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: (Rita Davies) We had the most marvellous holiday. It was absolutely fantastic.


Host: (M.P.) 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 flat, which opens straight into the dining room. Standing at the door is a large grubby man carrying a tub on his shoulder. There are flies buzzing around him. He walks straight in.


Man: (J.C.) 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 right, 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: 'Salright. 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: (G.C.) Dead Indian.


Host: What?


Gas Man: Have you recently 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: (E.I.) 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: (T.J.) 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: 'STOP-PRESS'


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




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