|Goon type script, newly partially writted
||[May. 21st, 2004|12:16 am]
Greenslade: This is the BBC Light Programme, and may I say, a Merry Christmas to you all.
Seagoon: You may, young Wallace, well you may.
Greenslade: Thank you, kind sir.
Seagoon: You may, but you're likely to get a belt 'round that greasy fat nut of yours.
Greenslade: Why, pronounced (grams: long drawn out "why", half-speed) is that?
Seagoon: Because it's May, y'fool!
Greenslade: What, what, what, what, what? Mind what you say sir, or I shall tell the tale of -
Sellers: (hern voice) Agent 006 and 7/8ths, or..
Sgt. Throat: The Prime Minister's Knees.
Greenslade: Cor blimey, mate.
(Orch: tatty chord)
Seagoon: My name is Seagoon. Ned Seagoon, Agent 006 and 7/8ths Stomach. Our tale begins in the year scrinshun
scranshun scrulls, in which I met a human being.
Seagoon: But only just. Ahem. Faithful butler type Eccles, you great steaming nit. What news from England fair?
Eccles: Um.... I resign!
Seagoon: Shut up Eccles!
Eccles: Shut up Eccles! Oh, wait a minute. I'm Eccles! (pause) Shut up, me!
Seagoon: You silly, twisted boy.
Grytpype-Thynne: Just a moment, Neddie. That's my line.
Seagoon: Belt up, you're not in yet.
Grytpype-Thynne: Very well. With a piece of wood, and that huge bloated Welsh body of yours, I make this sound.
(FX- bagpipes being struck)
Seagoon: Hallo, folks! Calling folks! Hallo, folks! With my leather voice cone projector, I make this sound. OWWWW!
Eccles: And da audience is makin’ this sound -
Seagoon: Quite right, Eccles, quite right. Now, o thin legged chattering wreck, what news from England fair?
Eccles: Dere was a man this morning, what said he had a message.
Seagoon: What might that be?
Eccles: Close cover before striking.
Seagoon: How jolly for him.
Eccles: Yah, and he also gave me this uncooked leather sock what looks like a gramophone record for you to shove dem dirty great clod bashers of yours in and play it on de record type playin' thing.
Seagoon: Dear listeners.. such an elaborate disguise of a recording could only mean one thing - a secret mission for yours truly.
Eccles: How do you know dat?
Seagoon: Because it says so in the Times - "Lovely hairy top secret agent Sneezebloom to go on secret mission, look for uncooked sock". (giggles)
Milligan: We've got to get that typist replaced, you know. (Secombe laughs loudly)
Seagoon: Cease that naughty modern rhythym type improvising, Mr. Milligna.
Eccles: Alright, den. (grams: newspaper rustling) Page one headline. You're movin' up in the world.
Seagoon: I should hope so. I was voted Top Idiot of 1773!
Eccles: But this is 1954!
Seagoon: I know. That should give you some idea of my importance.
Eccles: Yer'd better be off, then.
(Orch: Bloodnok's theme)
(Grams: varying explosions, rattles, crashes, and steam whistles, concluding with a drawn out recording of a "quack". All of this over random Bloodnok exclamations.)
Bloodnok: OohhEEeohHHohhOh! OHHHheeeoOOHhHHohHoh.. OhhHHh... Ohhhh, dear. That's the last time I have curried pickled eggs for breakfast, I tell you. (Grams: knocking) OhheEEeohh! Oh, dear, someone's knocking in the direction of knock! I suppose I'd better open the door.
Milligan: Aye, or this'll be one bloody short show!
Bloodnok: You say that as though it were a bad thing! (Secombe giggles) Come in, within, or in a higher key - FIRE!
(Grams: cannon firing)
Seagoon: How very pleasant for you.
Bloodnok: Why, it's little Neddie, me old batman. (Orch: tatty version of the Adam West "Batman" theme) Not that sort of Batman, you.. you silly Mr. Stott type charlie, you.
Bluebottle: Den what about me? (audience applause) Enter junior trainee boy superhero Bloonbottle. Pauses for audience applause, not a sausage. Moves left, adjusts cardboard mask an' manly cape made from mum's old drawers. (grams: slap stick) Eeehee! You nutted me on my nut. Dat can harm a lad, you know.
Seagoon: Bluebottle, you spotty little cardboard and string ragamuffin, you are going to accompany me on a very important mission.
Bluebottle: I will do that, yes I will! Strikes heroic pose - strike, strike. (grams: slap stick, twice) Yeehee! Not like that, you twit!