Script Extract
The sun in
the sky is freezing hot, the ground is soaking
dry.
The daylight is dark white, the sky an orangey
blue.
The vapour trail of a plane overtakes it and
smothers the jet. In the distance a bird mimes
to a backing tape of its song. Over there a dog
chases its tail ripped off and thrown far by a
cruel owner.
Mister Clemons (his Father had named him after
himself) and his sister, Missus Clemons (she was
named for her mother) walk slowly through the
park.
He says, "And I said, 'you think that was self
referential, what about these words I am saying
to you now?'".
She says, "I think therefore I am thinking."
He says "What do you call an insect that watches
flies on walls?"
She says, "I was suicidal but confused - I took
short walks on long piers."
He says, "She was footloose and fancy-free. No
wonder nobody fancied her if one of her feet was
loose."
She says, "When the cat's away, the mice will
play charades."
Then they walk on by.
Right now I am at the beginning of my rope. I am
young, in love and happy. I have a good job - I
work as a gift horse dentist which is easy as I
never even have to look at them in the mouth. I
have a nice flat in a great area - it's a red
light district - loads of photographic
developers.
I have a lovely girlfriend. She is the grand
daughter of Dame Wendy House, the 1940s play
object designer who gave her name to the pretend
abode. I met her at a ceilidh on ice - slippery,
but fun. She works with BIFS children - Blurred
Infant Face Syndrome. These are kids who are
born with their faces slightly out of focus - it
can be hard disciplining kids you can't look
straight in the eye.
Everything, oh everything, is good. So why am I
out here walking in this park wondering about my
future? Oh haha, good question! This story is a
real Russian Doll of worms - you open one doll
you find worms and another doll which you then
open, and you find a slightly smaller doll and
more worms and so on until you get to the
tiniest doll where there's just one worm in.
Which is completely irrelevant but you get the
picture.
Let's go back a couple of months. . .
So, I'm lying in bed constellating the stains on
my ceiling - there's the sheep, the mobile
phone, the break-dancers. It's been a slow day a
day like a local train. I've been watching
Angling Ragnarok, the BBC's number one show
combining coarse fishing and Norse mythology.
The host, Quentin Clocklon, finds a quiet river,
gives viewers fishing tips, then from out of a
bloody red sky comes one of Asgard's top Gods to
discuss the Icelandic Eddas. 'Sgreat. Today was
Bass and Loki! After that finished, I spent some
time getting to know the back of my hand so when
anyone asks me if I know the area, I can be more
honest with them when I say how I know it
like...really well...
And then the phone rings. I pick it up and a
voice goes
"TWELVE!"
Twelve, said the voice on the other end and
then they hung up.
Twelve?
I don't know what it means and I pretty much
ignore it and get on with whatever I was
getting on with which frankly wasn't much.
TO AVOID THE SITUATION OF THE NUISANCE PHONE CALLS, HE HEADS TO MEXICO. . .
I
spent many weeks travelling around, gaining
many new and fantastic experiences. I saw
Mexican skating beans, doing little figures
of eight in the ice. I saw men playing blow
billiards, a game I could never master, I
saw lice picking chimps out of each others
backs but the people of the place were the
most special. . .
For example, in June the sound of laughter
abounds from the happy valleys of Southern
Mexico as the natives celebrate one of the
oldest traditions of Latin American folk
life. It is the time of Las Fiestas de los
Mueblos (the festivals of the furniture) and
I was fortunate to be invited to La Fiesta
de las Mesas (the festival of the tables) to
join in the excitement of this very special
time of year.
Villagers from far and wide bring their
tables to the town of Geplana and discuss
this year's fortunes. Some come by train,
others by car, but most arrive on a horse
driven cart with their table on the wagon.
For three days and nights, all aspects of
the life of the table are serenaded; there
is the song of the lumbermen, the pageant of
apprentice carpenters, and this year a
special play commissioned by the festival's
organisers - a comedy about a table shop and
the proprietor's amusing efforts to sell his
table wares. But the highlight of the
festival is always the crowning of La Reina
de las Mesas (Queen of the Tables). She is
chosen from far and wide to resemble the
best virtues of that year's tables - some
years she is heavy, some years she is dark
and shiny, one year she was bow legged and
had a plate of glass in her middle. But
always she is the fairest of the fair
maidens of this valley and treated like a
Queen ought.
After the festivities have died down, the
folk return to their villages with their
tables (or sometimes with a different one,
for the Fiesta also acts as a market place
for eating surfaces). And so the town of
Geplana returns once more to the quiet
solitude it has enjoyed for much of these
past centuries. I asked 'Pedro', a street
urchin, what he wanted to be when he grew
up. "Why una mueblista (a furniture
maker) of course! They have such a fine
life!" he replied. And in Pedro's eyes I
could see the true love that these people
have for furniture, a love only matched by
their love of life itself.
I left Geplana with happy memories of a fine
time and rode on to the next town, where, in
a few days time, they would be celebrating
La Fiesta de las Sofas. But of course I
would long cherish the people of Geplana,
and Las Canciones de las Mesas (the songs of
the tables) would remain with me forever.
HE
RETURNS TO BRITAIN. . .
I
found myself here in my late Aunt's home
village of Red Apples. It nestles silently
in an indeterminate part of the English
countryside where it's always August and
even the maturest people fancy their chances
at climbing some of the trees.
These are the things you notice:
There is no war memorial. Of the 72 men who
fought in the First World War, and 112 who
fought in the second, all returned home
safely.
On windy days, like today, the High Street
is prone to the occasional Tumblesheep when
stray, weak lambs blow softly through the
village.
Here we're passing the home of the first
Lord Somersault, who, when introduced at
society functions would enter the room
tumbling head over heels through the air,
thus giving his name to the gymnastic.
Look - over in that meadow - a pair of lame
tractors, probably been used in illegal
tractor fights where they're brought to a
frenzy and made to have a go at each other
for the pleasure of farmers. Sad to see such
noble machines so injured and broken down.
In January, it plays host to the English
round in the World Cross Country Rally
Dancing Championship. Pairs from many
countries come to fox-trot, quickstep and
tango through the tricky winter terrain.
HE
ATTENDS A MEETING OF THE FRANZ KAFKA
APPRECIATION SOCIETY. . .
It
looked like being another good, solemn
meeting. A dozen pale young men in ill
fitting borrowed suits had climbed the
difficult stairs up to the attic in this
cold old building I'd found, and we set
about drinking weak tea and eating dry cake
and discussing our hero's genius. The
chilled, pale, daylight was just fading from
the single, grime addled window, and we were
beginning to lose all feeling in our hands
and feet. It was brilliant. We were really
cold and miserable and we were really
getting into Kafka's mindset.
And then Bloody Nigel had to ruin it, didn't
he. Not only did he arrive late, he had
turned up in his stupid Cockroach suit -
again! - wrongly thinking it was a
"Metamorphosis" week. It wasn't - it was a
staring and dry coughing week! We rather
lost the will to continue. I burnt the
minutes and we trudged out into the pale
evening and said our good-byes. Roy and
Dominic went into the pub to play the new
"The Trial" pinball game at which you always
lose though it never gives you the reason; I
went back in to practice my coughing and
intense stares; the last I saw of Nigel he
was trying to get on a 29 bus without
breaking his false legs and mandibles.
