Ludlow, Shropshire. Killian Redgrave, an immensely respected High Court Judge, returns home from a long hourís 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 ďDisco 2000Ē, 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] Whatís that? My spider sense is tingling. [giggles] Hmm. That feels rather nice. Hmmm. But something must be wrong. ItĎs Hilary. Heís in danger! [giggles again] A ha! Oh, ride on time! This spider sense is lovely! Iím 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, itís mine. I need it. I use it when Iím shopping.
[Struggling] But I want it. Your soul will bring me closer to God.
[not grunting] Isnít that what your own soulís for?
[not struggling] Donít be so naÔve. Just give me the sodding soul, you cow.
[door dings, door opens]
Killian! Help me! Iím being sat on.
Well, if it isnít my nemesis, Keith. Keith, big man in the Christian Union these days, I hear.
Curses! Iím hopelessly outnumbered. I shall leave. See you.
Thereís no need to be nice to him, Hilary.
Oh. Right. Booo!
Did he get near your soul, Hilary?
No. I didnít tell him where I keep it.
Where do you keep it?
(coyly) Iím not telling you.
Oh, go on. You can tell me. [emotionlessly] Iím your friend.
[soppily] Youíre my best friend. Itís six inches up my fat hairy arse.
Oh, forÖ Whatís it doing there?
Itís not my fault. It fell down there after I reversed over a hump-backed bridge.
Well donít let it drop out. The last thing I want to find is your soul in the laundry basket.
Donít worry. Itís quite stuck. I tried getting it out with one of my girlfriendís vibrators. I put blu-tack on the end.
No joy. [pause] Actually, thatís not true. Plenty of joy, but it didnít get my soul out. And I havenít seen hide nor hair of the blu-tack since. Although Iíve kept the vibrator to try and get it back out with ever more Blu-Tack.
Please donít say hair and hide together when
weíre talking about things up your arse.
As we so often do.
Hello, Keith! Would you like to borrow my car?
Stop being nice to your enemies, Hilary.
Stupid thing, really Ė 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. Iím having my Alsatian bleached and died blue so that people will talk to me.
Blimey. Heís fast. Iíll 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 Ė 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. Itís called the [clumsily pronounced] Mílud Life.
Hilary, do something dangerous. Attack me.
Iíve just had this Spider Sense put in. It tingles when Iím in danger. Just run at me, screaming, and waving this stick about. Tell me youíre going to kill me.
Iíd feel ridiculous. And it wouldnít work. Youíd know I didnít mean it.
Well, mean it then. Be feral; run around in your baggy boxer shorts, trying to stab me.
No. Iím not going to. Iím just not that type of judge, Mr Redgrave.
Hello, Jools. Howís your day been?
Magic. Bloody magic.
Where did you get the jungle vine from?
Weíll get it hung up for you. Itís 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 hasnít 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, Iíve taken several steps. Iíve had some purple knockout gas, ŗ la Batman, installed into the lift, which is the only way into the flat. Iíve installed a trap door in the lift too, like in the Childrenís TV programme Trap Door, and thereís a bank of CCTV Ö TVs Ö 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...
Yes. It counts the amount of times that the lift goes ďdingĒ. All lifts have them, so that ding pollution may be monitored.
[out-of-characteristally American] That is so not true. . youís jerking my dick.
No, Iím 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 Ė 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 dingsÖ.
More dings Ė 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 youíre lying. Because I know youíre lying, and Iíll going to mess around with you unless you tell me the truth.
You believe what makes you happy.
I certainly will. Right now, Iím believing that Iím in a nu-metal band called ďCunnimash DepotĒ.
Anway, the lift went ding while we were out. I think thereís 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 ďeasy tigerĒ 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, hereís the sound of someone choking on their own hand to the tune of Pulpís ďDisco 2000Ē.
So this is how weíre going to tell her to move out. Iíll leave a post-it note in one of her undies. She will find it, and leave without question.
Sheís 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 ďLEAVE NOWĒ 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-snortiní.
Oh. What did they smell of?
Quick! Here she comes! Hide!
Hello, Mary. You seem quite happy today..?
I am. I just got promoted, and now Iím well out of your league. Iím 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.
Yes, itís incredibly well paid. Iím just picking up my knickers. One of the conditions of my employment is that I live with these three judges, and [reading]† ďprovide a token female role in an otherwise anally homocentric comedy programmeĒ. So Iíll just pick up my knickers and leave you two to sex each otherís mouths off.
Arenít you going to take these?
Your hybrid zoo of the damned.
[suddenly lightweight, very cheerful] Mary has been experimenting for the last fifteen years with taxidermy. Sheís 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, letís hear what a load of living crows doing the conga might sound like.
Are you taking these things with you then?
No, ta. Iím not sure if the judges would approve of me digging up my neighbourís 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 kestrelíll 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 Killianís 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 Iím in really bad danger, Iím 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, wouldnít it? Because of the danger, I mean.
And Iíd have to play even more frantically with my nipples. Itís a vicious circle. Iíd end up with a queue of muggers lining up to rape me, while I giggle and tug at my tits like a nympho. And thatís not what Iím really after.
Youíd better get it taken out, then. Where did he put it?
Up my arse.
I thought he might have done.
AnywayÖto the matter in hand. Thereís an intruder in the flat, and weíve no idea who it is. Have you noticed anything odd recently?
Well, thereís something wrong with my tape recorder. Listen to this.
Someoneís been tinkering with my Betty Boo.
[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 naÔve 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, youíre not wearing clothes, I see. Very wise. You canít wet yourself when youíre not wearing clothes, and I can tell youíre a little kinky, arenít you? A littleÖ 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, whoís this? A curious earwig, drawn into your boudoir. By jove, heís not messing around, is he? Straight up there like aÖ hang on, thatís a lady earwig! Youíre lesbians! Calm down, Jools. Itís not their fault. Donít let your morality get in the way of a cracking nut fumble.
Well done, ladies. Good show.
[Beginning of a storm Ė 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 ďmeowĒ occasionally and quietly† begins.]
Meanwhile, a storm is brewing over the rotary washing line. As the clouds draw together like Ö two artists Ö , 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. OhÖ my God! Youíre both dead! Youíre both covered in blood, and completely dead! And Ė wowsers Ė the garden is full of dead kestrels. And whatís this? Oh, dear Ė itís a hairball. This can only meanÖ this can only mean that that cat was somehow resurrected, perhaps Ö using the washing line a conduit for Ö the lightning. And judging by the state of the curtains, itís using its tail as a helicopter blade.
Will you stop playing that sturgeon?
Hang on a minute. Iím doing the doo.
I can see that. Itís revolting. Turn that turbot off.
Not if you donít stop referring to Betty Boo in terms of fish. Itís sexist and it doesnít make sense.
Iíll tell you what doesnít 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, someoneís been eating my Ryvita. Wasnít it you? I thought Iíd been sleep-eating, or something.
No, I donít eat Ryvita. Or anything else that promotes disgust.
I had thought about leaving myself a Post-It note. But I didnít know if I could sleep-read, because Iím not sure whether you have your eyes open or not when youíre sleep-walking. Youíd think not, but what if youíd left a roller-skate at the top of the stairs?
Ö Hilary Ö
So I thought I might eat the Post-It note in error, and the gum would stick in my throat. Oh Ė 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, didnít it? I couldnít 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 ďooooooooh!Ē 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 shouldnít have gone to the park to take it off.
With hindsight, no.
And it didnít help that Iíd ejaculated all over the place.
So, our second clue to the mystery visitor is your missing Ryvita. Add that to double-speed Betty Boo, and itís beginning to take shape. Iíve noticed something myself. I found this under my pillow.
It looks like a tiny tooth.
Iíve sent it off to the lab, and theyíve discovered that itís a tiny tooth.
Of course it is. Itís a little Chipmunkís 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, youíll see that the tooth is oddly smooth, and doesnít get darker on the side that should be in shadow. And look Ė 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 ďflubberĒ]
Do you meanÖ
Yes. Itís a cartoon chipmunkís tooth. That explains your music being sped up Ėhuman singing must seem intolerably dreary and underpaced to cartoon chipmunks.
And how does that explain my Ryvita?
Chipmunks love Ryvita Ė itís a well-documented fact. However, this little chipmunk hasnít been looking after his teeth, and the grit-like texture of your Ryvita must have broken them. [shouts] Come out, Alvin. We know itís you.
Sorry, Mr Redgrave. I should have known better than to mess with you. Youíre far too clever for me.
Stop grovelling, you filthy little shit.
Itís 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 donít 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 itís only ever an excuse to have loads of flashbacks. Just one songÖ
Very well. Just as long as thereís a judicial theme.
How about ďLove in the Third DegreeĒ by Bananarama?
Well, that is an excellent song, but love isnít a crime, is it, Killian?
You canít force your wife to have sex with a dog.
Well thatís 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 arenít allowed to hammer nails through a manís 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!
Thereís 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 Iíd mention tits so that you two donít forget that they exist, and give milk to our children.
Iím not gay, I donít think. Well, Iíve got a girlfriend, anyway. But she is a bit ugly. Perhaps Iím using her as a man replacement.
Donít be so bloody open-minded! Youíre a judge!
[aside, to Hilary] Is he repressing?
Right Ė I heard that. Iím off to the shops to buy an Alsatian and a big poster of Cheryl Crow with her BIG TITS out. And then Iím 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 donít 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! Whatís going on here? Everythingís on fire!
Well, itís like this. Iíve been promoted Ö
Ö as a helicopter blade.
Thatís 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.
Thatíd be charming. But donít you think we should stop the voodoo cat, first?
Canít we stop the voodoo cat by shagging?
Well, just as long as you havenít gone off the boil by the time weíve 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 Ė the catís headed straight for that shiny tower blockÖ the eighteenth floor...
Thatís my house Ė 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. Theyíre both dead.† They got too involved in the celebrity scene, and Brian Blessed ate them.
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 ] Donít start that ďrhyming things with VoodooĒ 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 donít know. What mysterious powers could have...† oh Ė there he is. Hiding around the corner.
Pretend you havenít seen him Ė he probably wanted to make a dramatic exit.
[from around the corner] Donít 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!
Hilary Ė distract the cat by dancing over there. Mary Ė get into the bedroom and ready yourself for Daddy Sex. Iíll leap over the sofaÖ like thisÖ [flamethrower sound] and avoid that jet of flameÖ
For ease of listening, each character will now simply say what they are doing.
Iím ddging stealthily around the wall.
Iím turning on the stereo Ė thinking being that music might soothe the beast.
Iím beginning to dance hypnotically.
[in the comparative quiet of Killianís bedroom] Away from the action, Iím reclining on Killianís double bed and unbuttoning my blouse.
[back in the noise and music] Rolling underneath the cat.
Cupping left breast with right hand.
Iím grabbing catÖ wrestling to floorÖ trying to put nose onto creatureÖ
Iíve just been hit by a stray jet of flameÖ running around in circles, screaming. Becoming badly burnt.
Bringing images of David Hasselhoff to mind.
Pressing nose onto catÖ
Well, thatís that, then. We did it! And now, sex with the new girl.
No, I donít want to any more. Iíve just gone off the idea. No reason.
Itís OK, though Ė Iím moving in to this flat, so I daresay youíll 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, Iíve got a smart blueprint here, with dotted lines showing your projected path into my bed. Thereís no chance itíll backfire.
[to cat purring] Can we keep the cat? Heís quite nice now.
Hmm. As long as itís not an excuse for pussy jokes.
A ha, ha ha! Heaven forefend, no!
Well, Iíll just feed it some of this congealed beef fat.
I beg your pardon?
Iím just giving Ö the cat Ö this plate of congealed beef fat. For its dinner.
What is it Ö on the plate?
My pussyís dripping.
Bloody hell, Iím still on fire! Ow!
And thatís 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.