My Year As King GIT 2005

MY YEAR AS KING GIT

The theatre is vast.

Joe has advertised this public appearance widely and, assured of the amazing interest that his year-long position has generated and how enthusiastic the people of the UK will be to hear his words of wisdom, he has booked a venue which Mrs Redgrove could only dream about managing. She’ll be sorry that she threw out the Gits. Such a fuss over a few singes on the remains of the dance floor. And the piano is perfectly OK, just not as grand as it used to be. If it was OK for Jerry Lee to set fire to his piano then it must be OK for the crowned King GIT. The piano legs might not be as long as they once were but it’s a perfect height for midgets.

In the vast theatre the silence is broken as the well-oiled machine that is the production company starts the proceedings. The intro music starts.

 Firstly “The Birdie Song” but after three verses the error is noted and the well-oiled operator changes the CD. The audience moans in disappointment.

“Let Me Entertain You” kicks in followed by “We Are The Champions” followed by “Also sprach zarrathrustup” from the film 2001.

During all this the crowd are worked up into a frenzy, so much so that half of them have made for the door. The remaining two turn down their deaf-aids and slumber.

A burly but quick witted usher wakes them, offers tea and cakes to the leavers and, as the music finishes, the audience returns to its seats. A dog wanders in off the street and adds 25% to the numbers.

At the final strains of “Thrustup” the curtains on stage are ruffled from behind. The music finishes and the curtains are ruffled faster and faster and faster and then frantically. Then they stop moving. Joe finally appears on his knees from underneath the curtains having failed to find the centre join.

He picks up his dropped glasses from the stage and pokes himself in the eye with one of the ends. He picks them up again and puts them on properly but knocks off his King GIT cardboard crown. He bends down to pick up the crown, loses his balance and falls into the empty orchestra pit. He climbs awkwardly back on to stage.

He then climbs back down into the orchestra pit to retrieve his glasses. As he climbs out again, ever more weary, he has to hurl himself that final bit to get his belly over the edge of the stage. He lands flat on his stomach, winded. The squashed cardboard crown, which provided his landing pad, sticks to the front of his sweat- soaked shirt as he stands up, puffing and panting like an old steam train.

With a “Sod It” he throws the crown stage right. The dog, who has been lifting his ears one at a time and cocking his head left and right as he watched the proceedings in complete puzzlement, rushes onto the stage to chase the crown, grabbing it in his mouth and growling as he returns it to Joe who, muttering, throws the crown stage left. The dog runs off and does his dutiful retrieving, bringing the crown back to Joe. Exasperated, Joe lifts the curtains behind him and throws the crown underneath and backstage. The dogs rolls his eyes skywards, slowly opens the centre of the curtains and strolls backstage for a good chew and growl.  

Joe bangs his forehead with the palm of his hand but, suddenly remembering where he is and, anxious to milk the big musical build up, clasps both hands together above his head in a champion’s victory celebration.

He stage whispers “Music, music” to his production man.

Bright as a button and alert to the circumstances the well-oiled operator responds.

The Birdie Song starts up and the audience starts to tap its feet.

Joe shouts to turn off that bloody tune for god’s sake and continues with his victory lap of the stage, bowing to all parts of the empty theatre.

He waits for the applause to start.

Nothing happens.

The dog growls from backstage.

A hearing aid screeches and the aged wearer swiftly rises and drops in his seat in surprise, spills his tea, drops his cake and immediately falls back to sleep.

Joe speaks.

  

First of all may I state the obvious? The reason I have been asked to address you at this stage is because, quite clearly, I am not expected to be in a position to give an acceptance speech at the awards ceremony, purely because it is extremely unlikely that there will be anything for me to accept.

Growl. Screech.

OK, maybe I will have to graciously receive a few snide remarks from those who felt my win last year was a splash in the pan. Well, I set out at the beginning of the year with great gusto, (he’s my neighbour who used to have a farting act in the circus until the nasty accident with the fast burning candle). Anyway I set out to prove my detractors wrong by continuing my winning streak.

But it had hardly begun when the police arrested me for indecent exposure and for making them laugh uncontrollably.

All that trouble over a little thing like that, it was blown up out of all proportion.

So, in the event, and with my usual panache, I have failed to replicate the previous year’s GIT success.

But of course you critics are wrong. Last years win wasn’t the one-off.

It is this year’s failure that is the slash in the flan.

So shut it, alright? Just you wait till the 2007 results.

At this point the dog comes back through the centre of the curtains and growling and prancing, drops the chewed crown at Joe’s feet. Joe mutters an obscenity, slowly picks up the soggy cardboard and pretends to throw it out into the audience. The dog turns his back to Joe and looks out into the theatre looking for the crown to land.

Joe pulls back his right leg and gives the dog a mighty kick from behind. Yelping, it soars out into the audience and lands on the lap of the sleeping pensioner who awakens, but only momentarily, with a screech from his earpiece.

The dog hides under the chair, peering out, not quite knowing what happened.

With the remains of the soggy cardboard crown Joe wipes the dog mess from his trouser turn ups and his shoe and continues.

Ahem, to my loyal fans, of whom it is said, “Whom?” I would like you, my subjects, to learn just a little about what a year of being King GIT has meant to me. It is going to be difficult for you ordinary folk to understand the experience of spending a year on the throne. Unless you take The Sunday Times.

Firstly there is the adulation of the masses, paparazzi at my door and Mamma Razzi at my window. My Italian relatives are determined to escape, but not until they’ve paid me for their holiday stay. Where else could they get three meals a month for the money? I can’t help it if they don’t like jellied eels.

Now, stepping outside the front door every morning can be a trial when the howling mob is there to greet you every time.

You would think the milkman, butcher and paper shop proprietors would realise by now that they are not going to get their money. Why should I pay the full rate when the milk is skimmed, the butcher weighs the chops with the bones in, and the papers are full of dodgy live CDs and bad news? Wouldn’t mind if they were full of fish and chips, particularly as my Italian relatives don’t like them either. (These Italians know nothing about food.)

So each morning I have managed to lose the mob outside my front door and jump into the big limo and then my chauffeur has taken me on about my business. Sometimes, for a change, I go onto the upper deck where it’s exceedingly pleasing to take up my rightful position of looking down on all you people. It can be difficult to see through the graffiti scratched on the windows at times but I don’t sign it so nobody knows it’s my handiwork. I write messages pertinent to the scruffs who live in the slums which I pass. Things like “Yah boo Council house paupers” and “Piss off home, Johnny foreigners” and “Arseholes”.

I’ve always been a good writer.

Unfortunately, after many months I realised that, as the words were written from the inside of the vehicle, they were back to front to those people outside and only legible to those sitting alongside me, so it was only people inside who were offended. This was a little too close for comfort and led to many awkward moments with the “things” who may once have been people.

To get the individual letters the right way around so that they could be read from outside, I took to hanging upside down from the roof of the bus, er sorry, limo. I can tell you I’ve lost many an expensive flat cap to the wind undertaking this hazardous task and, because of this dangerous and rather undignified manoeuvre, I have also given up my entitlement to wear the King GIT Clan Kilt. I hated seeing more policemen laugh uncontrollably and I don’t want to get arrested for indecent exposure again.

The other unforeseen problem with hanging upside down to write on the windows is that although the letters are the right way round, all the words are upside down. I am working on ways to combat this problem which may result in an edict that all slum dwellers must stand on their heads. They’re not doing much else, lazy devils, and they could save on shoe leather.

Have you had enough of this excitement? Well, hang on to your hats (I know I wish I had) because there is even more to tell.

Moan. Snore. Screech.

The burly usher rushes to restrain an audience member who has made a stumbling dash for the door. He tries the cake ploy on the reluctant attendee but it doesn’t work because the old man says hasn’t got his teeth in. Unable to find the alternative blackcurrant jelly, the usher decides to resort to his standby cunning ploy and knocks him out. He carries him back to his seat and sits him upright hoping nobody noticed. However the proceedings had halted to watch while all this had been going on but Joe carried on pretending not to notice the coercion.

Ahem, thank you for joining us sir, although you have missed the first part of my speech. I could start again, I suppose.

Waits for the encouraging applause.

 Nothing.

Maybe not then.

Now I well remember the day when they asked me to the TV studios where they wanted to conduct an interview. They had heard of my achievement and, knowing what a difference it made to the lives of previous recipients, wanted to interview me.

Would it be Michael Parkinson, or Jeremy Paxman? I understood that Sue Lawley’s short skirts no longer did many interviews but she would have been my favourite. Or Natasha Kaplinsky. Or perhaps Joan Bakewell. I certainly was not going to be interviewed by that Jonathan Ross, not after last year’s award ceremony when he demonstrated a very base action with his hand after my appearance.

Oh no, I definitely wouldn’t put up with him.

So, after a successful interview, I start at Jonathan’s in mid February and should have his windows cleaned within an hour, once a month. I’ve got to supply my own bucket, mind you.

Such is the glory of being King GIT. Not everyone could handle the responsibilities with such grace and honour. But I’ve always known that I am just that little bit special. Or, as others have often said, “You’re something else, you are.”

There is a screech as one audience member awakens his partner by turning up the hearing aid. He shouts up to the stage “Have you finished at last? Only it’s getting on and we’ve got to clean the theatre, there’s something good on tomorrow.”

Joe slumps. He puts the crumpled soggy cardboard crown on his head. The dog mess runs down his temples. The dog runs up to him and wags his tail.

“Ah, man’s best friend”, thinks Joe, “there to comfort me when I need him.”

The dog lifts his leg and pees on Joe’s right boot, chuckling as he leaves.