PART III

FIGHTING EACH OTHER

Biggs: [now a soldiers-in-arms] O.K. Blackitt, Sturridge and
Walters you take the buggers on the left flank. Hordern,
Spadger and I will go for the gunpost.

Blackitt: [a Deptford Cockney] Hang on, you'll never make it,
sir... Let us come with you...

Biggs: Do as you're told man.

Blackitt: Righto, skipper. [He starts to go, then stops.] Oh, sir,
sir... if we... if we don't meet again... sir, I'd just like
to say it's been a real privilege fighting alongside you,
sir...

[They are continually ducking as bullets fly past them
and shells burst overhead.]

Biggs: Yes, well I think this is hardly the time or place for a
goodbye speech... eh...

[Biggs is clearly anxious to go.]

Blackitt: No, me, and the lads realise that but... well... we may
never meet again, sir, so...

Biggs: All right, Blackitt, thanks a lot.

Blackitt: No just a mo, sir! You see me and the lads had a little
whip-round, sir, and we bought you something, sir... we bought
you this, sir...

[He produces a handsome ormolu clock from his pack. Biggs
is at a loss for words. He is continually ducking.]

Biggs: Well, I don't know what to say... It's a lovely thought...
thank you... thank you *all*... but I think we'd better... get
to cover now...

[He starts to go.]

Blackitt: Hang on a tick, sir, we got something else for you as
well, sir.

[Two of the others emerge from some bushes with a
grandfather clock.]

Sorry it's another clock, sir... only there was a bit of a
mix-up... Walters thought *he* was buying the present, and
Spadger and I had already got the other one.

Biggs: Well it's beautiful... they're both beau -

[A bullet suddenly shatters the face of the grandfather
clock.]

... But I think we'd better get to cover now, and I'll thank
you properly later...

[Biggs starts to go again but Blackitt hasn't finished.]

Blackitt: And Corporal Sturridge got this for you as well, sir. He
didn't know about the others, sir - it's Swiss.

[He hands over a wristwatch.]

Biggs: Well now that is thoughtful, Sturridge. Good man.

[A shell bursts right overhead. Biggs flings himself down
into the mud.]

Blackitt: And there's a card, sir... from all of us... [He produces
a blood-splattered envelope.]... Sorry about the blood, sir.

Biggs: Thank you all.

[He pockets it and tries to go on.]

Blackitt: Squad, three cheers for Captain Biggs. Hip Hip -

All: Hooray!

Blackitt: Hip Hip -

All: Hoor...

[An almighty burst of machine-gun fire silences most of
them... Blackitt is hit.]

Biggs: Blackitt! Blackitt!

Blackitt: [hurt] Ah! I'll be all right, sir... Oh there's just one
other thing, sir. Spadge, give him the cheque...

Spadger: Oh yeah...

Biggs: Oh now this is really going to far...

Spadger: I don't seem to be able to find it, sir... [Explosion.]
Er, it'll be in Number Four trench... I'll go and get it. [He
starts to crawl off.]

Biggs: [losing his cool] Oh! For Christ's sake forget it, man.

[The others all look at Biggs after this outburst, as if
they can't believe this ingratitude.]

Blackitt: Oh! Ah!

Spadger: You shouldn't have said that, sir. You've hurt his
feelings now...

Blackitt: Don't mind me, Spadge... Toffs is all the same... One
minute it's all 'please' and 'thank you', the next they'll
kick you in the teeth...

Walters: Let's not give him the cake...

Biggs: I don't want *any* cake...

Spadger: Look, Blackitt cooked it specially for you, you bastard.

[They all look at Blackitt rolling in the mud.]

Sturridge: Yeah, he saved his rations for six weeks.

Biggs: I'm sorry, I don't mean to be ungrateful...

Blackitt: I'll be all right.

[Shell crashes. Blackitt dies.]

Spadger: Blackie! Blackie! [He turns to Biggs with tears in his
eyes.] Look at him... [He pulls up the supine form of
Blackitt.] He worked on that cake like no-one else I've ever
known. [He props him in the mud again.] Some nights it was so
cold we could hardly move, but Blackie'd de out there -
slicing lemons, mixing the sugar and the almonds... I mean you
try getting butter melted at fifteen below zero! There's love
in that cake... [He picks up Blackitt again.] This man's love
and this man's care and this man's - Aarggh!
[He gets shot.]

[Biggs runs over to them in horror.]

Biggs: Oh my Christ!

Sturridge: You bastard.

Biggs: All right! All right! We will eat the cake. They're right...
it's too good a cake not to eat. get the plates and knives,
Walters...

Walters: Yes, sir... how many plates?

Biggs: Six.

[A shot rings out. Walters drops dead.]

Biggs: Er... no... better make it five.

Sturridge: Tablecloth, sir...?

Biggs: Yes, get the tablecloth...!

[Explosion. Sturridge gets shot.]

Biggs: No no no, I'll get the tablecloth and you'd better get the
gate-leg table, Hordern.

[Hordern is shot in the leg.]

Hordern: I'll bring two sir, in case one gets scrumpled...

[Suddenly we find this has all been a film, which a
General now stops.]

General: Well, of course, warfare isn't all fun. Right, stop that.
It's all very well to laugh at the Military, but when one
considers the meaning of life it is a struggle between
alternative viewpoints of life itself. And without the
ability to defend one's own viewpoint against other perhaps
more aggressive ideologies then reasonableness and moderation
could quite simply disappear. That is why we'll always need an
army and may God strike me down were it to be otherwise.

[The Hand of god descends and vaporizes him.]

[The audience of two old ladies and two kids applauds
hesitantly.]

[Outside the hut RSM Whateverhisnameis is drilling a
small squad of recruits.]

RSM: Don't stand there gawping like you've never seen the Hand of
God before. Now! Today we're going to do marching up and down
the square. That is unless any of you got anything better to
do? Well, anyone got anything they'd rather be doing than
marching up and down the square?

[Atkinson puts his hand up.]

Yes? Atkinson? What would you rather be doing, Atkinson?

Atkinson: Well to be quite honest, Sarge, I'd rather be at home
with the wife and kids.

RSM: Would you now?

Atkinson: Yes, sarge.

RSM: Right off you go. [Atkinson goes.] Now, everybody else happy
with my little plan of marching up and down the square a bit?

Coles: Sarge...

RSM: Yes?

Coles: I've got a book I'd quite like to read...

RSM: Right! You go read your book then! [Coles runs off.] Now
everybody else quite content to join in with my little scheme
of marching hup and down the square?

Wycliff: Sarge?

RSM: Yes, Wycliff, what is it?

Wycliff: [tentatively] Well... I'm... er... learning the piano...

RSM: [with contempt] 'Learning the piano'?

Wycliff: Yes, sarge...

RSM: And I suppose you want to go and practise eh? Marching up and
down the square not good enough for you, eh?

Wycliff: Well...

RSM: Right! Off you go! [Turns to the rest.] Now what about the
rest of you? Rather be at the pictures I suppose.

Squad: Ooh, yes, ooh rather.

RSM: All right off you go. [They go.] Bloody army! I don't know
what it's coming to... Right, Sgt Major, marching up and down
the square... Left-right-left... left... left...
left-right-left...

[The RSM marches himself off into the distance of the
barracks square.]

Democracy and humanitarianism have always been tarde marks of the
British Army and have stamped its triumph throughout history, in
the furthest-flung corners of the Empire. But no matter where or
when there was fighting to be done, it has always been the calm
leadership of the officer class that has made the British Army what
it is.

The First Zulu War.

Natal 1879 (not Glasgow)

[Inside a tent.]

Pakenham-Walsh: Morning Ainsworth.

Ainsworth: Morning Pakenham-Walsh.

Pakenham-Walsh: Sleep well?

Ainsworth: Not bad. Bitten to shreds though. Must be a hole in the
bloody mosquito net.

Pakenham-Walsh: Yes, savage little blighters aren't they?

First Lieut Chadwick: [arriving] Excuse me, sir.

Ainsworth: Yes Chadwick?

Chadwick: I'm afraid Perkins got rather badly bitten during the
night.

Ainsworth: Well so did we. Huh.

Chadwick: Yes, but I do think the doctor ought to see him.

Ainsworth: Well go and fetch him, then.

Chadwick: Right you are, sir.

Ainsworth: Suppose I'd better go along. Coming, Pakenham?

Pakenham-Walsh: Yes I suppose so.

[Chadwick leaves. Ainsworth and Pakenham-Walsh thread
their leisurely way through the line of assegais.
Pakenham-Walsh's valet is speared by a Zulu warrior but
Pakenham-Walsh valiantly saves his jacket from the mud.
They enter Perkins's tent. Perkins is on his camp bed.]

Ainsworth: Ah! Morning Perkins.

Perkins: Morning sir.

Ainsworth: What's all the trouble then?

Perkins: Bitten sir. During the night.

Ainsworth: Hm. Whole leg gone eh?

Perkins: Yes.

[As they talk, the din of battle continues outside.
Screams of dying men, crackling of tents set on fire.]

Ainsworth: How's it feel?

Perkins: Stings a bit.

Ainsworth: Mmm. Well it would, wouldn't it. That's quite a bite
you've got there you know.

Perkins: Yes, real beauty isn't it?

All: Yes.

Ainsworth: Any idea how it happened?

Perkins: None at all. Complete mystery to me. Woke up just now...
one sock too many.

Pakenham-Walsh: You must have a hell of a hole in your net.

Ainsworth: Hm. We've sent for the doctor.

Perkins: Ooh, hardly worth it, is it?

Ainsworth: Oh yes... better safe than sorry.

Pakenham-Walsh: Yes, good Lord, look at this.

[He indicates a gigantic hole in the mosquito net.]

Ainsworth: By jove, that's enormous.

Pakenham-Walsh: You don't think it'll come back, do you?

Ainsworth: For more, you mean?

Pakenham-Walsh: Yes.

Ainsworth: You're right. We'd better get this stitched.

Pakenham-Walsh: Right.

Ainsworth: Hallo Doc.

Livingstone: [entering the tent with Chadwick] Morning. I came as
fast as I could. Is something up?

Ainsworth: Yes, during the night old Perkins had his leg bitten
sort of... off.

Livingstone: Ah hah!? Been in the wars have we?

Perkins: Yes.

Livingstone: Any headache, bowels all right? Well, let's have a
look at this one leg of yours then. [Looks around under sheet]
Yes... yes... yes... yes... yes... yes... well, this is
nothing to worry about.

Perkins: Oh good.

Livingstone: There's a lot of it about, probably a virus, keep
warm, plenty of rest, and if you're playing football or
anything try and favour the other leg.

Perkins: Oh right ho.

Livingstone: Be as right as rain in a couple of days.

Perkins: Thanks for the reassurance, doc.

Livingstone: Not at all, that's what I'm here for. Any other
problems I can reassure you about?

Perkins: No I'm fine.

Livingstone: Jolly good. Well, must be off.

Perkins: So it'll just grow back then, will it?

Livingstone: Er... I think I'd better come clean with you about
this... it's... um it's not a virus, I'm afraid. You see, a
virus is what we doctors call very very small. So small it
could not possibly have made off with a whole leg. What we're
looking for here is I think, and this is no more than an
educated guess, I'd like to make that clear, is some
multi-cellular life form with stripes, huge razor-sharp teeth,
about eleven foot long and of the genu *felis horribilis*.
What we doctors, in fact, call a tiger.

All in tent: A tiger...!!

[Outside, everyone engaged in battle, including the
Zulus, breaks off and shouts in horror:]

All: A tiger!

[The Zulus run off.]

Pakenham-Walsh: A tiger - in Africa?

Ainsworth: Hm...

Pakenham-Walsh: A tiger in Africa...?

Ainsworth: Ah... well it's probably escaped from a zoo.

Pakenham-Walsh: Well it doesn't sound very likely.

Ainsworth: [quietly] Stumm, stumm...

[A severely-wounded Sergeant staggers into the tent.]

Sergeant: Sir, sir, the attack's over, sir! the Zulus are
retreating.

Ainsworth: [dismissively] Oh jolly good. [He turns his back to the
group around Perkins.]

Sergeant: Quite a lot of casualties though, sir. C Division wiped
out. Signals gone. Thirty men killed in F Section. I should
think about a hundred - a hundred and fifty men altogether.

Ainsworth: [not very interested] Yes, yes I see, yes... Jolly good.

Sergeant: I haven't got the final figures, sir. There's a lot of
seriously wounded in the compound...

Ainsworth: [interrupting] Yes... well, the thing is, Sergeant, I've
got a bit of a problem here. [With gravity.] One of the
officers has lost a leg.

Sergeant: [stunned by the news] Oh *no*, sir!

Ainsworth: [gravely] I'm afraid so. Probably a tiger.

Sergeant: In Africa?

Ainsworth and Pakenham-Walsh: Stumm, stumm...

Ainsworth: The M.O. says we can stitch it back on if we find it
immediately.

Sergeant: Right sir! I'll organise a party right away, sir!

Ainsworth: Well it's hardly time for that, is it Sergeant...?

Sergeant: A search party...

Ainsworth: Ah! *Much* better idea. I'll tell you what, organise one
straight away.

Sergeant: Yes sir!

[Outside dead British bodies (of the other ranks) are
everywhere.]

Sergeant: [apologetically] Sorry about the mess, sir. We'll try and
get it cleared up, by the time you get back.

[They walk through the carnage. Orderlies are cheerfully
attending to the equally cheery wounded and the only
slightly less cheery dead.]

A dying man: [covered in blood] We showed 'em, didn't we, sir?

Ainsworth: Yes.

[He gives a thumbs up and dies.]

Sergeant: [addressing a soldier who is giving water to a dying man]
We've got to get a search party, leave that alone.

Another cheery cockney: [with an assegai sticking out of his chest]
This is fun, sir, init... all this killing... bloodshed...
bloody good fun sir, init?

Ainsworth: [abstracted] Yes... very good.

[He waves and moves on.]

A severed head: Morning, sir!

Ainsworth: Nasty wound you've got there, Potter.

Severed head: [cheerily] Thank you very much sir!

Ainsworth: Come on private - we're making up a search party.

Another terrible casualty: Better than staying at home, eh sir! At
home if you kill someone they arrest you. Here they give you
a gun, and show you what to do, sir. I mean, I killed fifteen
of those buggers sir! Now at home they'd hang me. *Here* they
give me a fucking medal sir!

[The search party for Perkins's leg is passing through
thick jungle. As they emerge into a clearing they suddenly see
a tiger's head sticking out of some bushes.]

Ainsworth: Look!

[Their eyes follow along the bushes to where the tiger's
tail is sticking out several yards away. For a moment it looks
like a very long tiger.]

My God, it's *huge*!

[The tiger's head rises up out of the thicket with its
paws up. The tiger's rear end backs out of the thicket
further down.]

Rear end: Don't shoot... don't shoot. We're not a tiger. [Takes off
head.] We were just... um...

Ainsworth: Why are you dressed as a tiger?

Rear end: Hmmm... oh... why! Why why... isn't it a lovely day
today...?

Ainsworth: Answer the question.

Rear end: Oh we were just er...

Front end: Actually! We're dressed like this because... oh no
that's not it.

Rear end: We did it for a lark. Part of a spree. High spirits you
know. Simple as that.

Front end: Nothing more to it...

[All stare.]

Well *actually*... we're on a mission for British
Intellingence, there's a pro-Tsarist Ashanti Chief...

Rear end: No, no.

Front end: No, no, no.

Rear end: No, no we're doing it for an advertisement...

Front end: Ah that's it, forget about the Russians. We're doing an
advert for Tiger Brand Coffee.

Rear end: 'Tiger Brand Coffee is a real treat
Even tigers prefer a cup of it to real meat'.

[Pause.]

Ainsworth: Now look...

Rear end: All right, all right. we are dressed as a tiger because
he had an auntie who did it in 1839 and this is the fiftieth
anniversary.

Front end: No. We're doing it for a bet.

Rear end: God told us to do it.

Front end: To tell the truth, we are completely mad. we are inmates
of a Bengali psychiatric institution and we escaped by making
this skin out of old cereal packets...

Perkins: It doesn't matter.

Ainsworth: What?

Perkins: It doesn't matter why they're dressed as a tiger, have
they got my leg?

Ainsworth: Good thinking. Well have you?

Rear end: Actually!

Ainsworth: Yes.

Rear end: It's because we were thinking of training as taxidermists
and we wanted to get a feel of it from the animal's point of
view.

Ainsworth: Be quiet. Now, look we're just asking you if you have
got this man's leg...

Front end: A wooden leg?

Ainsworth: No, no, a proper leg. Look he was fast asleep and
someone or something came in and removed it.

Front end: Without waking him up?

Ainsworth: Yes.

Front end: I don't believe you.

Rear end: We found the tiger skin in a bicycle shop in Cairo, and
the owner wanted to take it down to Dar Es Salaam.

Ainsworth: Shut up. Now look, have you or have you not got his leg?

Rear end: Yes.

Front end: No. No no no.

Both: No no no no no no. Nope. No.

Ainsworth: Why did you say 'yes'?

Front end: I didn't.

Ainsworth: I'm not talking to you...

Rear end: Er... er...

Ainsworth: Right! Search the thicket.

Front end: Oh come on, I mean do we look like the sort of chaps
who'd creep into a camp at... night, steal into someone's
tent, anaesthetise them, tissue-type them, amputate a leg and
run away with it?

Ainsworth: Search the thicket!

Front end: Oh *leg*! You're looking for a *leg*. Actually I think
there is one in there somewhere. Somebody must have abandoned
it here, knowing you were coming after it, and we stumbled
across it actually and wondered what it was... They'll be
miles away by now and I expect we'll have to take all the
blame.

[During the last exchange a native turns and leers at the
camera, while the dialogue continues behind him. Then he
unzips his body to reveal a fully dressed white announcer
in dinner jacket and bow tie underneath.]

Zulu announcer: Hallo, good evening and welcome to the Middle of
the Film.

Lady TV presenter: Hallo and welcome to the Middle of the Film. The
moment where we take a break and invite you, the audience, to
join us, the film-makers, in 'Find the Fish'. We're going to
show you a scene from another film and ask you to guess where
the fish is. But if you think you know, don't keep it to
yourselves - YELL OUT - so that all the cinema can hear you.
So here we are with 'Find the Fish'.

PART VI B

THE MEANING OF LIFE

[Some time later.]

[The Cleaning Woman is still on her knees, cleaning up the remains
of Mr Creosote. The Maitre D lights up a cigarette in pensive
mood.]

Maitre D: You know, Maria, I sometimes wonder whether we'll ever
discover the meaning of it all working in a place like this.

Maria: [shrugs] Oh, I've worked in worse places... philosophically
speaking.

Maitre D: Really, Maria?

Maria: Yes... I used to work in the Academie Francaise
But it didn't do me any good at all...
And I once worked in the library in the Prado in Madrid,
But it didn't teach me nothing, I recall...
And the Library of Congress, you'd have thought would hold
some key...
But it didn't. And neither did the Bodleian Library.
In the British Museum I hoped to find some clue,
I worked there from 9 till 6 - read every volume through,
But it didn't teach me nothing about Life's mystery...
I just kept getting older, and it got more difficult to see.
Until eventually me eyes went and me arthritis got bad,
And so now I'm cleaning up in here - but I can't really be
sad,
Cause you see I feel that Life's a game
You sometimes win or lose,
And though I may be down right now
At least I don't work for Jews...

[The Maitre D pours the bucket over her head and turns to
the camera looking most upset.]

Maitre D: I'm so sorry... I had no idea we had a racist working
here... I apologise... most sincerely... I mean... where are
you going - I can explain... oh, quel dommage...

[The camera pans off the Maitre D and alights on Gaston,
smoking a cigarette.]

Gaston: As for me... if you want to know what I think... I'll show
you something... come with me...

Maitre D: [out of shot] I was saying that - hallo... hallo...

Gaston: Come on... this way.

[He nods to the camera and walks out of the restaurant
and the camera follows him.]

Voice of Maitre D: I can explain everything.

Gaston: Come on - don't be shy. Mind the stairs... All right. I
think this will help explain.

[He walks through the town.]

Gaston: Come along... Come along... Over here... Come on... Come
on... This way... Come on... Stay by me, uh? Nearly there now.

[Eventually Gaston comes over a hill and nods down to a
little thatched cottage nestling idyllically in a valley.
Smoke rises up from the chimney.]

You see that? That's where I was born. You know, one day, when
I was a little boy, my mother she took me on her knee and she
said: 'Gaston, my son. The world is a beautiful place. You
must go into it, and love everyone, not hate people. You must
try and make everyone happy, and bring peace and contentment
everywhere you go.' And so... I became a waiter...

[There is a rather long pause, while he looks a bit
self-deprecating and nods shyly at the live.]

Well... it's... it's not much of a philosophy, I know...
but... well... fuck you... I can live my own life in my own
way if I want to. Fuck off! Don't come following me!

THE MIRACLE OF BIRTH

PART 2

THE THIRD WORLD

Yorkshire

[A northern street. Dad is marching home. We see his house. A stork
flies above it, and drops a baby down the chimney.]

Dad: Oh bloody hell.

[Inside the house. A pregnant woman is at the sink. With
a cry a new-born baby, complete with umbilical cord,
drops from between her legs onto the floor.]

Mother: Get that would you, Deirdre...

Girl: All right, Mum.

[The girl takes the baby. Mum carries on.]

[Dad comes up to the door and pushes it open sadly.
Inside there are at least forty children, of various
ages, packed into the living room.]

Mum: [with tray] Whose teatime is it?

Scores of Voices: Me, mum...

Mum: Vincent, Tessa, Valerie, Janine, Martha, Andrew, Thomas,
Walter, Pat, Linda, Michael, Evadne, Alice, Dominique, and
Sasha... it's your bedtime!

Children: [all together] Oh, Mum!

Mum: Don't argue... Laura, Alfred, Nigel, Annie, Simon, Amanda...

Dad: Wait...

[They all listen.]

I've got something to tell the whole family.

[All stop... A buzz of excitement.]

Mum: [to her nearest son] Quick... go and get the others in,
Gordon!

[Gordon goes out. Another twenty or so children enter
the room. They squash in at the back as best they can.]

Dad: The mill's closed. There's no more work, we're destitute.

[Lots of cries of 'Oh no!'... 'Cripes'... 'Heck'... from
around the room.]

I've got no option but to sell you all for scientific
experiments. [The children protest with heart-rending pleas.]
No no, that's the way it is my loves... Blame the Catholic
church for not letting me wear one of those little rubber
things... Oh they've done some wonderful things in their time,
they preserved the might and majesty, even the mystery of the
Church of Rome, the sanctity of the sacrament and the
indivisible oneness of the Trinity, but if they'd let me wear
one of the little rubber things on the end of my cock we
wouldn't be in the mess we are now.

Little Boy: Couldn't Mummy have worn some sort of pessary?

Dad: Not if we're going to remain members of the fastest growing
religion in the world, my boy... You see, we believe... well,
let me put it like this...
[sings]

There are Jews in the world,
There are Buddhists,
There are Hindus and Mormons and then,
There are those that follow Mohammed,
But I've never been one of them...

I'm a Roman Catholic,
And have been since before I was born,
And the one thing they say about Catholics,
Is they'll take you as soon as you're warm...

You don't have to be a six-footer,
You don't have to have a great brain,
You don't have to have any clothes on -
You're a Catholic the minute Dad came...

Because...

Every sperm is sacred,
Every sperm is great,
If a sperm is wasted,
God gets quite irate.

Children: Every sperm is sacred,
Every sperm is great,
If a sperm is wasted,
God gets quite irate.

Child: [solo] Let the heathen spill theirs,
On the dusty ground,
God shall make them pay for,
Each sperm that can't be found.

Children: Every sperm is wanted,
Every sperm is good,
Every sperm is needed,
In your neighbourhood.

Mum: [solo] Hindu, Taoist, Mormon,
Spill theirs just anywhere,
But God loves those who treat their
Semen with more care.

Men neighbours: [peering out of toilets]
Every sperm is sacred,
Every sperm is great,

Women neighbours: [on wall]
If a sperm is wasted,

Children: God get quite irate.

Priest: [in church] Every sperm is sacred,

Bride and Groom: Every sperm is good.

Nannies: Every sperm is needed.

Cardinals: [in prams] In your neighbourhood!

Children: Every sperm is useful,
Every sperm is fine,

Funeral Cortege: God needs everybody's,

First Mourner: Mine!

Lady Mourner: And mine!

Corpse: And mine!

Nun: [solo] Though the pagans spill theirs,
O'er mountain, hill and plain,

Various artefacts in a Roman Catholic Souvenir Shop:
God shall strike them down for
Each sperm that's spilt in vain.

Everybody: Every sperm is sacred,
Every sperm is good,
Every sperm is needed,
In your neighbourhood.

Even more than everybody, including two fire-eaters, a juggler, a
clown at a piano and a stilt-walker riding a bicycle:
Every sperm is sacred,
Every sperm is great,
If a sperm is wasted,
God gets quite irate.

[Everybody cheers (including the fire-eaters, the
juggler, the clown at the piano and the stilt-walker
riding the bicycle). Fireworks go off, a Chinese dragon
is brought on and flags of all nations are unfurled
overhead.]

[Back inside.]

Dad: So you see my problem, little ones... I can't keep you here
any longer.

Shout from the back: Speak up!

Dad: [raising his voice] I can't keep you here any longer... God
has blessed us so much that I can't afford to feed you
anymore.

Boy: Couldn't you have your balls cut off...?

Dad: It's not as simple as that Nigel... God knows all... He would
see through such a cheap trick. What we do to ourselves, we do
to Him...

Voice: You could have them pulled off in an accident?

[Other voices suggest ways his balls can be removed.]

Dad: No... no... children... I know you're trying to help but
believe me, my mind's made up. I've given this long and
careful thought. And it's medical experiments for the lot of
you...

[The children emerge singing a melancholy reprise of
'Every Sperm is Sacred.']

[They are being watched from another Northern house.]

Mr Blackitt: Look at them, bloody Catholics. Filling the bloody
world up with bloody people they can't afford to bloody feed.

Mrs Blackitt: What are we dear?

Mr Blackitt: Protestant, and fiercely proud of it...

Mrs Blackitt: Why do they have so many children...?

Mr Blackitt: Because every time they have sexual intercourse they
have to have a baby.

Mrs Blackitt: But it's the same with us, Harry.

Mr Blackitt: What d'you mean...?

Mrs Blackitt: Well I mean we've got two children and we've had
sexual intercourse twice.

Mr Blackitt: That's not the point... We *could* have it any time we
wanted.

Mrs Blackitt: Really?

Mr Blackitt: Oh yes. And, what's more, because we don't believe in
all that Papist claptrap we can take precautions.

Mrs Blackitt: What, you mean lock the door...?

Mr Blackitt: No no, I mean, because we are members of the
Protestant Reformed Church which successfully challenged the
autocratic power of the Papacy in the mid-sixteenth century,
we can wear little rubber devices to prevent issue.

Mrs Blackitt: What do you mean?

Mr Blackitt: I could, if I wanted, have sexual intercourse with
you...

Mrs Blackitt: Oh, yes... Harry...

Mr Blackitt: And by wearing a rubber sheath over my old feller I
could ensure that when I came off... you would not be
impregnated.

Mrs Blackitt: Ooh!

Mr Blackitt: That's what being a Protestant's all about. That's
why it's the church for me. That's why it's the church for
anyone who respects the individual and the individual's right
to decide for him or herself. When Martin Luther nailed his
protest up to the church door in 1517, he may not have
realised the full significance of what he was doing. But four
hundred years later, thanks to him, my dear, I can wear
whatever I want on my John Thomas. And Protestantism doesn't
stop at the simple condom. Oh no! I can wear French Ticklers
if I want.

Mrs Blackitt: You what?

Mr Blackitt: French Ticklers... Black Mambos... Crocodile Ribs...
Sheaths that are designed not only to protect but also to
enhance the stimulation of sexual congress...

Mrs Blackitt: Have you got one?

Mr Blackitt: Have I got one? Well no... But I can go down the road
any time I want and walk into Harry's and hold my head up
high, and say in a loud steady voice: 'Harry I want you to
sell me a *condom*. In fact today I think I'll have a French
Tickler, for I am a Protestant...'

Mrs Blackitt: Well why don't you?

Mr Blackitt: But they... [He points at the stream of children still
pouring past the house.]... they cannot. Because their church
never made the great leap out of the Middle Ages, and the
domination of alien episcopal supremacy!

PART IV

MIDDLE AGE

[A hotel lobby. The lift doors open.]

[Mrs Hendy is bending down in front of Mr Hendy, doing something of
an intimate nature to his camera lens.]

Mr Hendy: Oh that's much better. Thank you honey.

Mrs Hendy: You're welcome.

Mr Hendy: It was sort of misty before. That's fine.

[A strange girl in a crinoline steps forward. This is
M'Lady Joeline. played by Mr Gilliam.]

Joeline: Hi! How are you?

Mr Hendy: We're just fine.

Joeline: So what kind of food you like to eat this evening?

Mr Hendy: Well we sort of like pineapples...

Mrs Hendy: Yeah anything with pineapples in is great for us...

Joeline: Well, how about the Dungeon Room?

Mr Hendy: Oh that sounds fine...

Joeline: Sure is. It's real Hawaiian food served in an authentic
medieval English dungeon atmosphere...

[Suddenly a red hot brand sears the flesh of some poor wretch. This
is the restaurant. Dark, full of torture instruments, stocks,
Chamber of Horrors stuff.]

[They sit down. A waitress dressed in a grotesque travesty of a
Beefeater's outfit, comes up.]

Waitress: Hello, I'm Diana, I'm your waitress for tonight... Where
are you from?

Mr and Mrs Hendy: We're from Room 259.

Mr Hendy: Where are you from?

Waitress: [pointing to kitchen] Oh I'm from the doors over there...

Mr Hendy: Oh.

Mrs Hendy: Great...

Waitress: [reaching across to the central serving table] Iced
Water...

Mrs Hendy: Oh thank you...

Waitress: Coffee...

Mr Hendy: Than you *very* much...

Waitress: Ketchup...

Mr Hendy: Oh lovely... real nice

Waitress: T.V....?

Mr Hendy: Oh... that's fine...

Mrs Hendy: Yeah that's swell

[The Waitress dumps a T.V. down on the table.]

Waitress: Telephone...

Mr Hendy: Er... telephone...?

Waitress: You can phone any other table in the restaurant after
six.

Mr Hendy: Oh that's great...

Mrs Hendy: Some choice...

Mr Hendy: Yeah, right...

Waitress: O.K.... D'you want any food with your meal?

Mr Hendy: Well, what d'you have?

Waitress: Well we have things shaped like this in green or we have
things shaped like that in brown...

Mr Hendy: What d'you think darling?

Mrs Hendy: Well it *is* our anniversary, Marvin...

Mr Hendy: Yeah... what the hell... we'll have a couple of the
things shaped like that in brown, please...

Waitress: O.K. fine... thank you sir... [She writes]... 2 brown
Number 259... and will you be having intercourse tonight...?

Mr Hendy: Er... do we have to decide now...?

Mrs Hendy: Sounds a good idea honey. I mean it sounds swell. I mean
why not?

Mr Hendy: Yeah, right... could be fun...

[Waitress takes out a condom and slaps it on the table.]

Waitress: Compliments of the Super Inn - Have a nice fuck!

Mr Hendy: Oh, thank you.

Waitress: You're welcome...

[She leaves.]

Mr Hendy: [reads:] 'Super Inn Skins' - that's nice.

[Suddenly a Hawaiian band comes through the door and
surrounds Mr and Mrs Hendy at their table, before leaving
them to their own devices, which are not many. There is
a long silence.]

Waiter: Good evening... would you care for something to talk about?

[He hands them each a menu card with a list of subjects
on.]

Mr Hendy: Oh that would be wonderful.

Waiter: Our special tonight is minorities...

Mr Hendy: Oh that sounds interesting...

Mrs Hendy: What's this conversation here...?

Waiter: Oh that's football... you can talk about the Steelers-Bears
game, Saturday... or you could reminisce about really great
World Series -

Mrs Hendy: No... no, no.

Mr Hendy: What's this one here?

Waiter: That's philosophy.

Mrs Hendy: Is that a sport?

Waiter: No it's more of an attempt to construct a viable hypothesis
to explain the Meaning of Life.

[The fish in the tank suddenly prick up their fins.]

Fish: What's he say, eh?

Mr Hendy: Oh that sounds wonderful... Would you like to talk about
the Meaning of Life, darling...?

Mrs Hendy: Sure, why not?

Waiter: Philosophy for two?

Mr Hendy: Right...

Waiter: You folks want me to start you off?

Mr Hendy: Oh really we'd appreciate that...

Waiter: OK. Well er... look, have you ever wondered just why you're
here?

Mr Hendy: Well... we went to Miami last year and California the
year before that, and we've...

Waiter: No, no... I mean why *we're* here. On this planet?

Mr Hendy: [guardedly]... N... n... nope.

Waiter: Right! Have you ever *wanted* to know what it's all about?

Mr Hendy: [emphatically] No!

Waiter: Right ho! Well, see, throughout history there have been
certain men and women who have tried to find the solution to
the mysteries of existence.

Mrs Hendy: Great.

Waiter: And we call these guys 'philosophers'.

Mrs Hendy: And that's what we're talking about!

Waiter: Right!

Mrs Hendy: That's neat!

Waiter: Well you look like you're getting the idea, so why don't I
give you these conversation cards - they'll tell you a little
about philosophical method, names of famous philosophers...
there y'are. Have a nice conversation!

Mr Hendy: Thank you! Thank you very much.

[He leaves.]

Mrs Hendy: He's cute.

Mr Hendy: Yeah, real understanding.

[They sit and look at the cards, then rather formally and
uncertainly Mrs Hendy opens the conversation.]

Mrs Hendy: Oh! I never knew that *Schopenhauer* was a
*philosopher*...

Mr Hendy: Oh yeah... He's the one that begins with an S.

Mrs Hendy: Oh...

Mr Hendy: ... Um [pause]... like Nietzsche...

Mrs Hendy: Does Nietzsche begin with an S?

Mr Hendy: There's an S in Nietzsche...

Mrs Hendy: Oh wow! Yes there is. Do all philosophers have an S in
them?

Mr Hendy: Yeah I think most of them do.

Mrs Hendy: Oh!... Does that mean Selina Jones is a philosopher?

Mr Hendy: Yeah... Right, she could be... she sings about the
Meaning of Life.

Mrs Hendy: Yeah, that's right, but I don't think she writes her own
material.

Mr Hendy: No. Maybe Schopenhauer writes her material?

Mrs Hendy: No... Burt Bacharach writes is.

Mr Hendy: There's no 'S' in Burt Bacharach...

Mrs Hendy: ... Or in Hal David...

Mr Hendy: Who's Hal David?

Mrs Hendy: He writes the lyrics, Burt

PART VI

THE AUTUMN YEARS

[Elegant restaurant. A man in a dressing gown, who is not Noel
Coward sits at a piano.]

Not Noel Coward: Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Here's a little
number I tossed off recently in the Caribbean. [Sings]

Isn't it awfully nice to have a penis,
Isn't it frightfully good to have a dong?
It's swell to have a stiffy,
It's divine to own a dick,
From the tiniest little tadger,
To the world's biggest prick.

So three cheers for your Willy or John Thomas,
Hooray for your one-eyed trouser snake,
Your piece of pork, your wife's best friend,
Your Percy or your cock,
You can wrap it up in ribbons,
You can slip it in your sock,
But don't take it out in public,
Or they will stick you in the dock,
And you won't come back.

[Spontaneous applause breaks out all over the restaurant.]

Oh... thank you very much.

Woman: Oh what a frightfully witty song.

[Clapping.]

[Mr Creosote enters.]

First Fish: [in tank] Oh shit! It's Mr creosote.

[All the fish disappear with six flicks of the tail.]

Maitre D: Ah good afternoon, sir, and how are we today?

Mr Creosote: Better...

Maitre D: Better?

Mr Creosote: Better get a bucket, I'm going to throw up.

Maitre D: Gaston! A bucket for monsieur!

[They seat him at his usual table. A gleaming silver
bucket is placed beside him and he leans over and throws
up into it.]

Maitre D: Merci Gaston.

[He claps his hands and the bucket is whisked away.]

Mr Creosote: I haven't finished!

Maitre D: Oh! Pardon! Gaston!... A thousand pardons monsieur. [Puts
the bucket back.]

[The Maitre D produces the menu as Mr Creosote continues
spewing.]

Maitre D: Now this afternoon we monsieur's favourite - the jugged
hare. The hare is *very* high, and the sauce is very rich with
truffles, anchovies, Grand Marnier, bacon and cream.

[Mr Creosote pauses. The Maitre D claps his hands and
signs to Gaston, who whisks away the bucket.]

Maitre D: Thank you, Gaston.

Mr Creosote: There's still more.

[Gaston rapidly replaces the bucket.]

Maitre D: Allow me! A new bucket for monsieur.

[The Maitre D picks the bucket up and hands it over to
Gaston. Mr Creosote leans over and throws up onto the
floor.]

And the cleaning woman.

[Gaston hurries off. The Maitre D takes care to avoid the
vomit and places the menu in front of Mr Creosote.]

And maintenant, would monsieur care for an aperitif?

[Creosote vomits over the menu. It is covered.]

Or would you prefer to order straight away? Today for
appetizers... er... excuse me...

[The Maitre D leans over and wipes away the sick with his
hand so that the words of the menu are readable.]

... moules marinieres, pate de foie gras, beluga caviar, eggs
Benedictine, tart de poireaux - that's leek tart - frogs' legs
amandine or oeufs de caille Richard Shepherd - c'est a dire,
little quails' eggs on a bed of pureed mushrooms, it's very
delicate, very subtle...

Mr Creosote: I'll have the lot.

Maitre D: A wise choice, monsieur! And now, how would you like it
served? All mixed up in a bucket?

Mr Creosote: Yes. With the eggs on top.

Maitre D: But of course, avec les oeufs frites.

Mr Creosote: And don't skimp on the pate.

Maitre D: Oh monsieur I can assure you, just because it is mixed up
with all the other things we would not dream of giving you
less than the full amount. In fact I will personally make sure
you have a *double* helping. Maintenant quelque chose a
boire - something to drink, monsieur?

Mr Creosote: Yeah, six bottles of Chateau Latour '45 and a double
Jeroboam of champagne.

Maitre D: Bon, and the usual brown ales...?

Mr Creosote: Yeah... No wait a minute... I think I can only manage
six crates today.

Maitre D: Tut tut tut! I hope monsieur was not overdoing it last
night...?

Mr Creosote: Shut up!

Maitre D: D'accord. Ah the new bucket and the cleaning woman.

[Gaston arrives. The Cleaning Woman gets down on her
hands and knees. Mr Creosote vomits over her.]

[Some guests at another table start to leave. The
Maitre D approaches.]

Maitre D: Monsieur, is there something wrong with the food?

[The Maitre D indicates the table of half-eaten main
courses. The guests shrink from his vomit-covered hand.
The Maitre D realises and shakes a little off. It hits
another guest, who wipes his eye.]

Guest: No. The food was... excellent...

Maitre D: Perhaps you are not happy with the service?

Guest: Er no... no... no complaints.

Guest's Wife: It's just we have to go - um - I'm having rather a
heavy period.

[A slight embarrassed silence while the rest of the party
look at her.]

Guest: And... we... have a train to catch.

Guest's Wife: [as if covering for her previous gaffe] Oh! Yes!
Yes... of course! We have a train to catch... and I don't want
to start bleeding over the seats.

[An awkward pause. The Maitre D gropes for words.]

Guest: Perhaps we should ne going...

[They start to go. The Maitre D follows.]

Maitre D: Very well, monsieur. Thank you so much, so nice to see
you and I hope very much we will see you again very soon. Au
revoir, monsieur.

[He pauses. A look of awful realization suffuses his
face.]

Maitre D: ... Oh dear... I've trodden in monsieur's bucket.

[The Maitre D claps his hands.]

Another bucket for monsieur...

[Mr Creosote is sick down the Maitre D's trousers.]

and perhaps a hose...

[Someone at another table gently throws up.]

Companion: Oh Max, really!

[At another table someone else has really thrown up all
over the place. His mother and brother look at him
incredulously. Meanwhile Mr Creosote has scoffed the lot.
The Maitre D approaches him with a silver tray.]

Maitre D: And finally, monsieur, a wafer-thin mint.

Mr Creosote: No.

Maitre D: Oh sir! It's only a tiny little thin one.

Mr Creosote: No. Fuck off - I'm full... [Belches]

Maitre D: Oh sir... it's only *wafer* thin.

Mr Creosote: Look - I couldn't eat another thing. I'm absolutely
stuffed. Bugger off.

Maitre D: Oh sir, just... just *one*...

Mr Creosote: Oh all right. Just one.

Maitre D: Just the one, sir... voila... bon appetit...

[Mr Creosote somehow manages to stuff the wafer-thin mint
into his mouth and then swallows. The Maitre D takes a
flying leap and cowers behind some potted plants. There
is an ominous splitting sound. Mr Creosote looks rather
helpless and then he explodes, covering waiters, diners,
and technicians in a truly horrendous mix of half
digested food, entrails and parts of his body. People
start vomiting.]

Maitre D: [returns to Mr Creosote's table] Thank you, sir, and now
the check.