GTI Awards 2006 - The Big Night - Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Scene: The Yalding Social Club.

To enter the club there are a set of heavy double doors with the “Push Bar to Open” mechanism. The doors are so heavy that it’s almost impossible for anyone without the strength of Samson to open them. With the doors being so hard to open and the push bar so difficult to move, once someone has managed to open the door six inches or so they try to wriggle in through the gap rather than try to open them further. This doesn’t help the person following on as more often than not they try to wriggle through the gap left open by the person in front only to find the powerful doors snapping shut as soon as the person in front is inside. The Yalding Social Club doors have been responsible over the years for many a sprained wrist, broken finger, crushed legs and injured feet and tonight is no exception.

Mrs. Flagg the security officer is standing to one side of the entrance. She’s checking each individual as they approach the doors for any signs of trouble; she doesn’t know what but she’ll know it when she sees it, she says optimistically. People are queuing to get in while the queue gets ever longer as everyone has to wait for the people at the front to be given emergency first aid and pain killers.

Entering the club, the wooden dance floor is in the middle of the room surrounded on all sides by tables and chairs, low coffee tables and high stools and various three-legged chairs reserved for any late-comers.  To the right of the dance floor beyond the tables stands the snooker table. To the back of the dance floor and running the whole length of the room is the bar and kitchen area. To the left of the dance floor is the stage, festooned with balloons and a very, very low lighting gantry positioned across the width of the stage. The stage is five foot off the ground and there are no obvious access points except for a couple of chairs propped up against the side.  

The club is full to capacity. The floor area is one vast sea of tables and chairs…mostly wonky. The people unfortunate enough to have been allocated three-legged chairs are sitting on them in a semi-standing position so as to keep their balance and not fall over. Towards the back of the room on a slightly raised area and overlooking the tables and chairs are people sitting on tall bar stools. Every so often someone over-reaches for their drink on the low coffee table in front of them and topples over onto the floor with a crash and a clatter. The five GIT nominees are all seated around the same wonky table at the foot of the stage pretending to like each other. All five of the nominees are nursing injuries from entering the club. The Count and Pants have finger injuries and are sitting with hastily bandaged fingers bleeding onto the table. Joe has a foot injury caused by his reckless attempt to allow a young lady to enter the club before him by sticking his foot in the door and Crawfie and Marty are comparing wrist sprains. The evening meal over and with most diners on their way back from the toilets with their now empty sick bag, it’s time for the main event of the evening.

The noise in the room is deafening.

People are shouting their bar orders across the bar while the general audience hubbub rises noisily as more and more people return from the toilets and re-take their seats. Suddenly, from the solitary speaker of Mr. Biggins’ old four track reel to reel tape recorder, a trumpet fanfare meanders into the air. The tape speed is unpredictable and manages to vary itself, continually speeding up and slowing down until the tape snaps abruptly just before the final trumpet flourish. The room is silent apart from the sound of broken tape flapping about on the spools. Mr. Biggins reaches over to dim the house lights but switches them all off by mistake. The room is plunged into total darkness causing old Mr. Roundtree, who is on his way back from the bar with a tray of five pints of Guinness, to abruptly stop in his tracks unable to see where his next step will take him. He decides to stand still until the lights are back on. Meanwhile the noise level in the club has risen again as people are knocking over their drinks and bumping into each other in the dark. Mr. Biggins is panicking as he now can’t find the light switch in the dark and is frantically searching the bar for some matches. Old Mr. Roundtree’s arms are starting to shake and his hands are trembling with the weight of the tray he’s holding but he can’t put it down as he has no idea where he is.

Suddenly the lights go on and taken by surprise, old Mr. Roundtree drops his tray and five pints of Guinness land on the table just in front of him causing mayhem amongst the guests seated there. Meanwhile Mr. Biggins has found the dimmer switch and promptly flicks another switch entirely causing the lights to go off completely again. The room is in uproar once more. The people trying to avoid the river of Guinness flowing over their table are jumping and bumping into other tables as they panic in the dark. Other tables are knocked over and more guests start to jump up and the panic in the room is even greater. It’s a chain reaction and like toppling dominoes, tables are upturned and guests crash about trying to escape from the chaos.

The lights come back on momentarily, showing a scene of utter devastation, before abruptly going off again.

Mr. Biggins attempts to play the fanfare again but forgets the tape is broken. He does however find the light switch once more and switches the lights back on. Mrs. Flagg appears and while Mr. Biggins is struggling to control the broken recording tape which is now snaking out of the spools and out of control over the bar counter, she slowly reaches up for the dimmer switch and dims the lights.

A very narrow beam of light, growing fainter by the second, hits the stage. Young Mr. Jones, the spotlight operator has forgotten to put new batteries into his recently purchased “See for Miles” torch and is now paying the price of his forgetfulness by having to cope with a very weak and very small spotlight indeed. The torch beam is supposed to be shining on Mr. Ross to the left of the stage but Mr. Ross is nowhere to be seen. Young Mr. Jones wafts his torch beam around the stage area until he hits upon a shadowy figure to the right of the stage. In the dim and flickering torch light there is Mr. Ross with his crash helmet on, trying to clamber up onto the stage. He has his left leg standing on a wonky chair and his right leg draped across the edge of the stage. “Wuddy hell”, he cries, “can’t somebody help me here?”

Mr. Biggins rushes forward and lifts Mr. Ross’s leg from the wonky chair and up onto the stage causing Mr. Ross to roll onto the stage and continue to roll right across the floor and under the back-cloth where he remains until somebody runs around the back of the stage and gives him a gentle kick to propel him over to the middle of the stage where he slowly rolls backwards and forwards until he finally shudders to a halt.

Meanwhile young Mr. Jones has turned off his torch to reserve battery power plunging the stage into darkness. Noises, bumps and crashes are heard as Mr. Ross makes his way across stage left where he waits for the spot to hit him. The torch beam comes on again and there at last is Mr. Ross crouching low in his distinctive red crash helmet, visor clamped shut, trying to avoid the bunches of balloons hanging from the overhead lighting rig which is only a few inches above his head. 

Mr. Ross is staring at the autocue and begins speaking in a muffled voice from within the confines of his helmet. “Speak up, we can’t hear you,” somebody at the back yells. “Open your visor and use the microphone”, Mr. Biggins shouts. Mr. Ross un-jams his visor, picks up the microphone and sounding remarkably like a Dalek starts to speak again. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen and welcome to…” There’s an embarrassing silence as Mr. Ross stops mid-flow while Mr. Biggins attempts to wind on the autocue; but it grinds to a halt. Mr. Wallace jumps to his feet and starts miming furiously as Mr. Ross continues, “welcome to the annual GTI Music Awards and the crowning of King GIT 2006. Tonight we have six categories of awards in addition to King GIT so without further ado we’ll start.”

There’s a crash and a clatter from the back of the room and Jonathan pauses while the person responsible picks himself up, rights his bar stool and sits down again. Mr. Ross continues, “The first of tonight’s award categories is “The Least Successful Quiz Participant Award”, he pauses…”and the nominees are: Pants, Joe, Marty, Cwawfie, The Count and that woman Marty wecommended from his office who sent in a few pathetic answers and quickly bowed out.

And the winner is…

That woman Marty wecommended from his office who sent in a few pathetic answers and quickly bowed out. Fortunately she can’t be with us tonight so as it was all Marty’s fault it’s only wight that he has to come up and weceive the award on her behalf.”

Marty jumps out of his seat in surprise and makes his way to the stage…takes one step and immediately falls down.

The bruising to Joe’s foot has by now spread to the whole of his leg and Mrs. Flagg has hastily constructed a leg splint out of two lengths of four by two which Mr. Biggins has found in his store room. Joe, who had been distracted by the pickled egg waiter, suddenly shot his bad leg out from under the table as he lost balance reaching for the new pickled egg jar. Marty, high on painkillers and lager for his sprained wrist, failed to see Joe’s outstretched leg and as we now know, ends up on the floor.

“Foul play,” cries Crawfie.

“That was deliberate,” yells Pants.

“What an underhand ploy,” screams The Count.

“What? What?” says Joe, “What?”

Marty’s out for the count and although it’s difficult to know whether it’s the drugs, the alcohol or the shock that’s done for him, two St. Johns Ambulance men are already stretchering him away behind the bar.

Joe slowly struggles to his feet and says, “Well as I seem to be responsible for the accident preventing Marty from accepting the award I feel it’s only right that I should make amends by collecting it on his and that funny woman’s behalf – “

“It was no accident,” interrupts Crawfie, “I saw him do it deliberately.”

“So did I,” cries The Count.

“Hang on, hang on,” shouts Pants, “I’m not so sure now. Maybe it was an accident. How do we know for sure? Give Joe the benefit of the doubt lads for decencies sake.”

He’s interrupted by Crawfie’s arms around his neck dragging him off his chair and onto the floor. Rolling around in front of the stage, Crawfie’s screaming, “I’ll get you Pants, I’ll get you for this. You’re part of the conspiracy you are. I’ll get you.”

Mr. Biggins is running around in circles shouting, “Security, security,” as The Count wades in to separate them. “Come on Crawfie,” he shouts, “put that pickled egg down and let’s all calm down. After all what possible advantage can Joe gain by collecting the award for some old tart who no one knows? Let Joe do it. Give him a go. Give him a go. “

GTI Awards 2006 - The Big Night - Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

(Written by Joe) 

Joe smiles. He looks around, waves to the audience and for a split second his eyes glow red. Everyone thinks this is some sort of emotion welling up inside him but actually it’s because the vinegar from the catering size pickled egg jar had splashed everywhere during the melee and a goodly amount of it had landed on Joe’s face, dripping into his eyes. There was another reason why his eyes were watering which was to become obvious later. Seeing his way to the stage was not going to be easy. He tried to stand upright but that stupid woman had put some sort of contraption on his leg.

He really didn’t have much of a clue as to what had been going on. He remembered trying to get into the hall through a very narrow doorway when he suddenly saw a comely Yalding country lass also trying to get in. Joe thought she might like to squeeze past him tightly through this tiny gap so he stood in the doorway for a second to let her in……slowly. Just as he was wiping the dribble from his chin, which unfortunately made him look like a lecherous old-time movie villain twirling his moustache, he felt sure that a shadowy figure he had been following (one of his fellow GITs no doubt) slammed the door sharply on his foot and then moved off chuckling.

The next thing Joe remembered was waking up with an immovable leg. Some old woman shoved some horse tablets down his throat “to kill the pain” and two GITs carried him awkwardly, stretcher-like to a chair. There was much bumping of his bad foot into tables, chairs, corners of walls, the bar, the stage, the bar again and finally an unceremonious dumping into a chair. Each bump was followed by a harrowing howl from Joe and a very loud chuckle from one of his bearers. Joe noted that this laugh was uncannily similar to the one he had heard during the doorway incident.

Through the haze caused by whatever was in those massive tablets, Joe thought that he had permanently lost all movement of his leg but, looking down, he saw that there was a good reason why he couldn’t move it. That daft Mrs Flagg, with the help of a dark shadowy figure he couldn’t quite identify, had roped half of Sherwood Forest to it. The added problem was that the 4 by 2s which made up the splint had not been cut to length and were causing great distress.

The one on the outside of the leg was a good 18” longer than the limb itself extending way beyond his foot, making walking almost impossible, unless Joe could find an 18” high kerb to walk along. The timber on the inside of the leg was only about 3” longer than the leg but had been tied cleverly so that the bottom of it was level with the sole of Joe’s shoe. Mrs Flagg had been pleased at the aforethought which went into this but she had not thought, afore or after, about the distress which three inches of timber could cause when pushed into a place where only a bespoke tailor should venture. It was no wonder that Joe’s eyes were red and watering.

So, standing to make his unexpected way to the stage, half blind and wonky, he fell over immediately sending another table of drinks flying into laps.

“Sorry, sorry,” Joe said, just stopping himself from following up with “I’ll buy you all another round.”

How on earth was he going to get to the stage in this state? Through his watering, vinegar-soaked sore eyes he saw a familiar shadowy figure in the dim lit room and it placed a chair under Joe’s unsplinted leg, thus bringing both legs to almost equal lengths. “Thanks,” said Joe, not really knowing which of his great GIT mates had helped him, “I much appreciate your help.” There was a mumbled response from the helper along the lines of “My pleasure.”

Joe took a step forward. Unfortunately the chair toppled over immediately, sending Joe sprawling. Once again there was a familiar chuckle, now bordering onto a cackle. Then Joe saw that the bloody chair had only got three bloody legs. “Fancy giving me that,” he said from his horizontal position on the floor and towards the general direction of his helper, “You must have known that it would send me crashing?” There was muffled “Yes,” and a cackle from somewhere and Joe began to have a few doubts.

Then there followed a moment of pure delight as the comely Yalding country lass who Joe had fallen in lust with at the door, suddenly came to his aid. She bent down over his sprawled body, showing just that little bit more cleavage, took his hand and held the back of his neck. Joe began to dribble again, thinking all sorts of things.

“Any minute now,” he thought, “she will start to examine my poor, broken body. Her hands will run over my leg, starting at my foot and running up to the bespoke tailor’s end. She will have great pity for me and will whisk me away to a quiet room where she will tend to me and then, who knows? She will probably say something like ‘Oh Joe, you’re such a hero I want to do naughtiness with you.’

Then, joy of joys. The comely Yalding country lass did speak. She took a deep breath, spat the chewing tobacco out her mouth and said, “Bloody ‘ell, will someone pick this smelly, fat old fart off the floor for Gawd’s sake. ‘Ees fallen on me Old Shag baccy tin an’ I fancy a bleeding roll up.”

“Ah well, another broken dream” thought crestfallen Joe, but then suddenly he perked up “Ah, if it’s an old shag you want…” 

She booted him unmercilessly until he rolled over to one side and, retrieving a battered tobacco tin from the floor, she gave a last vicious kick to Joe’s bad leg and effed and blinded all the way to the exit. 

Everyone had been watching this altercation but, when the comely lass left the room, they all went back to their drinks, ignoring Joe lying on the floor. The general hubbub of a busy club took over.

Joe realised that he had to help himself if he was to get his moment of glory on stage.

This time he found a four legged chair himself, realising that his ‘friends’ were not quite as trustworthy as he at first thought. Slowly and with great difficulty, scraping along with one foot on the chair and a lump of wood sticking out 18” longer than the other leg, he made it to the stage.

In a funny sort of way, by acting as a sort of stilt, his splint made it easier to get onto the platform, which disappointed certain of the GIT fraternity as there was a joyful expectation that Joe may have further difficulties and embarrassments. Joe, with help from some geezer with a crash helmet, made it triumphantly onto the stage, with the aforethought to realise that he would need to take his chair as support up with him for his shorter unsplinted leg if he wasn’t to immediately take an embarrassing tumble down into the audience again.

As he stood up on the stage, pleased with himself, he tapped a finger to the side of his nose, looked at the audience and exclaimed “Aha!” in self acknowledgment of his clever forward planning.

At the same time, as he stood up sharply, his extra height meant that the top of his head clashed dramatically with the very, very low lighting gantry smashing several bulbs, none of which, luckily, were actually working and the “Aha!” turned into “Ahaaaaaggg”.

Joe immediately took an embarrassing tumble into the audience.

There were loud cacklings from several directions.

Joe started to shake and clenched his fists.

“That’s enough. That’s all I can stands ‘cos I can stands no more,” said Joe, for some strange reason finding himself quoting Popeye from the 1940’s era. Mentally, he had taken a tin of spinach from his pocket, squeezed it until it popped, and holding it above his head, swallowed it all in one go.  Now he was Super Popeye with pneumatic arms and anchor tattoos, confronting Bluto. Joe scrambled to a sitting up position and frantically tore at the rope around the wood which was holding his leg rigid. Sweat poured, trousers were ripped but he finally got the timbers off his leg and threw them to the ground.

Now he noticed a very peculiar thing. The longer piece of 4 by 2 seemed to move off along the floor into the audience on its own.  It almost looked as though there was some sort of cord attached to it.

Almost as if it were being pulled by a member of the audience in the darkened room…

Almost as if it were being pulled by someone at the table where all the GITs were sitting…

Almost as if some dark, cackling, shadowy figure there, had been trying to control the movement of Joe’s leg…

Almost as if that person could perhaps have made Joe’s leg jerk out just as Marty was passing on his way to the stage…

Almost as if cackling Crawfie, who Joe seemed to remember was closest, wanted to incriminate Joe claiming that he had tripped Marty on purpose…

Almost as if every other GIT knew that this was the plan to unnerve the previous worthy champion.

Joe realised he had definitely uncovered a dastardly plot and was fuming. They would not get away with it. He was going to confront them all.

Joe grasped the cord and fed it from one hand to the other as he followed its trail. This led him directly to Crawfie who was sat at the table with a drink in one hand and the end of the cord in the other.

“Aha,” said Joe, suddenly looking upwards in case the gantry was still there, “Caught you red handed Crawfie”

“Wha’ cha mean?” cackled Crawfie.

“Well, it’s quite obvious isn’t it?” said Joe, “You are responsible for this whole outrage. The evidence is all here. You slammed the door on my foot, you ‘helped’ Mrs Flagg tie a ludicrously long splint to my leg which was designed to disable me, you tied a cord to it and pulled it on purpose so that I inadvertently tripped Marty, then you handed me a dodgy chair as support and pulled it away from me, then I follow the cord and I find you still holding it in your hand and still pulling the timber towards you. There’s no way out for you. The evidence is overwhelming. You are guilty aren’t you Crawfie. Admit it, go on admit it. Be a man, tell the truth, go on, admit it, admit it,”

Crawfie looked up slowly, put down his drink and said,  “Nah, tweren’t me. Don’t know nuffink aabaht it, mate.”

“Oh that’s alright then,” said Joe, relieved that his great friend obviously hadn’t betrayed him “silly me, my mistake. Let me buy you drink.”

He looked at all the other GITS and raised his eyebrows in a silent question looking for an admission of guilt.

“Noooooo,” they all said as one, shaking their heads and sipping their beers to hide their cackles, which caused a few drops to be spilt.

The Count added “We know nothing about it either, dear boy.”

“Oh of course not, I should never have mentioned it. Please accept my apologies everyone and let me buy you all another round.” Damn, thought Joe, there I’ve said it.

“Don’t mind if you do,” said The Count and the cackling grew louder and much beer was spilt as bubbles were blown into glasses.

Joe opened his wallet, took out a fiver and threw it onto the table.

“Get the drinks in yourselves lads if you don’t mind, I’ve still got to get on with this award business.”

That’s not enough, dear boy,” said The Count, “We’ll need a bit more than that to forget your cruel accusations.”

Joe opened his wallet again and several hands reached in and grabbed all there was.

“Come on boys, that’s not fair,” said Joe “You’ve left my wallet empty. I appreciate I have made some grievous accusations erroneously and have to pay, but let me have some of it back. Come on, play the game. I’m going to put my empty wallet down on the table here and close my eyes for 10 seconds. When I open them again, I expect some of it back.”

Joe closed his eyes and counted backwards from 10. When he opened his eyes, he looked down at the table and his wallet had gone.

“Now that’s enough,” he said, “I want my wallet and contents back now, come on, let’s be having it.”

There was silence for a few seconds and then the only movement was the landing on the table from somewhere in the crowd of a very old condom sachet which had indeed previously been part of the wallet contents. Joe picked it up quickly before anyone could see that the sell by date was November 1969.

Joe realised that he had to get back on stage to accept this damn award for this damn silly woman who hardly made any effort and shouldn’t have even figured in the contest let alone win an award. Why should I put myself though any other aggro just for her, he thought. But then, there was a duty to be performed and Joe made his way to the stage. Once again the geezer with the crash helmet helped him up but this time Joe realised who it was. Why it was his employer, Mr Ross. It was he, you may remember, who gave Joe a chance when he ended his year as King Git.

“Hello Mr Ross, thanks for giving me a hand up again when I needed it most.”

“Wuddy hell, it’s you, my sodding window cleaner,” said Ross, “You’re the peeping tom twat who keeps appeawing at the bathroom window evewy time my missus has just climbed into the bath. I’ll swear you are always there, waiting for her to get in.”

“Of course I’m not Mr Ross,” said Joe, “I wouldn’t wait there all the time would I? No point. I know she only bathes every Thursday morning, whether she needs it or not.”

Rossy let go of Joe allowing him to fall onto the club floor and then he jumped down on top of him and the two tumbled around shouting and swearing.

At this point Mr Biggins arrived back into the club having finally found two security people after going off in a search during the first battle earlier in the evening.

“That’s the man,” he shouted pointing at Joe, “he’s the one who started it all and he’s still at it.”

The two burly security people, who were actually Miss Navpotty Roller and Miss Willy Gene Thing from the mixed singles at Yalding tennis club, grabbed Joe bodily and threw him out into the street. Joe actually found this quite exciting but didn’t let on.

His arrival on the pavement disturbed the comely Yalding country lass who was sitting on the kerb and again chewing baccy. She swore at him, kicked his leg again and spat a black sludge down his shirt.

Joe sat there for a minute, head in hands, thinking that he must get back to accept that poor women’s award. She is a friend of Marty’s and he must stand up and sing her praises and graciously receive the trophy.

Then he thought, “Nah, Sod her,” and asked the Yalding lass for a roll up.

She swore and kicked his leg again.

It was a while inside the club before anyone noticed that Joe wasn’t there and that he wasn’t coming back, at least at the moment. For he was even now planning some sort or revenge, or a least a good reason why those two beefy women should have to manhandle him again.

But then, inside, Mr Ross regained his composure and his helmet and climbed back onto the stage.

GTI Awards 2006 - The Big Night - Chapter 3

CHAPTER  THREE

Hitting his crash helmet on the lighting gantry Mr. Ross cries, “Jesus Chwist, this never happens at the comedy awards.”

Crouching there, his suit covered in fluff, chewing gum, crushed pickled eggs, dead spiders and mouldy bits of stuff that have been lying on the floor for ages, he attempts to regain his composure but the fact that he’s just been brawling on the floor with Joe just seems to make his appearance more acceptable..

“Well I weally don’t know what’s going on,” says Mr. Ross, “who’s going to weceive this award for the tart that nobody gives a damn about?”

The Count says, “Not me old boy, I never knew the old thing.”

Crawfie says, “I may ‘ave known ‘er , I may not ‘ave. You bein’ awkward?”

Pants says, “Did she have her clothes on? I wouldn’t know her if she was dressed.”

Suddenly, Marty, who since being stretchered off has been lying unconscious face down behind the bar completely covered by 150 beer mats to prevent any embarrassment to Mr. Biggins, peeps over the top of the counter and shouts,  “I’m really sorry boys, she was just a woman in the office, you know how things happen, she smiles at you and that’s it, I just thought she’d be a good competitor for the GITS but since she’s refused to leave her husband and run away with me to Guildford the magic’s gone. What can I say? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, for God’s sake what can I do to make it up to you all?

Crawfie says, “Nuffink.”

The Count suddenly says, “Crikey, I don’t really know her but I do remember  Marty introducing me to a young lady whose name was something I can’t remember, she was short  and had a squint.  I ignored her  but Marty said, ‘It’s worth making contact with her as she’s a bit of a country girl,’ and then he winked…twice.”    

At that moment there’s an almighty noise coming from the back of the room. The Yalding comely country lass has rushed in shouting, “You dirty bugger Joe, we’ve only just met. What kind of a comely country lass do you think I am?”

Joe, rushing in behind her and looking quite sheepish, shouts, “It’s all a big misunderstanding. All I did was take her up the back passage and into Mr. Biggins’ store room for a bit of ow’s your father’s hanky panky and she’s reacted like this. It’s not as if she’s known as the village bike for nothing is it?”

“By golly,” cries The Count, “it’s her, it’s her. I recognise the squint. It’s the old tart who nobody knows except Marty. Get her up there to collect the dashed award and let’s get on with the rest of the ceremony chaps.” With her identity revealed, the comely country old tart looks over towards Marty and knowing their relationship had floundered with so many things unsaid, rushes towards the stage in an effort to avoid any unnecessary embarrassment. Marty is the last person she wants to see, particularly as he’s still covered in beer mats. Seeing her make a bee line for the stage, Mr. Ross says, “As it’s appawent that the old tart who nobody knows has turned up after all, here’s your award love,” and with that, he hurls the award towards her, missing her by inches but not, unfortunately, missing old Mr.Roundtree who drops another tray of Guinness. 

Amid the confusion, the comely country old tart sneaks out through the back entrance and goes off to join her mates in the pub safe in the knowledge that she’s managed to avoid a confrontation with her old colleague Marty and confident that that’s the last she’ll ever see of him…ever.

Or is it?

The GITs have all gathered together again around their table. Marty is nursing not only a wrist sprain but now his head is slowly swelling with the effects of the bruising and lacerations he incurred when Joe allegedly tripped him up. Joe meanwhile, is sitting with his bad leg wrapped in an ice-filled roll of bubble wrap that Mrs. Flagg found behind the cistern in the Gent’s toilet. The Count, Crawfie and Pants are all relatively unscathed and are taking the mickey out of Joe and Marty at every opportunity.

Mr. Biggins rushes on to the stage in a masterly display of speed crouching and quickly adjusts Mr. Ross’s microphone before speedily crouching off.

Mr. Ross continues, this time sounding uncannily like Donald Duck, “Ladies and Gentlemen we have a weal tweat for you now. The first of tonight’s top notch cabawet acts to appear before you. Please put your hands together for Mustapha Klew and his lovely assistant Dowis.” The stage backcloth shakes and with a grin on his face Mr. Green the butcher bounds through the curtains, arms spread wide, followed closely by his wife Mrs. Doris Green. He stands there savouring the applause in his hastily assembled persona of ‘Mustapha Klew, Mind Reader of the Orient’. He’s wearing a dark brown ankle length dressing gown tied at the waist with a pyjama cord. The dressing gown is covered with shiny silver and gold paper cut-outs in the shape of the moon, the sun and the stars etc. They’re already starting to peel off in the heat. Around his neck is one of Mrs. Green’s lime green chiffon scarves and on his head he’s wearing a bright blue knitted tea cosy with a red feather stuck in the top.

He is also blindfolded.

Mrs. Green inches her way from behind him around to his side and gently prods him in order to guide him down towards the audience. Mr Green starts to walk hesitantly downstage but with his confidence growing he soon starts to pick up speed and, grinning maniacally, strides towards the front of the stage confident that his assistant Doris will tap him on the shoulder when he reaches his mark. Suddenly, Doris, realising she is passing Mr. Ross crouching at his podium, stops and asks him for his autograph. Blissfully ignorant of his assistant’s absence, Mustapha continues on his way to the front of the stage and promptly topples over the edge bang on top of Table Three which is occupied by the prostitutes that Pants has brought along as guests for the evening. As Mustapha disappears under the weight of the table and twenty five empty champagne magnums the young ladies, all dressed in wet, low-cut T-shirts and very tight sequinned hot-pants, stand and turn to the audience and cameras. A publicity opportunity not to be missed, they thrust their bodies forward displaying the T-shirt slogans across their breasts. The first reads “I Love Pants”, the second reads “Pants for King”, the third reads “I Want More Pants” while the fourth young lady is displaying “Pants is Pants”.

The fourth slogan, being somewhat out of step with the theme of the others, catches Mr. Biggins’ eye and with a discreet nod to one of the four alcoholic brothers from the funny family he summons security. Mrs. Flagg rushes slowly towards the mayhem and immediately rips off the wig of the lady in question revealing that she is, in fact, The Count in disguise.

The audience gasp.

The Count reacts furiously as his underhand ploy to discredit Pants’ reputation is discovered and he storms back to the nominee’s table, his hot-pants glittering in the spotlight as he goes. “Mmm, nice pair of legs,” mutters Mr. Ross.

Meanwhile Table Three has been tidied up and Mustapha has been guided back on to the stage by Doris to deafening cheers from the audience. A little flustered and dishevelled, his tea cosy now dipping down over one eye and his feather skew-whiff, Mustapha takes a deep breath and shouts, “Thank you ladies and gentlemen for that warm reception and welcome to a demonstration of my incredible mind reading and telepathic skills. Mustapha Klew will amaze you. But first my lovely assistant Doris will come amongst you to select someone from the audience whom she feels has the appropriate sympathetic vibrations to join me in my experiment tonight,” and with an over the top hand flourish he ushers Doris into the audience.

Doris crouches slowly across to the side of the stage and seeing no obvious way of getting down into the audience sits on the edge, turns her body round and slowly lowers herself down to the ground, her long diaphanous gown riding up inch by inch as she does so, revealing a rather grubby pair of extra large off-white pair of knickers. To wolf whistles from the GIT’s table she starts to prowl the audience looking for a volunteer. Suddenly she spots old Mr. Roundtree coming back from the bar and, creeping up behind him, she taps him on the shoulder. This makes old Mr. Roundtree jump in surprise and he drops another full tray of Guinness on the floor. Doris holds out a pack of cards to him and says, “Sir, please pick a card.”  Confused, old Mr. Roundtree picks a card and hands it to Doris. “I have a card in my hand,” Doris shouts.

“Now please concentrate on that card and I will first tell you the suit,” Mustapha shouts back. With the card in her hand slowly disintegrating into paper pulp as a result of the spilt Guinness all over it, Doris suddenly shouts, “Obviously it is either a spade, a diamond…’cough’, a club or a heart but which one?”

Mustapha appears to be suffering an imminent bilious attack but it soon becomes clear that he is just trying to give the impression that he is entering a deep trance. “Ah,” he says in a dreamy voice, “yes, yes, I can see…it’s coming to me…it’s coming to me…it’s…a…club…suit.”

 Doris shouts back, “No, it’s not a club, try again. It can only be either a spade, a diamond…’cough’ or a heart. Concentrate Mustapha, concentrate.” 

Mustapha puts a hand to his head and shouts, “I’ve got it, it’s…a…diamond!”

Doris shows the wilting card to the audience and shouts, “Yes it is,” as the audience go wild.

“Now,” shouts Mustapha, “for the denomination. Is…it…the…ace of diamonds?”

“No,” shouts back Doris, “you wouldn’t want TO get this wrong would you?” 

“Is it the three of diamonds?” asks Mustapha.

“No,” shouts Doris, “have TWO more attempts.”

”Is it the four of diamonds?”

“No”

“Is it the five of diamonds?”

“No”

“Six?”

“No”

Channel 4 cuts to the adverts.

Channel 4 fades back in after the adverts.

“Is it a bloody 10 then?”

“No, no, no you stupid man.”

“Jack of diam -?”

Suddenly Mr. Ross shouts, “Thank you Mustapha Klew and Dowis,” and Mustapha is dragged off the stage by the four alcoholic brothers.

 “The nominees for our ‘Shoulders back, show ‘em off, show ‘em off’ award for getting their answers in on time for each and evewy wound are Pants, Joe, Marty, Cwawfie and The Count.”

There’s an anguished cry of “Ow, that bloody hurt” as Pants leans across the table and gives The Count a black eye and kicks him on the shins under the table. “Take that you bastard,” shouts Pants, “and I thought you were my friend.”

“And the winner is…

The Count.”

The Count leaps to his feet, punching the air and the head of old Mr. Roundtree who just happens to be passing with another tray of Guinness. As old Mr. Roundtree slumps to the ground, the four alcoholic brothers from the funny family, fearing for Mr. Ross’s safety, descend on The Count who, still dressed in his low-cut T-shirt and gold sparkly hot-pants, disappears from view under the full force of four huge men landing on top of him. 

GTI Awards 2006 - The Big Night - Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

(Written by Barry)

With a startled cry of “Unhand me, you bounders” The Count manages to poke his head out from amongst the tangle of bodies. Fearing that something like this might happen, The Count, as resourceful as ever, has a plan up his sleeve. He looks across to the table where his guests are seated.

Tony Blair, Jade Goody, Pete Doherty and Noel Gallagher are watching the proceedings with some amusement, although the fifth guest, George Bush is looking at Tony Blair with some confusion. Prior to the uproar involving The Count, Tony had just explained to George for the seventh time that ‘1’, Tony is no longer the Prime Minister, that ‘2’, ‘Golden Brown’ is a song by The Stranglers but that Gordon Brown is the new Prime Minister and that ‘3’, Tony is there instead of Gordon as he was Prime Minister when The Count sent out the invitations.

The Count shouts “Now” at which Jade, Pete, Tony and Noel rush forward and star hitting and kicking the other GITs. George remains at the table looking confused and hums ‘Golden Brown’ to himself.

 “That’s Plan B, you fools”, cries The Count, “I want Plan A”. His guests turn their attention to the four alcoholic brothers from the funny family. Tony and Jade stand on the edge shouting “Fight, fight” while Pete Doherty and Noel Gallagher throw themselves onto the brothers. Seeing that his guests are losing the battle, The Count realises that he’ll have to come up with Plan C. “I say you chaps” he suddenly ejaculates to the four alcoholic brothers, “I think there is still a bit of money from Joe’s wallet behind the bar. What say you four go and help yourself to a stiff one each?” With free drinks on offer, the fight is over and the brothers make their way to the bar past Joe who is looking somewhat distressed.

“Wait a minute”, shouts Joe, jumping to his feet, “That’s my money”. Unfortunately the ice in the bubble wrap that Mrs. Flagg found behind the cistern in the Gents toilet has been melting over the floor owing to the ever-increasing temperature in the room. Joe slips and crashes to the floor and in so doing realises to his disgust that the ice is, in fact, frozen urine. Joe gets to his feet in time to see the last of his money disappearing down the throats of the four brothers.

In the meantime, Mr. Ross is still staring at The Count’s legs. Realising that people are now turning their attention back to him, he calls to The Count, “Oi, Hot Legs, are you coming up to weceive this award or what?”

The Count replies, “Just a minute old boy, I need to change into something more suitable first.” He disappears in the direction of the Gents to change out of his hot pants and “Pants is Pants” T-shirt. Emerging a few minutes later robed in dress shirt, bow tie, evening jacket, immaculately polished shoes and hot pants, he makes his way to the stage.

As he passes the nominees’ table, Crawfie and Marty have to hold Pants back as he shouts offensive remarks at The Count. “Offensive remarks, offensive remarks”, he calls.

“Steady on old boy, you’ve already given me a black eye”, retorts The Count, “it was just a slogan on a T-shirt.” Distracted momentarily by a strong smell of urine, he turns to Joe. “Have you wet yourself?” he asks. Joe tries to explain that there is urine running down his legs because the ice in the bubble-wrap around his leg has melted and turned out to be frozen urine.

“Oh, that old excuse”, replies The Count. “I used to use that to the matron at Eton every time I woke up in my dorm and found myself in a similar predicament. You should get yourself some of these.” He discreetly pulls out a newspaper cutting from the Daily Mail small-ads advertising ‘Inco-pants’. “No one will ever know”, he winks at Joe. Unfortunately, in so doing, he also pulls out a packet of condoms with a sell by date of November 1969.

“Wait a minute”, says Joe, “you’ve been going through my wallet. Er those, er, might belong to a friend. I’m er, looking after them for him.”

“Found them on the floor old chap”, blushes The Count and rapidly retreats towards the stage.

Unfortunately, he bumps into poor old Mr. Roundtree who is making his latest attempt to get to his table with a tray of Guinness. The tray crashes to the floor once more and Mr. Roundtree turns once again towards the bar with an air of sad resignation. “Don’t worry, old chap”, says The Count. “Use this to buy yourself the next round and passes him a credit card with the name ‘Joe Irwin’ on it. “Finders keepers, what?”

The Count then clambers up on the stage to receive his award. He bows to the audience and waves to a few imaginary fans in the audience and sticks up his thumb to the GITs’ table. They respond with various abusive hand signals. The Count shakes hands with Mr. Ross and receives his award as cries of “You tosser”, “It’s a fix” and “Get off the stage, Baldy” come from an old lady in the audience. “I was hoping my Mum wasn’t going to come,” whispers The Count to Mr. Ross.

The Count approaches the microphone and begins to speak. There is no sound. Once again, Mr. Biggins rushes on to the stage and quickly adjusts the microphone before once more speedily crouching off. The Count tries again. He now sounds like Stephen Hawking. He continues regardless.

“Well it’s a great honour to receive this award. I’d like to think that, after the King GIT trophy itself, this is the most prestigious of tonight’s awards. I’ve dreamed of winning the ‘Shoulders back, show ‘em off, show ‘em off’ award for years now. It just goes to show that you can ‘count on The Count’, as they say, when it comes to getting the answers in.” He laughs awkwardly at the audience who greets him with a stony silence. By now, the old woman is trying to incite the audience to throw things at The Count and begins a slow hand clap which is quickly taken up by other members of the audience including the GITs who have begun to throw bits of urine-stained bubble wrap at the stage. The Count makes a hasty retreat with his award back to the audience.

He approaches the GITs’ table where a fragile peace has descended and he slips in the pool of urine, banging his head on the table. Momentarily out for the count (sic), he comes round and clambers onto his seat. Needless to say, none of his fellow GITS rushes to help him.

Crawfie leans across and says,”That went well, didn’t it?” and chuckles to himself.

“Could you have done better then old boy?” asks The Count.

“Course,” replies Crawfie.

“Do tell how”, says The Count.

“Well you pillock, you’re writing this bit, aren’t you?”

“Yes”, says The Count.

“Well then, you ponce, you can make anyfing ‘appen can’t you?” says Crawfie.

“Really”, ejaculates The Count.

“I wish you’d stop doing that”, says Crawfie mopping himself down, “It’s ‘orrible”.

“Sorry old boy, but pray, do go on”.

“As I was saying, if you’re writing it you nonce, then you can make anyfing ‘appen”, says Crawfie.

“Anything?”

“No, anyfing,” says Crawfie, “but don’t start any funny business with me”.

“Well let’s see then” says The Count, “You mean I could turn Marty into the Dalai Lama, for instance?”

“I believe Lord Snooty has finally got it”, sneers Crawfie.

And with that, there is the Dalai Lama sitting where Marty had been sitting.

“What-ho, this is brilliant, if somewhat surreal”, says The Count, as Pants turns into Clare Grogan from ‘Altered Images’, just as she looked in ‘Gregory’s Girl’.

“Fantastic”, beams The Count. “How are you my dear?”

“Just wonderful”, replies Clare, “I’ve heard so much about you”. Unfortunately she still has Pants voice though.

“You still ‘aven’t got the ‘ang of this, ‘ave you?” chortles Crawfie. “You wait until it’s my turn, I’ll show you” and he laughs maniacally like Vincent Price. “I’m going to write it so that I get the title of King Git, regardless of the scores.”

“You cad”, says The Count.

Just then, Joe turns into Winston Churchill. ”Wait a moment, I didn’t do that”, exclaims The Count. Everything starts to swim before his eyes and he closes them. When he manages to open them again properly, he is lying on his back in the pool of urine. His fellow GITs are all grinning down at him.

“What happened to the Dalai Lama, Clare Grogan and Winston Churchill?” says The Count.

“You’ve been out cold, you ponce” says Crawfie. “And you’ve been rambling on about the Dalai Lama, Clare Grogan and Winston Churchill”.

The Count realises that he’s been hallucinating as a result of the blow on his head. Annoyed that his chance of a date with Clare Grogan (just as she looked in ‘Gregory’s Girl’) has gone, he storms off to the bar. Behind him he hears his fellow GITs laughing and calling after him.

“Pillock “, says Crawfie.

“Twit”, says the Dalai Lama.

“I liked him”, says Clare Grogan (just as she looked in ‘Gregory’s Girl’).

“I’m still soaked in urine”, says Winston Churchill.

GTI Awards 2006 - The Big Night - Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

With the GIT’s table in total disarray once more, Mrs. Flagg slowly rushes over with Mrs. Wickham to attempt to quickly clean up before the presentation of the next award. This is proving to be more difficult than they expected as Joe, Marty and The Count are all sitting slouched in their chairs with dazed looks and glazed expressions. They can’t be persuaded to move out of the way and the other two GITs, Pants and Crawfie, although so far relatively unscathed from the previous waves of violent activity, are in no mood for conciliatory gestures.

While The Count sits staring into space dreaming of Claire Grogan (just as she looked in ‘Gregory’s Girl’), singing ‘Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday’ tunelessly to himself, Pants and Crawfie are arguing amongst themselves over who to humiliate next. With everything still left to play for, Crawfie is trying to persuade Pants that if they can eliminate the other three GITs from the proceedings the ‘King GIT’ award would be theirs for the taking.

Sounding more like ‘Mad’ Frankie Fraser with every minute that passes, he whispers to Pants, “Keep shtum, mate, but I reckon we could get our ‘ands on the King GIT award if we bides our time and acts cute abaht what’s goin’ on ternight. The uvver free losers ‘ave got no chance if we can keep up the pressure on ‘em. Look at ‘em. They’ve all got wimmin problems ‘aven’t they? No, I don’t mean wimmin’s wimmin problems, I mean wimmin problems, and that, as we know, is a recipe for disaster ain’t it? The Count’s pining for ‘is lost opportunities wiv that bint Claire Grogan (just as she looked in ‘Gregory’s Girl’), Joe’s dreaming of his missed liaisons wiv that comely Yaldin’ country lass or the Yaldin’ comely country lass as she’s sometimes known as and Marty’s still ‘opin’ for a reconciliation with the same said comely country Yaldin’ lass which ‘e knew ‘er as. They’ll all start losin’ it sooner or later, speshly if we keep the pressure on ‘em. What d’yer fink Pants?”

“Sorry,” says Pants, “what did you say? I wasn’t listening. I think I’m in love with prostitute number three, I can’t get the way she wears her T-shirt out of my mind.”

Rubbing his hands and twirling his false moustache (not at the same time, obviously), Crawfie cackles and putting the back of his hand to the side of his mouth he whispers to a startled Mrs. Flagg, “Heh, Heh, Heh. Even Pants is ‘avin’ wimmin trouble now, I’ve got it made. The King GIT award is mine for the takin’. It’s mine I tell yer, it’s mine. It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s all mine. It’s mine, it’s –“

Mrs. Flagg slaps him round the face and Crawfie immediately punches Mrs. Flagg back. As Mrs. Flagg reels across the room into poor old Mr. Roundtree who drops his umpteenth tray of Guinness, Crawfie shouts across the room, “You slag! Don’ ever touch me again. D’yer ‘ear me?”

The Count, startled out of his reverie with Claire Grogan (just as she looked in ‘Gregory’s Girl’), tries to calm Crawfie down by offering him a cigar. “I say old boy, crikey, one’s not supposed to hit a young lady like that. Here have a Monte Cristo or if you prefer a Cohiba Cuban to take your mind off it,” and rather nervously guides Crawfie back to his chair while Mrs. Flagg is attended to by the two on-duty St. John’s ambulance men.

With the GIT’s table now looking slightly more respectable (it’s surprising what a difference a clean tablecloth and a new doily under the pickled egg jar can make), Mr. Biggins once more rushes onto the stage in another remarkable display of speed crouching prompting gasps of admiration at his technique from the audience and even a few isolated ripples of applause. Adjusting Mr. Ross’s microphone, he speedily crouches off again.

Mr. Ross continues, this time sounding unbelievably like Freddy ‘Parrot Face’ Davis.

“Ladies and gentlemen, before I pwesent the next award, it’s cabawet time once more. Please welcome on stage, Herb Williamson and his Collapsing Piano.” There’s a loud crash, a tinkling noise and a cry of “Oh Shit!” from backstage. Mr. Ross frowns as he puts his finger to the ear piece he’s wearing and says, “Sowwy ladies and gentlemen, Herb’s collapsing piano has collapsed too early and his performance has been cancelled. What a shame. I’m told that his act is weally something special. Never mind, on with the show. Our next award is the ‘Sainsbury’s Nectar Award’ for the person who has twied, unsuccessfully, to accumulate more bonus points than anyone else,” he pauses, ”…and the nominees are Pants, Joe, Cwawfie, Marty and The Count.”

At the mention of The Count’s name a bread roll hits him squarely on the back of the neck. “Please mater, it all happened a long time ago old gel, let it go, let it go,” cries The Count to his mum as she gets ready to follow it up with a jar of pickled eggs.

There’s a clatter and crash from the back of the room as another poor sod bends forward too far on their bar stool to reach their low coffee table and loses balance.

“And the winner is…Cwawfie!”

Crawfie, who at this particular moment is climbing half way through the frosted glass window into cubicle one of the Gents, suddenly hears his name, climbs back out and races back into the club waving his arms and wriggling his hands above his head shouting, “Yes, Yes, Yes.” His sheer exuberance causes him to mis-time his run right past the front of the stage and straight out of the front door of the club where he bumps into the raised bottom of the comely Yalding country lass who’s bending down picking up another can of Tennents from the pile at her feet.

Without turning round she says,”Ooh, you are awful but I like you whoever you are.”

Crawfie looks at the lovely comely country Yalding lass, looks towards the door of the club where his name was still being repeated by Mr. Ross and for one moment is torn between the two. Glancing over his shoulder he decides to take advantage of the situation and, pressing himself against the comely Yalding lass he quickly unbuttons his shirt and slowly moves his hand down her arm until he reaches the can of Tennents. He yanks it out of her hand, slips it inside his shirt and makes a dash for the club entrance. 

GTI Awards 2006 - The Big Night - Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Exactly two minutes later Crawfie re-enters the hall to thunderous applause and some mild mannered jeering from the GIT’s table. “Cwawfie, Cwawfie,” cries Mr. Woss, “we had almost given up on you, please, come accept youwe awawd.”

Crawfie bounds up the stairs rubbing his hands together in maniacal glee muttering ‘wodaviwun, wodaviwun’. He grabs his award and as he takes it and realises what it is, Crawfie’s face, never a pretty sight takes on a distinctly unpleasant look.

The GIT table can hardly contain themselves – they know what’s coming next; the rest of the hall is politely applauding.

“Well done old boy,” shouts the Count, “jolly good show. I wish I could win an award for ‘begging for points’.”

“Bloody disgrace Crawfie,” cries Pants, “They’re taking the piss.”

“How the mighty have fallen,” chimes in Marty, “didn’t you win the big one once upon a time?”

Crawfie has undergone a colour transformation: From when he first bounded onto the stage with a beery pink hue to his cheeks to a sickly white upon the awful realization that he had a mere minor prize to a now explosive red. Beads of sweat break out on his forehead but evaporate before they have a chance to roll down his face. His head trembles as if about to erupt. When he speaks, however, it is surprisingly with a calm clear voice.

“Ladies & gentlemen, fellow GIT’s,” he said, “I thank you for this wonderful award.”

“Yeah…right,” shouts Joe.

“Oh do pull the other one old boy,” the Count chimes in.

“They’re still taking the piss!” cries Pants.

“I thank you for this award,” repeated Crawfie, “and the next person to say anything about it is going to get it shoved up their arse.”

The crowd becomes deathly quiet. Even the GIT table who at this stage are beside themselves with glee manages to control itself. Mrs Flagg & Mr. Biggins, embarrassed, can only stare at the floor.

The moment of threatened violence passes. Crawfie’s face now returns to normal & at close inspection one could see his eyes looking longingly towards the bar.

Alas, stage left the curtain opens & Herb Williamson enters pushing a rather fragile looking piano.

“Oh I say,” says Herb, “looks like someone’s won a rather nice award – what did you get that for?”

Crawfie’s reaction is swift & decisive. He disappears behind the curtain and when he returned the award is missing, as is Herb Williamson. The piano perhaps out of sympathy implodes.

And then…

All of a sudden and as if by magic all of the windows and doors fly open! The assembled throng look round and suddenly realize that it’s a cold, dark, windy night. Suddenly everyone is afraid….very afraid. They have realised that in Yalding no-one can hear you scream. Captain Pete is standing there and everyone turns to face him. In a dark brown voice he says,

“I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tanhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain. Time to die."

“Star wars!” shouts Pants.

“No no old boy, it’s Star Trek surely,” tries the Count.

“Actually it’s Blade Runner,” corrects Marty, “But more to the point, why is he saying it?”

“Crawfie’s run out of stuff to write so he’s just creating filler,” say’s Joe, “it’s a common enough trick – try reading ‘the piano tuner’ that’s got about 300 pages of filler.”

“Frankly m’dear, I couldn’t give a damn,” says the Captain, all the while his eyes becoming wilder. “Colour me beautiful…colour me beautiful….,” he screams.

As if overcome with emotion he slumps in his seat.

Order returns to the room and as if by magic all the windows and doors closed themselves. All is suddenly good in Yalding.

Mr Biggins again takes centre stage, he taps the microphone but no water comes out of it.