MRS NIGGERBAITER EXPLODES/ VICAR/SALESMAN
    

Pull out to reveal that the ‘How To Do It’ set is in one corner of a stockbroker-belt sitting room. Two ladies are sitting by the fire looking at a photo album.   

    

Mrs. Nigger-Baiter: (M.P.) Oh, yes, he's such a clever little boy, just like his father.   

    

Mrs. S: (T.J.) D'you think so, Mrs. Nigger-Baiter?   

    

Mrs. Nigger-Baiter: Oh yes, spitting image.   

    

The door opens. The son comes in.   

    

Son: (J.C.) Good afternoon, mother. Good afternoon, Mrs. Nigger-Baiter.   

    

Mrs. Nigger-Baiter: Ooh, he's walking already!   

    

Mrs. S: Yes, he's such a clever little boy, aren't you? Coochy coochy coo . . .   

    

Mrs. Nigger-Baiter: Hello, coochy coo...   

    

Mrs. S: Hello, hello... (they chuck him under the chin)   

    

Mrs. Nigger-Baiter: Oochy coochy. (the son smiles a little tight smile) Look at him laughing... ooh, he's a chirpy little fellow. Isn't he a chirpy little fellow ... eh? eh? Does he talk Does he talk, eh?   

    

Son: Of course I talk, I'm Minister for Overseas Development.   

    

Mrs. Nigger-Baiter: Ooh, he's a clever little boy - he's a clever little boy. (gets out a rattle) Do you like your rattle? Do you like your rattle? Look at his little eyes following it ... look at his iggy piggy piggy little eyeballs eh... oo... he's got a tubby tum-tum. Oh, he's got a tubby tum-tum.   

    

Son: (whilst Mrs. Nigger-Baiter is talking) Mother, could I have a quick cup of tea please. I have an important statement on Rhodesia to make in the Commons at six.   

    

Sound of an explosion out of vision. Cut to reveal Mrs. Nigger-Baiter's chair charred and smoking. Mrs. Nigger-Baiter is no longer there. The upholstery is smouldering gently.   Mrs. Niggerbaiter explodes

    

Mrs. S: Oh, Mrs. Nigger-Baiter's exploded.   

    

Son: Good thing, too.   

    

Mrs. S: She was my best friend.   

    

Son: Oh, mother, don't be so sentimental. Things explode every day.   

    

Mrs. S: Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, I didn't really like her that much.   

    

The doorbell rings. Mrs. S goes to the door. A vicar with a suitcase.   

    

Vicar: Hello, I'm your new vicar. Can I interest you in any encyclopaedias?   

    

Mrs. S: Ah, no thank you. We're not Church people, thank you.   

    

The vicar opens his suitcase to reveal it is packed with brushes.   

    

Vicar: (E.I.) How about brushes? Nylon or bristle? Strong-tufted, attractive colours.   

    

Mrs. S: No - really, thank you, vicar.   

    

Vicar: Oh dear ... Turkey? Cup final tickets?   

    

Mrs. S: No, no really, we're just not religious thank you.   

    

Vicar: Oh, well. Bye bye.   

    

Mrs. S: Bye bye, vicar. (she shuts the door, as she returns to seat the vicar pops his head round the door again)   

    

Vicar: Remember, if you do want anything... jewellery, Ascot water heaters...   

    

Mrs. S: Thank you, vicar. (he goes) It's funny, isn't it? How your best friend can just blow up like that? I mean, you wouldn't think it was medically possible, would you?   

    

Cut to a doctor in a posh consulting room.   

    

Doctor: (G.C.) This is where Mrs. Shazam was so wrong. Exploding is a perfectly normal medical phenomenon. In many fields of medicine nowadays, a dose of dynamite can do a world of good. For instance, athlete's foot - an irritating condition - can be cured by applying a small charge of TNT between each toe. (doorbell) Excuse me. (he opens the door)   

    

Vicar: Hello, I'm your new vicar, can I interest you in any of these watches, pens or biros? (exhibits the collection inside his jacket)   

    

Doctor: No ... I'm not religious, I'm afraid.   

    

Vicar: Oh, souvenirs, badges... a little noddy dog for the back of the car?   

    

Doctor: No thank you, vicar. Good morning.   

    

Vicar: Oh, morning.   

    

He shuts the door.   

    

Doctor: Now, many of the medical profession are sceptical about my work. They point to my record of treatment of athlete's foot sufferers - eighty-four dead, sixty-five severely wounded and twelve missing believed cured. But then, people laughed at Bob Hope, people laughed at my wife when she wrapped herself up in greaseproof paper and hopped into the Social Security office, but that doesn't mean that Pasteur was wrong! Look, I'll show you what I mean. (goes to a wall diagram of two skeletons and taps one with a rod)   

    

Animation:  

Skeleton: Watch it, mate. I'm not going to stay round here getting poked and prodded all day. (clips a face on and moves off the diagram) I'm off... I've got a decent body, all I get is poked and prodded in the chest. (moving through countryside) Well, I'm off. I'm going to get another line of work. (goes past various warning signs)   

    

Voice: Watch it!   

    

Voice: Don't go any further!   

    

Voice: Turn back!   

    

Voice: Stop!   

   

The sprocket holes at the side of the film come into view.   

    

Voice: Stop! Oh, please stop!   

    

The skeleton moves past the sprocket holes and falls into blank space.   

    

Voice: Oh, my god, he's fallen off the edge of the cartoon.   

    

Voice: Well, so much for that link.    

     

 

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