CHRIS: When rage and darkness shouting swell and burst oo lips, and still you scream, until you shouted them off...
When friends and strangers both be strange to you, so there be nix between them all, and river mouth...
And when oo platform stand, and then see train, and think "here comes my switch off, all off, off, switch, off, jump now, down dangle!"
And when ee find ee fingers dialling friends, although you long since lost the line, and mouth speak half a conversation that always ends as you are chucked, and sacked, and sobbing like oo sissy blubber-weeps.
Then welcome.
Aa, oo zis welcome, in Blue Jam (echoes)
FATHER: Natalie's four now. And we felt it was time to... warn her about some of the dangers that, um, unfortunately are on the rise, it seems.
MOTHER: So we've bought her this little night light...
FATHER: ...which is in the shape of a penis. It's behind the little curtain there.
NATALIE: Daddy...
MOTHER: It's all right, sweetheart. Just showing the man Mr Cocky. See?
NATALIE: ...
MOTHER: Then you switch it on...
PENIS: I'm very boring.
MOTHER: ...and it just sort of says...
PENIS: I'm very boring.
MOTHER: ...what a bad thing a penis is.
PENIS: Don't touch me. I'm a dull penis.
FATHER: Yes.
PENIS: Don't touch me.
MOTHER: And there's this...
PENIS: Don't touch me.
MOTHER: ...quite powerful...
PENIS: Don't touch me.
MOTHER: ...spring lever on the side.
PENIS: Don't touch me. Don't touch me.
FATHER: That snaps down on her fingers if she tries to touch it.
PENIS: Don't touch me. Keep your fingers away from me. I am a penis.
MOTHER: It does seem to work.
PENIS: This penis is extremely tedious, as are all penises. As are all penises.
FATHER: Yes. She only gets snapped about four times a week now.
PENIS: As are all penises. There's something mighty dull about me. I am a dull penis. I am a dull penis. I am a dull penis. I am a dull penis. I am a dull penis. I am a dull penis. I am a dull penis. I am a dull penis.
VOICE: Radio One...
SYNTHESISED: ...presents the peculiar sound of Simon Mayo lying in a ditch... lying in a ditch...
MICHAEL ALEXANDER ST JOHN: ...and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing and pissing...
ROBERT: Yep. Thank you.
ROBERT (VO): My name's Robert Varley, and I suppose I spend most of my time getting people to have unnecessary operations.
ROBERT: Um, Alastair, could you take that bone out for me, please?
ALASTAIR: Um, what, this one?
ROBERT: Yes, the little one in the hand.
ALASTAIR: Erm... it could be quite a job.
ROBERT (VO): It's more than a hobby.
ROBERT: No, take it out.
ALASTAIR: Yes, um...
ROBERT: I want to put it in my mouth.
ALASTAIR: ...Very well.
ROBERT (VO): I'm very good at persuading people to take surgery. I've got a lot of friends, a reasonable amount of staff... and even Simon Mayo.
ROBERT: How's the leg, Oswald?
OSWALD: Ah, bearing up.
ROBERT: You've got a bit of a limp there.
OSWALD: Well, a little bit.
ROBERT: I can't help thinking you might do well to have an operation on the leg there.
OSWALD: It's not exactly hanging off.
ROBERT: If you had a brand new car with automatic transmission, it could be very useful. I could get you that. If you were to have an operation.
OSWALD: Yeah?
ROBERT: A couple of weeks in the Caribbean? A bit of rest for the leg, after the operation? I could probably sort some tickets out for that.
OSWALD: Thanks...
ROBERT: I think it's for the best, Oswald.
OSWALD: ...All right. Cheers.
ROBERT: Good decision.
ROBERT (VO): The surgeon I use is a chap called Alastair.
ALASTAIR: It's not about the foot, Robert.
ROBERT (VO): He does what I want...
ALASTAIR: ...fucking tonsillectomy, for Christ's sake...
ROBERT (VO): ...just as long as I keep his morphine addiction a secret.
ROBERT: I need the foot for half an hour. Have you got ice?
ALASTAIR: Yes, we've got ice.
ROBERT: Right, well, off it comes then.
ALASTAIR: Okay.
ROBERT (VO): I particularly enjoy taking a foot and taking a few snaps. Perhaps holding it in my mouth or placing it on my head. And then Alastair reattaches the foot to its owner. The best part is showing them a picture of me with my foot on their head, or wherever.
ROBERT: I've been dying to show you this photo.
WOMAN: How did you..?
ROBERT: Oh, it's just a prosthetic.
ROBERT (VO): And leaving them to wonder whether there the scar round their ankle's in some way related.
ROBERT: Are you getting any feeling back in your foot at all?
WOMAN: Not yet. They said it... well, might not.
ROBERT: What was the operation for, again?
WOMAN: Um, the tonsil thing, they said... the foot...
ROBERT: Hmm. Excellent photo, though, isn't it?
WOMAN: Yeah... yeah.
ROBERT (VO): It's got to the point now where I...
ROBERT: Tell you what, Alastair, why not take the eye out?
ROBERT (VO): ...really just go in with no plan at all, and, er...
ALASTAIR: I thought this was rib removal.
ROBERT: Mm, changed my mind.
ROBERT (VO): ...improvise.
ROBERT: I want to stick this sausage in his eye socket.
ALASTAIR: Bloody hell!
ROBERT (VO): I don't think the pleasure will last forever. I suspect I'll do this for another couple of years, maybe, and then call it quits. Just go to bed with all my pictures, take an overdose of something, and drift off to Hades with a smile on my face.
ALASTAIR: I'm just going to lift it out. I'm not going to sever the optic nerve. I'll just hold it out, and you can stick the sausage in now if you like.
ANGELA: Alastair, I don't think this is...
ALASTAIR: It's all right.
ANGELA: I... I really don't think it is.
ALASTAIR: It'll be alright for now.
ROBERT: "I've got a sausage in my eye..."
ANGELA: God almighty...
ROBERT: "I've got a sausage in my..." heh heh heh heh... ha ha ha ha ha!
ALASTAIR: It's all right, Angela, it won't be long.
ROBERT: Alastair?
ALASTAIR: Yes?
ROBERT: Do you know what I'll be thinking next time I see him?
ALASTAIR: What?
ROBERT: I'll be thinking, "I've seen you with a sausage in your eye socket, and you haven't got a fucking clue!"
ALASTAIR: Yes.
ROBERT: Heh heh heh heh! That's great. Thanks, guys.. Ciao, Alastair! Ha ha ha!
ALASTAIR: Ciao. ...I'd better put this back.
HIM: Rothko woofed. He was sitting in the armchair again. He occasionally looked at the telly. Mostly, he was looking at me looking at the telly. Rothko didn't want me there. There in Imogen's house that I was supposed to be looking after. I looked at him now - a big Irish wolfhound, with deep dark eyes. In one I could see Imogen telling me to take him for walks, but not to let him off the lead as he hadn't been squirrel trained, and in the other I saw me, saying yes, "and don't lose the keys like you did last time, you worthless little prick, god your mother hates you." My brother was over my shoulder for that bit. I double-locked the front door, and looked at the keys. "What shall we do with these?" I said to Rothko. He looked quizzical. "Probably better to leave them safe in there, isn't it," I said, and posted them back through the door. "Now don't lose the dog." I made a noose with the handle of the lead, and looped it round my neck. I had to stoop slightly, but I figured the knob of my head would stop us ever becoming separated. So we clattered to the park, Rothko galloping ahead, me stumbling behind like a bear running too fast down a hill. Twenty yards into the park, Rothko glimpsed the duckpond and bolted. I landed in the shallows as Rothko closed his jaws on the nearest mallard. He shook his head violently so its quacks were broken like the honks of a goose in a cement mixer. A little girl was crying, "Help the ducky." I dripped stupidly. The girl's dad grabbed the duck and slapped at the dog's nosem whimpering "stop it," and "this is appalling." He was clearly the sort of sensitive man that Rothko had no respect for. They separated with a splash, and so did the duck. The man stared dumbly at the legs in his hand, and suddenly everyone was screaming RSPCA at me. The lead snapped tight around my neck as Rothko dodged a blow, and the world became purple and banging. Through the rumble, I could hear my own strangled peanut of a voice screeching "No, please, it's the dog, and it's not mine, it's Imogen Edwards's!" Rothko turned to me with curled lips. "Imogen's not going to be happy with you at all," he said.
Before I had time to gawp, he flew past me toward the park gate. "Leg it, you fat fuck," he laughed. I followed in an anoxic blaze. People were running after us. A bus was pulling off twenty yards from the gate. I overtook the dog and launched us into the old ladies' plea section. He leapt onto the seat beside me. "What the fuck is this!?" he said. "I only go in taxis! You can't expect me to look after your legal case in these conditions." "Legal case?" I said. He eyed me directly. "Just think about all the things that you've been doing wrong. Someone's got to defend them." A tiny electric cube of panic. I began to recall the time when I was seven, and a gerbil had started swearing at me. Amongst other things it had told me that my dad was having an affair. I had told my mum, and soon afterwards the family had split up. "Are you the gerbil?" I said. "Now you're losing it," he replied. "Yes?" said the conductor. I had no money. "Ask him if we can pay on account," said Rothko. "Can we pay on account?" I said. the conductor eyed me suspiciously. "Pay your fare now or get off." "Tell him you'll only pay if he can prove you will definitely get to the next stop," suggested the dog. I did. The conductor looked at me as if his mother had just walked out of my nose. "Tell him I'm a lawyer," the dog said. I knew I shouldn't, but I did that too. At the next stop, we were shown the pavement. I looked at Rothko. "Why are you talking?" I said. "Dogs don't talk." "So why are you asking me?" he replied. "Don't try to be clever," I said. "No, I AM being clever." "Well, that's ridiculous," I said, "because you're only a dog." "Well, if I am 'only a dog,' then you should be able to answer my question easily." I know about panic attacks. I know I have to find something very mundane and ordinary to do to talk myself down. "Have some tea," said the dog. "I know that, I know that!" I said. The café was full of people smoking and eating bacon and eggs. The dog ast down next to me. He turned to me and said "I want a full English breakfast." "Stop freaking me out," I muttered. His lip curled with disdain. Get me some fucking breakfast, pipplepants." Then a new voice. "Get that dog off my seat!" The café lady was angry. "Tell that fat cow I sit in a seat every day of my life, and I'm not shifting now." said the dog. "Are you going to get him off?" asked the woman, more angrily. "I'm very sorry," I said. "He says he's my lawyer, but I'm still not sure. However, I don't want to risk throwing my lawyer onto the floor, bearing in mind the number of things I've done wrong." She glowered. I felt a situation happening, but I didn't know where it was coming from. "Um, are you angry with me because he just called you a fat cow?" I said. In the street, Rothko called me a hapless tit. He told me he had an empty stomach, and was now unlikely to get a single detail of my case correct. I said I didn't care, because since I'd known he was my lawyer, things had only got worse. Our bickering turned to swearing as we levelled with a church gate. A family was getting out of a car. Rothko cheered up when he saw this. "That little girl has got a snotty hankie in her pocket," he said, and tugged me towards her. Why couldn't I control anything? The little girl squeaked with delight as Rothko stuck his nose in her pocket. Her mother patted him on the head and asked me how old he was. The dog said he was five. "He says he's five, but in fact he's seven," I said. The mother looked at me and decided I was joking. Rothko rooted for the hankie, but the pocket was small. "Sorry about him," I said. "He's not a very good dog, but he's an even worse lawyer." The father smiled politely, and urged them towards the church. "Leave them now," I said. The little girl turned back. Rothko made to follow. "Look, if you don't stop this now, you're fired!" I shouted. the family were looking at me now. I knew it was bad for people to see me threatening to sack a dog, so I repeated myself, but this time in dog language. The father shook his head sadly, and whisked his family inside.
It was a christening. The tissue girl and her parents had joined the others round the font. A priest was holding a baby over the water, and the baby was shrieking like ripping metal. "I can do that," said Rothko, and began to howl idiotically. "Sh!" I said, and tried to hide it with a cough. "Is there a problem back there?" asked the priest. A fat drumming now, in my skull cheeks. "You're ruining this christening," I said. "It's not me, it's you," said the dog. "What?" "Well, I only came in here so you could seek forgiveness from God." "What for?" "For what you are about to do," said the dog, and looked me straight in the eye.
I felt sick as diesel. "Is something wrong?" said the priest. "Say there is," said the dog. "There is," I mumbled. All eyes turned to me. "What?" Hot iron in my nose. "Look at the baby," said the dog. I looked at the baby. Its head swivelled towards me. Then it screamed. "Tell them my mother is a whore, and the priest fiddles with children!" "Oh, now look what you've done," I said to the dog. "I've seen his notes," said the dog. "It's true; you must tell them." "What's the problem?" said the priest. Ball lightning in my stomach. The baby still staring at me. "Go on." "You rummage the kids' pants, and she receives the cocks of paying men!" The priest's mouth fell open. The baby said "Sucker." Its father started towards me. "The baby told me!" I stammered. Rothko lurched towards the little girl, who was waving her tissue. The baby's father grabbed me by the neck. The dog leapt. The girl's mother plucked her from the floor, and the dog clattered into the priest, knocking the baby from his hands. The baby's mother screamed. The father released my neck and spun towards his wife. I looked at the dog. "Ha ha. You're doing all this!" he laughed, and grabbed the tissue from the girl's hand. The baby was still in the air. I looked at the dog again. "What the fuck do I do now!?" "Don't ask me, I'm only a dog!" said the dog, and pelted down the nave, through the porch, down the path, and straight into the road, where he slapped straight into a van, staggered around, and fell over.
Manic birdsong. I dropped to my knees in the road. Blood oozed from his mouth. "I can't defend you now, you know," he said. Sparrows singing the Dies Irć. "Could you recommend someone?" I asked. "Try the baby." "Really?" "Oh, yes," he said, and smiled. Then he went quite quiet and still. I managed to crawl back to Imogen's house. The baby had not been much use, but its father had given some advice to the soft tissues in my face and groin. I lay outside her front door, and wondered what to do. "The best thing would be to write a note," I said to myself. "I'll write a note, and explain everything." My note said:
IMOGEN: "Thanks for Imogen... sorry about the dog... the duck was in bits... the things, talking as well but told me not to say, but I followed it... The car did it... The keys are in the wrong half... I went away, it's all right please." ...Rothko..? ...Rothko? ...Rothko! ...Rothko! ...Rothko!? ...Rothko! ...Rothko! ...Rothko!
HIM: I know that's what I wrote because I just found the note in my pocket. Here's another. This one's to me. It's from the dead dog. It's a very angry note. Here's one from the dog's mother, now. She's even crosser.
I don't go to the park now. The ducks tell everyone things about me. They tell everyone I thought a dog could talk. "Shut up," I said when they did, but they didn't, and I hate them now. The ducks.
VOICE: It was a Sunday when they found Mark Goodier lying on the floor/ He had gnawed like a gerbil through the cable of the coffee machine/ He was naked, he was naked, it was embarrassing for me.
ACTOR: I think that my biggest fear right now is definitely getting the Gush.
DIRECTOR: As a director, I've seen the Gush close up, and it's not pretty. A guy just gets locked into an ejaculation that doesn't stop until he's dead.
ACTOR: The first guy that ever was to get it was Dean Dorsey. I've seen the clip. He's doing the snot shot, and suddenly there's this real panic on his face, and he just keeps staring down at himself whimpering "oh my god, oh my god," like a sad voice, freaky clown. He's coming with the tears in his voice, but they are not there. It is bad.
DIRECTOR: I threw ice on his balls... tried to destimulate him with a dog carcass. But he just kept popping the protein.
ACTOR: It took him three days to die, and all the time he was firing the fuck juice, and he was begging to be shot.
DIRECTOR: A spunk expert explained to me that the whole body just gets consumed in producing semen. You can eat all day and all night, but you can't keep up when you're shooting the moisturiser like a fucked up oilrig.
ACTOR: He was just twenty kilos when he died. That is maybe about as big as two or three squirrels. And when they cremated him, they couldn't burn his testicles.
DIRECTOR: A guy with the gush is suddenly in big demand for cream scenes all over town. There are special agents for it. If you see a black limo with a flashing light and a siren, chances are that's a jam waiting with some poor guy in the back, groin going off like a sick snake, Gush agent clutching a supply of dick nappies, trying to cram in as many jobs as possible before the spunk turns red.
ACTOR: It goes red, and then it turns black, and that's when you'd better watch that you're not piling the pearls into Saint Peter's dress! No, but it is not funny at all. In the reality perception it is tragic, and that is where it is. That's why I am doing only soft cock porn now. These scenes where you just push it in with your thumb, or a winklepokel, and it is flaccid.
DIRECTOR: A lot of guys are going invertebrate now. But it's not easy to keep jelly when you're in a woman.
ACTOR: It's not much fun, soft cock. It is like trying to tighten up a screw with a maggot. And keeping the lob in a sexy twat... that is very tricky. But I guess in the end, it is beating squirting up your squit to death.
DR PERLIN: Come in.
MAN: Morning, Doctor.
DR PERLIN: Good morning. Do sit down on the chair opposite my chair. Now, what seems to be the problem?
MAN: Bad stomach.
DR PERLIN: Mm-hmm?
MAN: I've had it for about six days.
DR PERLIN: Right.
MAN: Thought it was food poisoning, something like that, but... there's a bit of a bug going round, isn't there?
DR PERLIN: Yes. I'm just going to change into some children's clothes for this, okay? So give me a couple of ticks. Carry on, I can hear you.
MAN: Oh... Well, I've had repeating cramps in my stomach...
DR PERLIN: Yes?
MAN: I've been sick quite a lot as well...
DR PERLIN: Any temperature?
MAN: Yeah, I still feel quite hot and cold...
DR PERLIN: Uh-huh? Ooh! These shorts go right up the cleft. I'll get caught round the legs if I don't watch it. Mm. ...Right, so, hot and cold, yes?
MAN: Um... yes, sometimes I actually have a temperature, and sometimes it just feels like it. It was 102 on Saturday.
DR PERLIN: I'm sorry. Look, I really can't concentrate if you keep on staring at me all the time.
MAN: Your shirt, er...
DR PERLIN: What's the matter, you've never seen a stomach before?
MAN: Um... yeah...
DR PERLIN: Look, if you can't stop gawping, I'll have to go back behind the screen.
MAN: ...
DR PERLIN: Right, so... temperature?
MAN: Yeah, it keeps coming and going, but mainly, um, just being sick a lot. I can't eat...
DR PERLIN: Hang on, I've just had a thought. Since I'm behind the screen, I could be wearing nothing, couldn't I?
MAN: Well...
DR PERLIN: Carry on.
MAN: Well... that's it, really. I just can't keep anything down. ...D-Doctor, are you undressing now?
DR PERLIN: Yes, of course I am.
MAN: Oh... I don't think I...
DR PERLIN: You seem to be obsessed with what I'm wearing. Do you want me to write that down on your notes?
MAN: N-no... I don't.
DR PERLIN: Well, let's get back to your germ, shall we?
MAN: ...Yeah.
DR PERLIN: Now, what sort of food have you tried? If you hear any sharp noises, that's just me whacking my arse with a stick.
MAN: Oh... Right, I just... I've just had plain things, (whack) really, don't (whack) feel very hungry (whack) at all.
DR PERLIN: Mm? (whack) Ooh! (whack) MAN: So... when I'm sick, (whack) it's just very little... (whack) water comes out.
DR PERLIN: Yes, what was that about liquid? (whack) MAN: Water... (whack) and a bit of milk.
DR PERLIN: Hey, I've had an idea. What if you whack me? Er, you'd get a better swing...
MAN: No... no, I don't think I...
DR PERLIN: You don't have to look. Just take this, and whack me like a racehorse.
MAN: Um, w... w-would that help me?
DR PERLIN: Oh, yes.
MAN: Really?
DR PERLIN: Well, do you want to get better or do you want to be sick for the rest of your life?
MAN: Um... better, please.
DR PERLIN: Well, off you go. Medium beating. Now, any diarrhoea?
MAN:(whack) Yeah...
DR PERLIN: Bit faster.
MAN:(whack) Um, it's quite bad, (whack) actually.
DR PERLIN:(whack) Sorry, (whack) you'll have to speak up. (whack) I'm getting a drumming in my ears.
MAN:(whack) ...quite bad diarrhoea... (whack) DR PERLIN: Yes? (whack) You'll have to give the nurse a sample. (whack) Also, I'll prescribe something for the diarrhoea and vomiting. (whack) MAN: Right. (whack) DR PERLIN: You can stop now. (whack) MAN: Right.
DR PERLIN: I'm going to write your prescription out at the desk over there.
MAN: Okay.
DR PERLIN: You'll have to look the other way, I've got a bit of a boner.
MAN: R-right...
DR PERLIN: ...Right, there you are. Pop in to see the nurse next door and she'll sort you out.
MAN: Alright.
DR PERLIN: Bye.
BOSS: I really am very impressed.
EMPLOYEE: Thank you.
BOSS: I think it's the best annual report I've given anybody.
EMPLOYEE: Thanks very much.
BOSS: Your record has been consistently first-class for five years.
EMPLOYEE: Well..!
BOSS: Amazing.
EMPLOYEE: Thanks! Um... I don't suppose..?
BOSS: You do know that I'm going to have to fire you?
EMPLOYEE: Um...
BOSS: I couldn't bear to watch you go off the boil.
EMPLOYEE: Fire..?
BOSS: It would be too painful.
EMPLOYEE: But... I could do better, I...
BOSS: But what if you didn't?
EMPLOYEE: Well, I'd...
BOSS: It would be unbearable. It would be, I don't know, like getting cancer in your best organ.
EMPLOYEE: ...
BOSS: I'm sorry, Gavin. You'll have to clear your desk by the end of tomorrow.
EMPLOYEE: Well...
BOSS: I'm really sorry. This is really upsetting for me.
EMPLOYEE: ...For YOU?
BOSS: Of course!
EMPLOYEE: Will you give me references?
BOSS: Sorry.
EMPLOYEE: What..?
BOSS: I'm going to have to give you really shit ones.
EMPLOYEE: But...
BOSS: I don't want anyone else having you, do I?
EMPLOYEE: Jesus!
BOSS: It's horrible, I know, it's... fucking awful, but...
EMPLOYEE: What am I going to do?
BOSS: Move away somewhere. Miles away.
EMPLOYEE: For god's sake..!
BOSS: I'm already sacking you. Don't force me to hound you out of your house with bricks and men.
EMPLOYEE: Well, I... I just don't know what to say.
BOSS: Just go.
EMPLOYEE: ...
BOSS: I'll treasure these, Gavin.
EMPLOYEE: ...bloody unbelievable!
BOSS: They'll be a paradigm to new recruits!
EMPLOYEE:(exits) BOSS: I'm going to read them again and again and shake my head about all this.
MICHAEL ALEXANDER ST JOHN: Surrounded by screaming sick children, Kevin Greening farts like a sax, and laughs to see the air full of chemotherapy wigs and bald children.
ADRIAN: M-my name's Adrian Pavis. I keep canaries. I've got seven at the moment, but this one here is slightly different. Er, I've always believed she wasn't a canary at all. She was, um, a young man trapped in the body of a canary. So I've done this. It's the... private parts of a sixteen year old who was killed in a car crash. ...You can see his hair was blond and quite downy, which... rather suits the bird, I think. Sometimes I see a sort of little smile on her beak. ...I just rub the glans a little... There, she's... it's a lovely smile, see? That's nice...
CHRIS: When rage and darkness shouting swell and burst oo lips, and still you scream, until you shouted them off...
When friends and strangers both be strange to you, so there be nix between them all, and river mouth...
And when oo platform stand, and then see train, and think "here comes my switch off, all off, off, switch, off, jump now, down dangle!"
And when ee find ee fingers dialling friends, although you long since lost the line, and mouth speak half a conversation that always ends as you are chucked, and sacked, and sobbing like oo sissy blubber-weeps.
Then welcome.
Aa, oo zis welcome, in Blue Jam (echoes)