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