DUNG/ DEAD INDIAN
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.