Dung / Dead Indian

Скетч:

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Sketch:

(Cut to a smart dinner party. There are two couples in evening dress at the table. Candles burning on the polished wood, a fire burning in the grate. Muted music and sophisticated lighting.)

Hostess: We had the most marvellous holiday. It was absolutely fantastic.

Host: Absolutely wonderful.

Hostess: Michael, you tell them about it.

Host: No, darling, you tell them.

Hostess: You do it so much better.

(The doorbell rings.)

Host: Excuse me a moment.

(The host goes and answers the door of the fiat, which opens straight into the dining room. Standing at the door is a large grubby man carrying a tin bath on his shoulder. There are flies buzzing around him. He walks straight in.)

Man: Dung, sir.

Host: What?

Man: We've got your dung.

Host: What dung?

Man: Your dung. Three hundredweight of heavy droppings. Where do you want it? ('he looks round for a likely place)

Host: I didn't order any dung.

Man: Yes you did, sir. You ordered it through the Book of the Month Club.

Host: Book of the Month Club?

Man: That's fight, sir. You get 'Gone with the Wind', 'Les Miserables' by Victor Hugo, 'The French Lieutenant's Woman' and with every third book you get dung.

Host: I didn't know that when I signed the form.

Man: Well, no, no. It wasn't on the form - they found it wasn't good for business. Anyway, we've got three hundredweight of dung in the van. Where do you want it?

Host: Well, I don't think we do. We've no garden.

Man: Well, it'll all fit in here - it's top-class excrement.

Host: You can't put it in here, we've having a dinner party!

Man: 'S alright. I'll put it on the telly.

(He brings it into the dining room. The guests ignore him.)

Host: Darling… there's a man here with our Book of the Month Club dung.

Hostess: We've no room, dear.

Man: Well, how many rooms have you got, then?

Host: Well, there's only this room, the bedroom, a spare room.

Man: Oh well, I'll tell you what, move everything into the main bedroom, then you can use the spare room as a dung room.

(The doorbell goes and there standing at the door which hasn't been closed is a gas board official with a dead Indian over his shoulders.)

Host: Yes.

Gas Man: Dead Indian.

Host: What?

Gas Man: Have you recendy bought a new cooker, sir?

Host: Yes.

Gas Man: Ah well, this is your free dead Indian, as advertised…

Host: I didn't see that in the adverts…

Gas Man: No, it's in the very small print, you see, sir, so as not to affect the sales.

Host: We've no room.

Man: That's all right - you can put the dead Indian in the spare room on top of the dung.

Dead Indian: Me … heap dizzy.

Host: He's not dead!

Gas Man: Oh well, that's probably a faulty cooker.

(The phone rings. The wife goes to answer it.)

Man: Have you, er… you read and enjoyed 'The French Lieutenant's Woman', then?

Host: No.

Man: No… still, it's worth it for the dung, isn't it?

Hostess: Darling, it's the Milk Marketing Board. For every two cartons of single cream we get the M4 motorway.

(Cut to host and hostess standing bewildered in the middle of a motorway. Beside them is a steaming pile of dung, and a dead Indian. They look round in amazement. A police car roars up to them and two policemen leap out.)

Policeman: Are you Mr and Mrs P. Forbes of 7, the Studios, Elstree?

Host: Yes.

Policeman: Right, well, get in the car. We've won you in a police raffle.

(Speeded up, they are bundled into the car. Cut to inspector.)

Inspector: Yes! This couple is just one of the prizes in this year's Police Raffle. Other prizes include two years for breaking and entering, a crate of search warrants, a 'What's all this then?' T-shirt and a weekend for two with a skinhead of your own choice.

(Caption on screen: 'STOP-PRESS')

Voice Over: And that's not allr Three fabulous new prizes have just been added, a four-month supply of interesting . undergarments (picture), a fully motorized pig (picture?), and a hand-painted scene of Arabian splendour, complete with silly walk.