INT. NEWSDESK. DAY
NEWS PRESENTOR SAT AT DESK. WE CATCH HIM HALF WAY THROUGH A SENTENCE.
NP: …which is why Chelsea have one the league on expenditure. We’ll catch up on today’s sport later, but now over to Tosh McDonald in Baghdad.
EXT. BAGHDAD. DAY.
A LARGE BUILDING IS SOME DISTANCE BEHIND THE COL.
A BRITISH COL. (BC) IS BEING INTERVIEWED BY TOSH MCDONALD (TC) NEWS PRESENTOR.
TC: Thank you Colonel Blakely for giving us this chance to meet you in what must be a busy time for the British Armed Forces in Iraq.
BC: Sorry, was that a question?
TC: Well, not as such. Colonel, many people in the press and in the public are questioning whether the rebuilding of Iraq is meeting with any success.
BC: I’m not following you Tish…
TC: Tosh
BC: … Tosh that’s what I said. Was that a question?
TC: Well, no, but would you like to comment on the rebuilding of Iraq and how you see it going?
BC: Well Tiff,
TC: Tosh
BC: Tosh, we’ve been here for many years now, and I think it’s an excellent time to start rebuilding.
TC: Yes, it’s about the rebuilding that’s happened that we the public would like to know about from you Colonel, as you are in the field seeing it happening.
BC: Am I? Yes, well I suppose I am somewhat closer than the people back home as it were so I do see some building going on.
TC: So are we the Allies making headway against the wave of terrorist attacks and implanting an infrastructure, in the face of what many are saying is turning into a civil war?
THE BUILDING BEHIND THE COL. BLOWS UP.
TC : Christ!
SCREAMS AND SHOUTS ECHO FROM THE BUILDING AND SURROUNDING AREA.
THE COL. REMAINS UNMOVED AND SMILING.
TC: A terrorist attack! We should move out of the area. This doesn’t look safe.
BC: Terrorist attack?
THE COL. LOOKS BEHIND BRIEFLY
BC: Oh! I see the confusion
TC: Confusion?!
BC: Yes well, some of the locals are a bit sick and tired of waiting for the rebuilding to start
TC: Meaning?
BC: They lend a hand
TC: Lend a hand?!
BC: You know, with the demolition and the ‘blowing of things up’, as it were. You can’t rebuild unless there’s something destroyed now can you?
TC: Surely Colonel you’re not suggesting that what happened just now was a controlled demolition?
BC: Well, not controlled as such, but it’s ever so hard to communicate when the infrastructure isn’t in place for a cohesive amalgamation of resources and expenditure.
TC: Meaning?
BC: Well, we don’t speak their language.
TC: You can’t be serious
BC: Perfectly serious. We’ve tried asking them to blow up specific things, but they seem to have taken too many lessons from our American Allies and just go ahead and knock down whatever looks out of place.
AN ANGRY MOB OF IRAQI’S ARE SURGING TOWARDS THE INTERVIEW, WAILING.
TC: I think we should leave now
BC: Leave? Just as the training is about to start?
TC: Training? Oh sod this, let’s get going!
THE CAMERA CREW AND TC MOVE OFF BUT KEEP THE COLONEL IN PICTURE.
BC (SHOUTING): We’re training their army! They haven’t quite got the hang of not shooting at us, but I think it’s just the language problem!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
A Rifleman in Winter
Corporal Leo Bunin’s breath came out in a cloud in the ice cold air of the Russian winter. He had to constantly move his fingers, the tips of which were not covered by his woollen gloves, incase the skin froze on the metal of his German rifle. It was a fine rifle, one he had found under a body on the decimated outskirts of Stalingrad next to the enormous grain silo. The craftsmanship of the rifle was impressive; it’s wooden stock smooth and polished, the metal seamless. He had fired it three times. He hadn’t hit anything that he had intended to, but Leo was aware of his own capabilities and regarded this as a failure of his own skill as a marksman, rather than the quality of the tool he was using. And it was a tool. If he thought of it as a tool, it made it easier to fire the thing, than if he believed it to be the weapon it was. On the three occasions he had pulled the trigger, a wave of relief passed over him when he missed.
But now he was lining up to shoot the rifle for a fourth time. He was lying on the embankment of a ditch, his left eye closed as he lined the shot, his breathing steadying as he tried to keep still. If it wasn’t for the dreadful cold, it would have been easier to stop his shaking, but his clothes were inadequate to stop it permeating through.
In a copse of trees his target moved. A dear, startled already, by who knows what, was ready to sprint away. He had seconds to shoot before the moment was too late. He squeezed the trigger. A figure dropped from a tree but too late the dear had sprung away deeper into the thick of trees. His bullet must have wildly missed as the man was stood exactly where the dear had been.
“You Russian’s, you know how to cope with the cold. In Germany we don’t get the winters like this. It is hell.” Said Heiko. Leo laughed and bit into the roasted meat. Actual meat! Their combined thinking and organisation had given them a proper meal, and a shelter to keep warm in. In the silence of eating, a Stuka could be heard diving, even from this distance.
“I hate that sound.” Said Heiko. “It scares the hell out of me.”
“That’s what it’s supposed to do. The only thing I’m scared of is everything” he bit into the meat. After a moment he paused in his chewing. “It’s your plane though. Why are you scared?”
“It’s not my plane.”
“It is. German’s built it. You are German.”
“I can just about say I own this watch. But when I am shot, it won’t be my watch. It will be whoever ransacks my corpse. I didn’t make it. Someone who made this has a little bit of ownership in it. But does it matter if he’s German of Russian?”
“If he was Russian it would be worthless! Stuff we make always falls apart!” He laughed and Heiko laughed to. Heiko relaxed warm and full. The fire blazed briefly, throwing sparks into the air like a miniature volcano.
“But that plane. I didn’t make it. I haven’t flown it. I haven’t even seen it.” He craved a cigarette. His full belly would be better for it, he knew. “How do I know who it belongs to? German yes, but not my Germany. Probably never again.”
But now he was lining up to shoot the rifle for a fourth time. He was lying on the embankment of a ditch, his left eye closed as he lined the shot, his breathing steadying as he tried to keep still. If it wasn’t for the dreadful cold, it would have been easier to stop his shaking, but his clothes were inadequate to stop it permeating through.
In a copse of trees his target moved. A dear, startled already, by who knows what, was ready to sprint away. He had seconds to shoot before the moment was too late. He squeezed the trigger. A figure dropped from a tree but too late the dear had sprung away deeper into the thick of trees. His bullet must have wildly missed as the man was stood exactly where the dear had been.
“You Russian’s, you know how to cope with the cold. In Germany we don’t get the winters like this. It is hell.” Said Heiko. Leo laughed and bit into the roasted meat. Actual meat! Their combined thinking and organisation had given them a proper meal, and a shelter to keep warm in. In the silence of eating, a Stuka could be heard diving, even from this distance.
“I hate that sound.” Said Heiko. “It scares the hell out of me.”
“That’s what it’s supposed to do. The only thing I’m scared of is everything” he bit into the meat. After a moment he paused in his chewing. “It’s your plane though. Why are you scared?”
“It’s not my plane.”
“It is. German’s built it. You are German.”
“I can just about say I own this watch. But when I am shot, it won’t be my watch. It will be whoever ransacks my corpse. I didn’t make it. Someone who made this has a little bit of ownership in it. But does it matter if he’s German of Russian?”
“If he was Russian it would be worthless! Stuff we make always falls apart!” He laughed and Heiko laughed to. Heiko relaxed warm and full. The fire blazed briefly, throwing sparks into the air like a miniature volcano.
“But that plane. I didn’t make it. I haven’t flown it. I haven’t even seen it.” He craved a cigarette. His full belly would be better for it, he knew. “How do I know who it belongs to? German yes, but not my Germany. Probably never again.”
Monday, November 24, 2008
Cumbria
I went to a boy’s school in Cumbria
It was lovely a place as could be,
Except for the school
With it’s misogynistic rule,
The forced runs, it’s food
And no heating.
I loved the fells and the becks,
And the views that stretch on forever,
Over hill and dale, midst summer or gale
It is beauty irrespective of weather.
But the boys I never did like,
Which inevitably led to many a fight,
So tucked in my room
I’d read through the gloom,
Till I loved thought over fought
beauty over cruelty,
and that which appeared to me true.
So fight if you like,
Mock and make light,
Of everything you see or hear,
But that which is dear
Is a self without fear
Forthright, loving, and kind.
It was lovely a place as could be,
Except for the school
With it’s misogynistic rule,
The forced runs, it’s food
And no heating.
I loved the fells and the becks,
And the views that stretch on forever,
Over hill and dale, midst summer or gale
It is beauty irrespective of weather.
But the boys I never did like,
Which inevitably led to many a fight,
So tucked in my room
I’d read through the gloom,
Till I loved thought over fought
beauty over cruelty,
and that which appeared to me true.
So fight if you like,
Mock and make light,
Of everything you see or hear,
But that which is dear
Is a self without fear
Forthright, loving, and kind.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Her Majesty’s Secret Service
‘Listen Agent 0001 your Majesty, we need you for a top secret mission for Queen and country’ said M. Agent 0001 Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II took the Marlboro red cigarette, her fiftieth of the day, out of her mouth and flicked it. The cigarette bounced off M’s forehead, spun through the air, out the open window and into the pram of a passing peasant’s baby.
‘M, I’m ready to do my duty for myself and my country.’ Said Her Majesty as she poured herself a double scotch with extra scotch, and topped it up with meths.
‘Shouldn’t you lay off the hard stuff agent 0001? It is six thirty in the morning” said M with concern.
‘Listen M,’ said the Queen angrily, ‘my life, my country, so we’re playing by my rules’ said the Queen as she let off an enormous postern blast of gas. ‘Sorry, I had eggs this morning’ said the Queen.
‘Very well Your Majesty Agent 0001 Queen Elizabeth II, let’s get down to brass tacks’ said M sternly. ‘We need you for a search and destroy mission.’ The Queen looked up from her copy of Private Eye.
‘Is it that bastard Murdoch? Is he using his media mogul power to influence the world into all out nuclear war where he will hide in his secret lair and then return when it’s all over to start a new world order?’
‘Not quite Agent 0001’ said M, ‘it’s far, far worse than that.’
Her Maj slipped her final throwing knife into her hair as a hair pin. Prince Philip was busy gutting a rabbit.
‘Phil, it’s the big one’ she said seriously.
‘Good luck. May the force be with you’ said Prince Philip in his high falsetto voice.
‘I do this for God and King Harry’ said Queenie as she back flipped out the kitchen door, down the corridor, up a flight of stairs, through the state dining room, along another corridor, right, down another corridor, right again, down a flight of stairs, along another corridor, left, more corridor, past the guards, out the front door over a corgi and somersaulted into her souped up Range Rover, through the sun roof.
‘Let’s roll, Fido’ said Agent 0001 Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.
‘Woof’ barked the corgi. The air was palpably stuck with seriousness. They both new that today was the day Barrack Obama would die for his evil schemes.
In his office M looked out the window. His eyes were staring at nothing as he thought of the danger the Queen was putting herself into. ‘What a woman’ he thought to himself appreciatively. Osama Bin Laden would soon be a bloody smear on his Welsh cave hideout and the world would be a safer place. Osama Bin Laden, after all this time would finally pay for his crimes.
Suddenly panic gripped him Something wasn’t right. Something deeply, deeply, worryingly, staggeringly, incredibly, amazingly wrong was nagging at his attention. Then it hit him. He lurched from his man size baby high chair and fell on the florr. Picking himself up, he rushed to his desk and started throwing papers all over the place as he looked for the secret mission note from Miss Moneypenny’s replacement.
Eventually he found the note, covered in her familiar green crayon.
Kill obama
My God, thought M. Queenie, Britain’s top secret agent, was going to kill the leader of the free world. He ran through to his receptionist’s room.
‘What have you done?!’ screamed M at his receptionist. Jade Goody looked up vacantly with a great big stupid smile on her fat face.
‘Watcha, how’s it going M? Eh? Like M & M’s your name is but only a half one like low fat M & M’s or something – ‘
‘You’ve gone and told the Queen to kill the wrong person! It was supposed to say Osama Bin Laden. You’ve written Obama you intellectual cripple!’ M was fuming. Damn these Back To Work Schemes. How he wished Miss Moneypenny was here with her style, charisma, sexiness, and above all, an IQ rating bigger than her shoe size.
‘You’re a fucking idiot, Jade Goody’ said M and left her to look at the pictures in her copy of The Beano.
‘M, I’m ready to do my duty for myself and my country.’ Said Her Majesty as she poured herself a double scotch with extra scotch, and topped it up with meths.
‘Shouldn’t you lay off the hard stuff agent 0001? It is six thirty in the morning” said M with concern.
‘Listen M,’ said the Queen angrily, ‘my life, my country, so we’re playing by my rules’ said the Queen as she let off an enormous postern blast of gas. ‘Sorry, I had eggs this morning’ said the Queen.
‘Very well Your Majesty Agent 0001 Queen Elizabeth II, let’s get down to brass tacks’ said M sternly. ‘We need you for a search and destroy mission.’ The Queen looked up from her copy of Private Eye.
‘Is it that bastard Murdoch? Is he using his media mogul power to influence the world into all out nuclear war where he will hide in his secret lair and then return when it’s all over to start a new world order?’
‘Not quite Agent 0001’ said M, ‘it’s far, far worse than that.’
Her Maj slipped her final throwing knife into her hair as a hair pin. Prince Philip was busy gutting a rabbit.
‘Phil, it’s the big one’ she said seriously.
‘Good luck. May the force be with you’ said Prince Philip in his high falsetto voice.
‘I do this for God and King Harry’ said Queenie as she back flipped out the kitchen door, down the corridor, up a flight of stairs, through the state dining room, along another corridor, right, down another corridor, right again, down a flight of stairs, along another corridor, left, more corridor, past the guards, out the front door over a corgi and somersaulted into her souped up Range Rover, through the sun roof.
‘Let’s roll, Fido’ said Agent 0001 Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.
‘Woof’ barked the corgi. The air was palpably stuck with seriousness. They both new that today was the day Barrack Obama would die for his evil schemes.
In his office M looked out the window. His eyes were staring at nothing as he thought of the danger the Queen was putting herself into. ‘What a woman’ he thought to himself appreciatively. Osama Bin Laden would soon be a bloody smear on his Welsh cave hideout and the world would be a safer place. Osama Bin Laden, after all this time would finally pay for his crimes.
Suddenly panic gripped him Something wasn’t right. Something deeply, deeply, worryingly, staggeringly, incredibly, amazingly wrong was nagging at his attention. Then it hit him. He lurched from his man size baby high chair and fell on the florr. Picking himself up, he rushed to his desk and started throwing papers all over the place as he looked for the secret mission note from Miss Moneypenny’s replacement.
Eventually he found the note, covered in her familiar green crayon.
Kill obama
My God, thought M. Queenie, Britain’s top secret agent, was going to kill the leader of the free world. He ran through to his receptionist’s room.
‘What have you done?!’ screamed M at his receptionist. Jade Goody looked up vacantly with a great big stupid smile on her fat face.
‘Watcha, how’s it going M? Eh? Like M & M’s your name is but only a half one like low fat M & M’s or something – ‘
‘You’ve gone and told the Queen to kill the wrong person! It was supposed to say Osama Bin Laden. You’ve written Obama you intellectual cripple!’ M was fuming. Damn these Back To Work Schemes. How he wished Miss Moneypenny was here with her style, charisma, sexiness, and above all, an IQ rating bigger than her shoe size.
‘You’re a fucking idiot, Jade Goody’ said M and left her to look at the pictures in her copy of The Beano.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Ode to an end to Love
She had big boobs, it’s true,
I loved them,
And that’s why I rue
The day she left,
With her marvellous chest
To live with some guy
From Gloucester.
I loved them,
And that’s why I rue
The day she left,
With her marvellous chest
To live with some guy
From Gloucester.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Rachel
Rachel
Rachel, you ain’t got no knees
It’s sad I know but please,
Don’t worry ‘bout having them gone
You sold them, you know that it’s wrong
Oh Rachel you said some stupid things
As you sold that Russian your limbs,
You said you weren’t going to miss ‘em
My friend, she just wouldn’t listen, as we sang
CHORUS
Rachel you ain’t got no knees
Rachel, why did you lease,
Your left leg to a muslim
Your right arm to a Jew,
The Catholic’s an appendix
And the Buddhist’s your poo?
Rachel, Rachel,
your two limbs too few!
Oh kids don’t hawk out your joints
To ASDA for nectar points,
Don’t swap them for cider
Or sell them for a fiver
Or you’ll be like Rachel with two limbs too few!
Rachel, you ain’t got no knees
It’s sad I know but please,
Don’t worry ‘bout having them gone
You sold them, you know that it’s wrong
Oh Rachel you said some stupid things
As you sold that Russian your limbs,
You said you weren’t going to miss ‘em
My friend, she just wouldn’t listen, as we sang
CHORUS
Rachel you ain’t got no knees
Rachel, why did you lease,
Your left leg to a muslim
Your right arm to a Jew,
The Catholic’s an appendix
And the Buddhist’s your poo?
Rachel, Rachel,
your two limbs too few!
Oh kids don’t hawk out your joints
To ASDA for nectar points,
Don’t swap them for cider
Or sell them for a fiver
Or you’ll be like Rachel with two limbs too few!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Work
They say time heals all: but tonight
The ticking clock hails nothing new,
But endless seconds echoed away 'till five o'clock;
The first timid trace of dawns' dim light.
The air is thick. It doesn't move, but hangs,
just as it does in the light. Theres no difference then
between night and day, no cut off point,
no spiritual sensation of a big bang
To mark something changed. Tomorrow,
The working day will be the same, the coffee,
Idle chatter with the clerk at her desk:
Days marked by an ever deepening sorrow.
The ticking clock hails nothing new,
But endless seconds echoed away 'till five o'clock;
The first timid trace of dawns' dim light.
The air is thick. It doesn't move, but hangs,
just as it does in the light. Theres no difference then
between night and day, no cut off point,
no spiritual sensation of a big bang
To mark something changed. Tomorrow,
The working day will be the same, the coffee,
Idle chatter with the clerk at her desk:
Days marked by an ever deepening sorrow.
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