing that I’m in a nu-metal band called “Cunnimash Depot”.
Anway, the lift went ding while we were out. I think there’s someone in the flat.
(starts giggling) Oh, there is as well. My spider sense is going spazlicious.
Do you think we should do something?
[enormous whooping giggle and “easy tiger” playful growling]
So now we know our heroes. Across the town, in another house, Mary Highpole arrives home after a day of re-organising her desk-tidy, after a promotion. It came as something of a wee revelation to her to find a small abrasive rubber in one of the taller tubes. She means to eat it, but no-one must see her secret shame. Meanwhile, her flatmates are planning to tell her that they hate her, and want her to move out right now.
Before we go there, however, here’s the sound of someone choking on their own hand to the tune of Pulp’s “Disco 2000”.
So this is how we’re going to tell her to move out. I’ll leave a post-it note in one of her undies. She will find it, and leave without question.
She’s got about fifteen pairs of undies; it could take a fortnight before she found them.
Then some powerful and surprising laxative might be in order.
Maaaah. I still think we should spell “LEAVE NOW” in the Domino Rally style, and ask her to push the first domino.
How do you know how many pairs of knickers she has?
My curious nose went a-sniff-snortin’.
Oh. What did they smell of?
Warm Lego.
Quick! Here she comes! Hide!
Why?
Hello, Mary. You seem quite happy today..?
I am. I just got promoted, and now I’m well out of your league. I’m the Scrutiniser of Quiet Men at a local firm of accountants. I stare at inadequate types until they cry, then I run over and hug them, whilst whispering sexual threats in their ears.
Oh. Is…
Yes, it’s incredibly well paid. I’m just picking up my knickers. One of the conditions of my employment is that I live with these three judges, and [reading] “provide a token female role in an otherwise anally homocentric comedy programme”. So I’ll just pick up my knickers and leave you two to sex each other’s mouths off.
Aren’t you going to take these?
Take what?
Your hybrid zoo of the damned.
[suddenly lightweight, very cheerful] Mary has been experimenting for the last fifteen years with taxidermy. She’s not very good, but she stuck at it, on the premise that no-one is born with the innate ability to stuff dead animals. However, driven by her dreams of a tall figure dressed in back, she started manufacturing dark beasts. A row of crows locked in an unholy conga line. A badger with the head of a spaniel, supported cruelly by the neck of an ant. And of course, a voodoo cat with no nose. How does it smell? Like your mum.
Before we return to the action, let’s hear what a load of living crows doing the conga might sound like.
Are you taking these things with you then?
No, ta. I’m not sure if the judges would approve of me digging up my neighbour’s dead pets and stuffing them with wire wool and jamrags.
[faintly disgusted] Oh, throw them away, Grant.
Well. All my knickers seem to be in order. Goodbye.
Throw that cat away.
Where should I put it?
Put it on the rotary washing line. A kestrel’ll pick it up.
Back in the flat, Killian has had to turn off his spider sense so that he can talk effectively about their unwelcome guest. Fortunately, with the installation, the mysterious shopkeeper fitted a tuner onto Killian’s nipple. He can turn off his danger alarm simply by playing with his nipple for two minutes.
And this is all very well, but what if I’m in really bad danger, I’m giggling like a girl, and have to twist my nipple? A mugger would think I was being turned on by his bludgeoning. He might decide to have sex on me.
That would make you giggle even more, wouldn’t it? Because of the danger, I mean.
And I’d have to play even more frantically with my nipples. It’s a vicious circle. I’d end up with a queue of muggers lining up to rape me, while I giggle and tug at my tits like a nympho. And that’s not what I’m really after.
You’d better get it taken out, then. Where did he put it?
Up my arse.
I thought he might have done.
Anyway…to the matter in hand. There’s an intruder in the flat, and we’ve no idea who it is. Have you noticed anything odd recently?
Well, there’s something wrong with my tape recorder. Listen to this.
Someone’s been tinkering with my Betty Boo.
The bastards.
[upset] Who could it be? Who would twist my Betty so?
I think I may have an idea.
Meanwhile, just feet away, Lord Julian Porter is watching the closed circuit television, and is watching a spectacular sex show being put on for him by a cranefly, and a naïve earwig.
You leggy minx. Look at you. You filthy cow. Walking up and down the wall, using your sucking sex powers. Wiggling your tiny, tiny, bottom at me like that. Ah, you’re not wearing clothes, I see. Very wise. You can’t wet yourself when you’re not wearing clothes, and I can tell you’re a little kinky, aren’t you? A little… oops upside your head? Nothing to be ashamed of. Never hurt anyone, my dear. Dance your own dance; dream a little dream of me. Hello, who’s this? A curious earwig, drawn into your boudoir. By jove, he’s not messing around, is he? Straight up there like a… hang on, that’s a lady earwig! You’re lesbians! Calm down, Jools. It’s not their fault. Don’t let your morality get in the way of a cracking nut fumble.
Well done, ladies. Good show.
[Beginning of a storm – slight wind, some rain. Creaking of a rotary washing line under the weight of a dead cat. As the commentary gets to the implication of the cat being alive, a human saying “meow” occasionally and quietly begins.]
Meanwhile, a storm is brewing over the rotary washing line. As the clouds draw together like … two artists … , the discarded voodoo cat swings in the fresh breeze. Pegged up by the tail, a creature without dignity, circled by the hungry kestrels of the Ludlow parish. As the pressure in the atmosphere builds, an observer prone to hysteria would say that they saw the cat winking. As the sky darkens and the hairs on your disgusting hairy neck stand on end, you might say that you saw the gleam of a protracted claw. And when lightning strikes the rotary washing line, passing thousands of volts through the central nervous system of the voodoo fuelled pussy, you might think that you saw the cat fly off, using its tail as a helicopter blade.
Hello? Hello? Is anyone home? I forgot a pair of knickers. Oh… my God! You’re both dead! You’re both covered in blood, and completely dead! And – wowsers – the garden is full of dead kestrels. And what’s this? Oh, dear – it’s a hairball. This can only mean… this can only mean that that cat was somehow resurrected, perhaps … using the washing line a conduit for … the lightning. And judging by the state of the curtains, it’s using its tail as a helicopter blade.
Will you stop playing that sturgeon?
Hang on a minute. I’m doing the doo.
I can see that. It’s revolting. Turn that turbot off.
Not if you don’t stop referring to Betty Boo in terms of fish. It’s sexist and it doesn’t make sense.
I’ll tell you what doesn’t make sense. A forty-eight year old judge dancing around his bedroom to hip-hop music. Wiggling his hips and patting his arse at the mirror. Turn it off.
Right then. Have you noticed anything odd recently? I think the net is closing around our intruder.
Well, someone’s been eating my Ryvita. Wasn’t it you? I thought I’d been sleep-eating, or something.
No, I don’t eat Ryvita. Or anything else that promotes disgust.
I had thought about leaving myself a Post-It note. But I didn’t know if I could sleep-read, because I’m not sure whether you have your eyes open or not when you’re sleep-walking. You’d think not, but what if you’d left a roller-skate at the top of the stairs?
… Hilary …
So I thought I might eat the Post-It note in error, and the gum would stick in my throat. Oh – do you remember the time I made a papier mache mould of my willy, so that I could get a special vibrator made for my girlfriend? That got stuck, didn’t it? I couldn’t wee-wee for weeks. It started dribbling out of my belly button in the end. Do you remember? Killian? Do you remember trying to pull off my penis mould? Killian?
Hilary, shut your mouth.
My face was like this, remember? I was going “ooooooooh!” because it hurt a bit, and you were grunting really noisily, because of the effort. Do you remember the photographer? The young man who took the photo of you trying to pull off my cast?
My career was set back ten years.
We shouldn’t have gone to the park to take it off.
With hindsight, no.
And it didn’t help that I’d ejaculated all over the place.
[pause]
So, our second clue to the mystery visitor is your missing Ryvita. Add that to double-speed Betty Boo, and it’s beginning to take shape. I’ve noticed something myself. I found this under my pillow.
It looks like a tiny tooth.
I’ve sent it off to the lab, and they’ve discovered that it’s a tiny tooth.
Of course it is. It’s a little Chipmunk’s tooth.
Hilary, I spent two hundred pounds having this tooth analysed.
You should have spent it on chocolates, for me.
Well, if you look closer, you’ll see that the tooth is oddly smooth, and doesn’t get darker on the side that should be in shadow. And look – when I throw it against the wall.
[extreme ricochet sounds for about ten seconds, with glass smashing, hooters, klaxons, and that sound you make when you flip your finger against your lips and go “flubber”]
Do you mean…
Yes. It’s a cartoon chipmunk’s tooth. That explains your music being sped up –human singing must seem intolerably dreary and underpaced to cartoon chipmunks.
And how does that explain my Ryvita?
Chipmunks love Ryvita – it’s a well-documented fact. However, this little chipmunk hasn’t been looking after his teeth, and the grit-like texture of your Ryvita must have broken them. [shouts] Come out, Alvin. We know it’s you.
Sorry, Mr Redgrave. I should have known better than to mess with you. You’re far too clever for me.
Stop grovelling, you filthy little shit.
It’s Alvin! Sing us a song, Alvin. Please!
No, he is not singing us a song. He is a disease filled rodent, and must be killed.
Cartoon chipmunks don’t carry diseases. Well, they sometimes catch a cold and have to be tucked up in bed with a thermometer in their mouth, but it never lasts for longer than 25 minutes, and it’s only ever an excuse to have loads of flashbacks. Just one song…
Very well. Just as long as there’s a judicial theme.
How about “Love in the Third Degree” by Bananarama?
Excellent!
Well, that is an excellent song, but love isn’t a crime, is it, Killian?
You can’t force your wife to have sex with a dog.
Well that’s not really love, is it?
I never said it was.
The act of consensual sado-masochistic love is still a crime. The House of Lords decided in the Operation Spanner case that you aren’t allowed to hammer nails through a man’s penis, no matter how much he likes it.
Oh. Bananarama must have been singing about that, then. They must have been singing about third degree wax burns to the testicles.
[after a pause] Big tits!
Pardon?
There’s no need for that sort of behaviour, Mr Redgrave.
Stop knowing my name, Chipmunk! And yes, there was. You were all going gay, again, and I just thought I’d mention tits so that you two don’t forget that they exist, and give milk to our children.
I’m not gay, I don’t think. Well, I’ve got a girlfriend, anyway. But she is a bit ugly. Perhaps I’m using her as a man replacement.
Don’t be so bloody open-minded! You’re a judge!
[aside, to Hilary] Is he repressing?
Right – I heard that. I’m off to the shops to buy an Alsatian and a big poster of Cheryl Crow with her BIG TITS out. And then I’m going to sleep on top of the poster. You can stay here and shove that fucking chipmunk up your arse.
[confused, not excited] Do you want me to put you up my arse?
No, me either. I don’t know what made him say that. He needs a girlfriend.
Meanwhile, the streets have been transformed into a bloodbath. The unearthly voodoo cat, seeking revenge on the world that created it, shoots snotty strings of flame from the place where its nose should be. In the middle of the carnage, Mary makes her way to her new home, and Killian nips out for some pictures of the lovely Cheryl Crow. Is it chance alone, that their paths should cross?
Hello there! What’s going on here? Everything’s on fire!
Well, it’s like this. I’ve been promoted …
… as a helicopter blade.
That’s lovely. Fancy a shag?
What do you mean, shag? Carpet, tobacco, or sex?
[being dead cool] Sex on the carpet, then a cigarette. Bit of a shag medley.
That’d be charming. But don’t you think we should stop the voodoo cat, first?
Can’t we stop the voodoo cat by shagging?
Probably not.
Well, just as long as you haven’t gone off the boil by the time we’ve stopped the cat. I know what you women are like.
Oh, you are post-PC. I like that.
I also genuinely believe that all black people are evil.
[giggles sexually] Oh, yes! But look – the cat’s headed straight for that shiny tower block… the eighteenth floor...
That’s my house – damn you, cat!
Super fly guy, gonna take you hi-gh. Super fly guy, gonna take you high.
I love you, Mr Winters.
And I love you, Alvin. Where are your two friends?
Which two friends?
There were three of you on the TV series. And that big human.
Oh, you mean Simon and Theodore. They’re both dead. They got too involved in the celebrity scene, and Brian Blessed ate them.
How sad.
They were my best friends.
What the New Schmoo is that?
As Mary and Killian rush to the lift, they find their passage blocked by an enormous man with a bone through his nose.
How do you do? Who are you?
[big stereotypical tribal accent ] Don’t start that “rhyming things with Voodoo” shit. I am a Vodun priest of Ogou Balanjo, a minor spirit of healing. I am here because I can sense suffering.
You can sense suffering?
Only just about everywhere. The whole bloody town is on fire. It makes me sick through my face. Even now, your friends are in peril. I have brought with me the nose of a holy cat. Logically, that should make everything OK. If you can get the nose back onto the cat without being utterly hurt.
Thank you very much.
[sound like the mask on Crash Bandicoot, along with the sound of twinkling fairy dust, and a smoke bomb]
[coughing through the smoke] Where did he go?
I don’t know. What mysterious powers could have... oh – there he is. Hiding around the corner.
Pretend you haven’t seen him – he probably wanted to make a dramatic exit.
[from around the corner] Don’t patronise me!
Oh, you brave Chipmunk! You gave your own life to save mine. [suddenly angry] You fat ! You killed Alvin! You robbed the world of his music!
Meow. Rowr.
Hilary – distract the cat by dancing over there. Mary – get into the bedroom and ready yourself for Daddy Sex. I’ll leap over the sofa… like this… [flamethrower sound] and avoid that jet of flame…
For ease of listening, each character will now simply say what they are doing.
I’m ddging stealthily around the wall.
I’m turning on the stereo – thinking being that music might soothe the beast.
I’m beginning to dance hypnotically.
Meow.
[in the comparative quiet of Killian’s bedroom] Away from the action, I’m reclining on Killian’s double bed and unbuttoning my blouse.
[back in the noise and music] Rolling underneath the cat.
Meow.
Cupping left breast with right hand.
I’m grabbing cat… wrestling to floor… trying to put nose onto creature…
I’ve just been hit by a stray jet of flame… running around in circles, screaming. Becoming badly burnt.
Meow.
Bringing images of David Hasselhoff to mind.
Pressing nose onto cat…
Meow.
Well, that’s that, then. We did it! And now, sex with the new girl.
No, I don’t want to any more. I’ve just gone off the idea. No reason.
Typical.
It’s OK, though – I’m moving in to this flat, so I daresay you’ll have a fair while to try and get me in the sack yet.
I shall leave metal bird seed on the road, and install a magnet above my bed. When you eat it, I shall have you! See, I’ve got a smart blueprint here, with dotted lines showing your projected path into my bed. There’s no chance it’ll backfire.
[to cat purring] Can we keep the cat? He’s quite nice now.
Hmm. As long as it’s not an excuse for pussy jokes.
A ha, ha ha! Heaven forefend, no!
Well, I’ll just feed it some of this congealed beef fat.
I beg your pardon?
I’m just giving … the cat … this plate of congealed beef fat. For its dinner.
What is it … on the plate?
My pussy’s dripping.
Bloody hell, I’m still on fire! Ow!
And that’s the end of the first episode. Make sure you tune into the second episode, which promises to follow much the same format as this one. Bye.