Nevermore, Episode 3: To One In Paradise
EPISODE THREE - TO ONE IN PARADISE
By Christopher Fraser and Joseph O'Brien
Episode One recap, focusing on CLIVE this time.Black screen. We hear a doorbell.
FADE IN:
INT. CLIVE'S LIVING ROOM, LONDON, 2008
Scene opens to CLIVE's living room. CLIVE is sitting on a plush sofa in a typical bachelor pad. He looks tired, hasn't shaved in a few days and is visibly unkempt. The shot starts on his face, looking deep in concentration, and then zooms out to a nearly-completed pyramid of Jack Daniel's bottles. CLIVE is slowly placing bottles onto the pyramid.
The doorbell rings again. He winces and freezes, then relaxes again and continues placing bottles on the pyramid. He briefly smiles in his achievement, then the doorbell rings again. He sighs, stands up, and catches the table. The bottles all smash to the floor. He turns round slowly, and stares at them, then turns again and walks to the door, the camera following him.
He briefly rests his head against the door, then straightens up again and opens the door. Standing there is the POSTMAN, with a clipboard. He grimaces, but is immediately nervous. The camera turns to CLIVE, who is staring at the POSTMAN, looking more tired than before.
POSTMAN: (hesitantly) Got a package for you here, sir. Do you think you could sign here for me while I get it?
He hands the clipboard over. CLIVE stares at it blankly for a few moments, as if he doesn't know what it is, then picks up the pen and scrawls his signature over it.
The POSTMAN comes back up the steps and hands the package to CLIVE. CLIVE takes it and throws it down on the ground carelessly, never taking his eyes off the POSTMAN. The POSTMAN looks confused.
POSTMAN (CONT'D): (confused) Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?
Cut back to CLIVE, who stares at him, almost upset. He punches the POSTMAN in the face, then walks back inside and closes the door, almost in a trance.
FLASHBACK:
EXT. PRISON COURTYARD, DYSTOPIA
CLIVE and REGGIE, a black, clean-shaven convict, are sitting on a series of staggered benches, laid out in the style of a football stadium. As the scene opens, we see numerous people, dancing in leather jackets, being ushered off to the left. CLIVE and REGGIE are oblivious to them, and there are no further references to them.
We hear a siren off in the distance and a female voice speaking calmly over the PA system.
FEMALE VOICE: Prisoners 2591 to 3567 to the canteen. 2591 to 3567 to the canteen.
CLIVE: (conversational) Have you ever wondered what that girl who does the voiceover looks like?
REGGIE: I've had dreams.
CLIVE: You sicken me. She's an automated voice.
REGGIE: Yeah, well.... Still, it's alright to dream, isn't it?
CLIVE: I had dreams once.
Awkward silence.
REGGIE: Parole applications today, then?
CLIVE laughs.
REGGIE (CONT'D): What?
CLIVE: Ah, nothing. Just... this'll be my 52nd application for parole. I've grown to see it as a bit pointless.
REGGIE: Jesus, talk about pessimistic.
CLIVE: This your first time?
REGGIE: Third.
CLIVE: You'll learn, soon enough.
INT. PRISON WARDEN'S OFFICE, DYSTOPIA
The door opens, and CLIVE is pushed in. He stands there, handcuffed. The WARDEN nods to him, and he sits down.
WARDEN: (smiling falsely) Prisoner 163! So, this is your... (he consults his papers) 52nd application, and -
CLIVE: (tired) Look, I know how this works now, so if you could just cut the bullshit, then -
The GUARD walks up and clips CLIVE on the back of the head. CLIVE doesn't react.
WARDEN: Actually, it's a bit different this time round.
CLIVE raises his eyebrows.
WARDEN (CONT'D): Now, it says here that before you were an enemy of this country, you had a degree in pre-22nd century history, is this correct?
CLIVE: (thrown) Uh... yeah?
WARDEN: So, if I was to put you there now -
CLIVE: Sorry?
WARDEN: Somewhere before the 22nd century.
CLIVE: (dubious) Oh. Right. Go on.
WARDEN: ... then you'd know your way around, true?
CLIVE: Um....
WARDEN: Perfect! Well, I have someone I'd like to introduce you to.
He presses a button on the desk.
WARDEN (CONT'D): (to intercom) Send him in.
The door opens, and CLIVE whirls around. The camera follows, and standing there, arms folded, looking stern, is BILL.
CLIVE: (exasperated) Oh, fuck, not you again.
Opening titles.
INT. AUDITORIUM, UTOPIA
The NARRATOR waits for people to take their seats once more. The screen at the back displays the heading - "INTERMISSION".
The buzz dies down, and the NARRATOR begins. The header at the back now displays the words "CULTURE SHOCK IN DIFFERENT TEMPORAL ZONES."
NARRATOR: (conversational) When we travel across the world to new places, especially if we arrive not as tourists but as potential residents, it is natural to undergo some degree of anxiety. It's obvious that there's new food, new drink, new practices, and new attitudes vastly different to the ones we already know.
But what about travelling in time? There's an added complication, here, as we have some subconscious expectation that where we land will be as we expect it to be. If we were to land here, say, two hundred years ago, we would face a huge cultural problem. The lie of the land would be very much what we're used to, but the world itself would be entirely different.
Possibly our best example of this in the case of the HLS Raven is Clive, the onboard historian and former terrorist. It's a little peculiar that someone so well-versed in history should be so thrown by the society he found himself in, but then we can't forget that this man had been in prison for years, institutionalised to the point where any reality would have terrified him.
We see him here in one of the typical drinking dens of 2008. Already his demeanour is severely damaged, and he has difficulty communicating with the denizens in his vicinity.
The screen fades to a view of a pub from the corner. The BARMAN is drying a glass as CLIVE walks in. The pub is more or less deserted.
Once the screen has faded, we zoom in, and it becomes the normal view.
INT. PUB, LONDON, 2008
CLIVE stumbles in, regains his composure as much as he possibly can, and walks up to the bar, trying to conceal how unsteady he is. He sits down at the bar. He has not changed since he punched the POSTMAN earlier.
CLIVE: (to BARMAN) The usual, please.
BARMAN: (cockney) I've never seen you before, mate.
CLIVE: Oh. Um... a drink. Yes. I would like to purchase an alcoholic drink from this establishment that sells alcoholic drinks.
BARMAN: (uneasy) Right. What can I get you?
CLIVE: Erm....
The camera pans across the shelf of spirits to a bottle of absinthe, where it stops. CLIVE points at it.
CLIVE (CONT'D): That one.
BARMAN: (laughing, still uneasy) Actually, mate, that's one's really just for show.
CLIVE: Nonsense! I'll buy the bottle. How much?
BARMAN: No, really, it's just for show.
CLIVE: So you've never sold it in this establishment before.
BARMAN: Not really, no.
CLIVE: (craftily) So the bottle's full?
BARMAN: Well, I've never actually checked, but I told you - we're not selling.
Cut to a close-up shot of CLIVE putting down £1000 in £50 notes on the counter. Zoom out. The BARMAN is looking shocked, then slowly walks over and surreptitiously gets the bottle and hands it quickly to CLIVE, who holds it inside his coat.
CLIVE: Good man. Can I have a bag for this?
BARMAN: (appearing normal) Sorry, mate, I don't know what you're talking about.
CLIVE: What?
BARMAN: I ain't sold you nothing.
Pause, then the BARMAN breaks out, pointing at him.
BARMAN (CONT'D): Aah....
CLIVE: Aah... but seriously, can I have a bag?
EXT. LONDON STREET, LONDON, 2008
CLIVE is stumbling down the street.
CLIVE: (singing) Rain-drops keep falling on my head... rain-drops keep falling on my head... fucking raindrops! Why my head! Why do you have to always land on my head? Why not Stanley's head? Or Craig's head.
He sinks to his knees. A pigeon walks up to him and stops, beginning to coo.
CLIVE (CONT'D): (confused) Oh. Hello. Um... do you know why the rain won't fall on Craig or Stanley? Do you know them? Because I don't know them. I'd be envious of their dry heads if I knew them.
The pigeon flies off.
CLIVE (CONT'D): Oh. Right. I understand. You have a meeting to go to. Say hello to Craig when you get... wherever it is you're going.
He passes out on the side of the street.
FADE TO BLACK.
FADE IN:
INT. THE SAMARITAN'S LIVING ROOM, SOMERSET, 2008
The living room is suited to a old woman - there are pictures of cats all over the place, an ancient television sits in the corner gathering dust, and the magazines next to the sofa have titles like "Knitter's Monthly" and "All About Cats". Floral wallpaper, and an old (but electric) fireplace, above which is a small crucifix. Sunlight streams into the room. CLIVE is lying on the sofa.
He wakes up, and looks around blearily, before sitting up, terrified. Various shots of his terrified face, accompanied by jarring, loud, discordant sounds.
CLIVE: Aah! Where am I! What is this place!
He picks up the magazine.
CLIVE (CONT'D): "Knitter's Monthly"... oh, God, you're shitting me... am I in hell?
DUDLEY, the Samaritan, opens the door and comes in with a cup of tea, which he settles onto the table next to CLIVE. CLIVE looks at him wildly.
CLIVE (CONT'D): Who are you?
DUDLEY: (friendly) Oh, good, you're awake.
CLIVE: Yes, I'm awake. Who are you?
DUDLEY: My names Dudley. Um... I brought you here because, erm, well, I'm a Samaritan.
CLIVE: What? Dudley Samaritan? What kind of name is that?
DUDLEY: No, no, Dudley is my name. Samaritan is what I do.
CLIVE: Samaritan is what you - oh, shit. How much do I owe you?
DUDLEY: What?
CLIVE: Did I pay you for fuck?
DUDLEY: I'm sorry?
CLIVE: A gigolo. You're a gigolo, aren't you? Christ, you're not even an attractive gigolo, I must have been footless.
DUDLEY: No, I'm a Samaritan. It's sort of my job to help people out, and you were lying at the side of the street, so naturally I felt I should.
CLIVE: I don't need your help.
He stands up and immediately regrets it, screaming in pain.
CLIVE (CONT'D): Ow! Fuck! (he looks at the crucifix on the wall) You've put Jesus in my head!
DUDLEY: No, I think you must have been drinking last night.
CLIVE: You have! Why is Jesus in my head?
DUDLEY: Look, I haven't put Jesus in your head.
CLIVE: (extended) Then why is my brain exploding?
DUDLEY: I've already said, I think you were drinking last night.
CLIVE: What? Oh.
He looks around, confused for a moment, then looks at DUDLEY again.
CLIVE (CONT'D): Hello. Who are you?
DUDLEY: Dudley. I already told you.
CLIVE: Where am I?
DUDLEY: You're in my living room.
CLIVE: Wha - why? Who are you?
DUDLEY: We've already had this conversation. You get some sleep.
INT. INTERROGATION AREA, GOVERNMENT BUILDING, DYSTOPIA
A soldier flicks on a lamp, lighting up the raven in its cage. Bill is sitting opposite. Upon the light being switched on, he averts his gaze from the cage to the soldier.
BILL: (exasperated) What are you doing?
SOLDIER: Switching on the interrogation light, sir!
Pause.
BILL: It's a fucking bird.
A distant siren is heard, and the interrogation chamber door opens. A sergeant enters hurriedly, signalling to BILL to come with him. BILL sighs, shrugs, stands up and leaves.
INT. ARMOURED CAR, DYSTOPIA
The sergeant is driving, BILL in the passenger seat.
BILL: Go on, then, what's up?
SERGEANT: Multiple death count around Somerset, sir.
At "Somerset", BILL softly chuckles. The SERGEANT ignores this.
SERGEANT (CONT'D): The bodies bear similarities to the last one you brought us to sir. Limbs amputated, the wounds cauterised, only this time there's a few more.
BILL: (curious) Oh? How many?
SERGEANT: 394 and counting, sir.
BILL coughs nervously.
EXT. SOMERSET, DYSTOPIA/UTOPIA CROSSOVER
The car pulls in and BILL gets out, flanked by three guards and followed by the SERGEANT. There is a large crowd around the crime scene, though soldiers are walking around, armed with spikes, stabbing them into the ears of the public, neutralising their emotions and thereby dispersing the crowds as they go off, dazed. The four guards around BILL begin to do this too, making sure the public stay away from him.
Now at the perimeter temporary fencing, BILL looks over and sees a collection of limbless bodies littered around the huge, glowing column that Somerset has become. The SERGEANT finishes neutralising one member of the public, then draws up alongside BILL.
SERGEANT: Any thoughts, sir? We were thinking that it may be the work of some ritualistic cult....
BILL: (prompt) What makes you think that?
SERGEANT: Well, it's not just people. We found a group of sheep in the same condition further along.
BILL looks straight ahead into the glowing column.
BILL: And I'm guessing you can't see it either.
SERGEANT: Sorry, sir, see what?
BILL: (pinching his brow) Oh, never mind.
INT. DUDLEY'S HALLWAY, 2008
Late afternoon. CLIVE is pulling on his coat, checking his pockets for everything, getting ready to leave. DUDLEY enters, smiling warmly. CLIVE turns, and is startled to see him there.
DUDLEY: Hi! I'm Dudley, and I'm a -
CLIVE: Look, I know who you are, thanks for your hospitality, but I don't like the smell of your house and I want to go back to my flat.
DUDLEY: But....
CLIVE: Look, d'you want paying or something? I mean, yes, it's very kind of you and all, but I didn't exactly ask for this.
DUDLEY: No, it's not that, it's just... well... you're not really that near your flat anymore.
CLIVE: Whatever, I'll get the underground. I'm capable, don't worry about me.
DUDLEY: A bit further out than that, I'm afraid.
CLIVE: (stopping and eyeing DUDLEY suspiciously) Where?
DUDLEY: Well, you see, I was only really in London visiting friends, and I couldn't just leave you at the side of the road, and -
CLIVE: (menacing) Where am I, prick-face?
DUDLEY: (hesitant) ... Somerset?
CLIVE: (sinking to his knees and slumping to the ground) Oh, right.
DUDLEY: Look, I'm sorry, but -
CLIVE: (sits up, angry) OK, you can shut up for starters. (He scratches his head) Oh, fuck it. Where's the nearest train station?
DUDLEY: (sheepish) It's a Sunday. The last train left half an hour ago.
CLIVE: (sarcastic) Oh, well that's fucking convenient, isn't it?
DUDLEY: Look, it's fine, you can stay here tonight, and -
CLIVE: Here? Your house smells of lavender! I wanna throw up every time I even look at your sofa! This is not fine!
DUDLEY: Then... we'll go out! Then all you need to do is sleep here.
CLIVE: Out where?
DUDLEY: Well, we've got a karaoke bar -
CLIVE: What's it called?
DUDLEY: The Sober Karaoke Bar.
CLIVE: What sort of name is that?
DUDLEY: Well, they don't sell drinks. Trust me, it's so much more exciting that w-
CLIVE stares at DUDLEY with a look of pure hatred.
DUDLEY (CONT'D): Um, well, there's the bowling alley....
CLIVE: I'm not twelve... Jesus, is that all you've got here?
DUDLEY: Uh... oh! How about the comedy club?
CLIVE: Let me guess - it's called the "Sober Comedy Club".
DUDLEY: Um... no. Just "The Comedy Club".
CLIVE: (lightening up) So they sell drinks?
DUDLEY: No.
CLIVE's shoulders sink again.
DUDLEY (CONT'D): Look, it'll be fun! They've got an open mic bit tonight, and the headliner this week's a favourite round here. You heard of Steve and his Dead Sheep where you're from?
CLIVE: No, what's that, puppets or something?
DUDLEY: Well, no, it's -
CUT TO:
INT. THE COMEDY CLUB, SOMERSET, 2008
Open to the stage, where STEVE is in the spotlight. STEVE is sweating, overweight, and has a sack stitched to his side, filled with a strange bulge. STEVE has a strong, stereotypical Somerset accent.
STEVE: 'Ello, my lovelies!
AUDIENCE: (roaring) 'Ello, Steve!
CLIVE is staring with a mixture of horror and disbelief on his face.
STEVE: Guess what I've got in my pocket?
AUDIENCE: We don't know, Steve!
CLIVE: It's a sack!
DUDLEY: Don't! You'll ruin it!
STEVE: Well, let's see!
He rummages around for a while, before pulling a freshly dead sheep. Amidst the laughter, we see CLIVE looking nauseated.
STEVE (CONT'D): Hello, Dolly! How you feelin'? Bit under the weather? Well, that's 'cause you're dead, my darling!
Roaring approval.
STEVE (CONT'D): OK, I'll put you back now.
He lifts "Dolly" and tries to put her back in the sack, struggling with the last leg. In his frustration, he snaps it, and we hear the bone crack, which only spurs on the laughter. CLIVE, meanwhile, is vomiting under the table.
The HOST comes back on stage. He has a sense of forced cheerfulness, and wears a cheesy glittered suit.
HOST: Steve and his Dead Sheep, everybody!
Cheers and laughter. CLIVE emerges from under the table looking pale.
HOST (CONT'D): Right, it's open-mic time. Do we have any volunteers?
A few people put their hands up. CLIVE looks around, panicking. He gets up to leave.
CLIVE: No more! Please, God, no more!
DUDLEY grabs his arm and playfully pulls him down again.
DUDLEY: Look, if you want to try it, then go for it.
CLIVE: Wha - so if I do it, I don't have to listen to anymore inbred shit spew?
DUDLEY: Well, yeah -
CLIVE jumps up, almost delirious.
CLIVE: Pick me! God, pick me! Please! Me!
HOST: Well, it looks like we've got an eager one tonight! Up you come!
Light applause, which dies down to silence when CLIVE takes the stage. There is a long, awkward pause as CLIVE surveys the audience.
CLIVE: (in one breath) Knock knock who's there baby boy blue baby boy blue who Gary Glitter.
Silence. CLIVE lets out a sigh, raises his eyebrows and tries again.
CLIVE (CONT'D): Um, er... There was this guy, who tried to stab me the other day, and -
A crowd member interjects, cutting CLIVE off.
CROWD MEMBER: Bring back Steve!
CROWD MEMBER 2: Yeah!
Before long a chant of "Bring back Steve" has begun, getting progressively louder.
CLIVE: (under his breath) For fuck's sake....
He draws himself up to full height.
CLIVE (CONT'D): (yelling) Jesus! Is that all you fuckers find funny? Fucking... dead sheep?
The crowd cheers. CLIVE hesitates, gives the crowd two quick one-finger salutes, and storms off. He stops however, when he is hit by a potato, which he picks up and carries back onstage to the microphone.
CLIVE (CONT'D): (incredulous) WH- WHAT THE FUCK?! Have I landed in the fucking 1600's? How retarded are you?
A fresh batch of produce rains down on him, forcing him to run offstage.
EXT. THE COMEDY CLUB, SOMERSET, 2008
It is raining. CLIVE is sitting at the side of the road, sodden, his coat wrapped around his knees, shivering.
DUDLEY exits The Comedy Club, and walks over to CLIVE. He tries to sound optimistic.
DUDLEY: Well, wasn't that fun?
CLIVE stares up at DUDLEY, not saying anything. DUDLEY looks uncomfortable.
DUDLEY (CONT'D): Well, yours could have done better but the rest was... good....
CLIVE gets up and walks away.
DUDLEY (CONT'D): Hey! Where are you going?
CLIVE continues to walk off, not saying a word.
INT. CLIVE'S LIVING ROOM, LONDON, 2008
CLIVE is sitting in his living room, a singular Jack Daniels bottle on the table, with the package from the first scene in his lap. He looks down at it, and we see on the package a dotted line with scissors next to it. He puts the package down and walks off-camera. We hear drawers being opened, cutlery being rummaged through, etc. After a few seconds, he comes back, wrapping sellotape around two kitchen knives, arranged into the shape of scissors.
He then proceeds to try and cut open the package, holding it between his legs to attempt to steady it, but cannot due to to the knives being held too firmly in place - they cannot be brought together. It is at this point that the package drops from between his legs and he sees on the other side a small tab, saying "TEAR HERE". This, he does, and out comes a Betamax tape wrapped in bubble wrap.
CUT TO: CLIVE is staring at the wrapped tape, which is now on the table. The whisky bottle has been somewhat depleted. CLIVE is still sat in the same position, staring at the tape.
CUT TO: CLIVE is trying to tear the bubble wrap with his hands, and is failing. He then tries to do the same with his teeth. In his frustration, he throws it across the room. The whisky bottle is now only half full.
CUT TO: CLIVE staring at the space where the package was before, on the table. The whisky bottle is about a third full.
CUT TO: The package is now back on the table, with the whisky bottle down to its last dregs. CLIVE is staring at the package.
CUT TO: CLIVE is trying to use his handmade scissors to open the package - all to no avail. He begins stabbing wildly at it. There is a new, full bottle of whisky on the table, next to the empty one.
CUT TO: We see on the side of the bubble wrap a printed notice with a perforation saying "TEAR HERE".
INT. CLIVE'S BATHROOM, LONDON, 2008
CUT TO: CLIVE is weeping in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet, his hands now bandaged. The package is in his hands.
INT. CLIVE'S LIVING ROOM, LONDON, 2008
CUT TO: The tape is now on the table. CLIVE has the bubble wrap in his hands. He is glaring at the tape, and aggressively popping each bubble, one by one.
CUT TO: CLIVE is holding the Betamax tape, and looking at the television, a smile on his face. He walks over to it, pauses, and presses the tape against the TV screen. He laughs for a moment, then stops as he realises nothing is happening.
CUT TO: CLIVE trying to put the tape in various household appliances, with no luck.
INT. CLIVE'S KITCHEN, LONDON, 2008
CUT TO: CLIVE on the phone.
CLIVE: Yeah, hi, can I get a cheese and tomato pizza?
INT. CLIVE'S FRONT DOOR, LONDON, 2008
CUT TO: View from the pizza delivery man. He rings the doorbell. CLIVE answers the door, still holding the tape.
CLIVE: (awkwardly) Hello.
PIZZA DELIVERY MAN: Hi, got your pizza, mate, that's £9.00 please.
CLIVE puts his index finger up to suggest "one minute, please", and walks away, staring at both the tape and the pizza. CLIVE then comes back, the tape now covered in cheese and tomato. He looks at the tape, and then at the camera/pizza delivery man.
CLIVE: (still awkwardly) It... didn't work.
He suddenly has a flash of inspiration, and holds out the tape to the pizza delivery man.
PIZZA DELIVERY MAN: (nervous) No, thanks....
BLACKOUT.
INT. CLIVE'S LIVING ROOM, LONDON, 2008
CUT TO: CLIVE has finished the pizza - the empty box now sits on the table. CLIVE is taking strands of cheese off the tape, staring at it.
CUT TO: CLIVE is asleep, the tape - now clean - still in his hand.
FLASHBACK: EXT. A PARK, SOMEWHERE IN IRELAND, DYSTOPIA
A huge rally is taking place, with CLIVE at the helm. There are large screens, beaming his face out to other people further back. CLIVE is impassioned, and his anger is infectious - the atmosphere is buzzing. Over his head is a banner with the initials "N. I. R. A., with a subtitle of "New Irish Republican Army". When CLIVE speaks, the crowd deadens to a hush - they want to hear what he has to say. CLIVE is dressed part army officer, part congressman. His hair is combed - he is the face of the organisation. Fuck it - he's a white, Irish, Barack Obama. In the background, there is a huge, Che Guevara-type portrait of the NIRA founder, Patrick Greenfield.
CLIVE: Friends! Neighbours! Irishmen!
At "Irishmen", everyone cheers.
CLIVE (CONT'D): I'm sure you all know why we're here. We know about the atrocities already done to our country. And yes, we could just sit back and allow them to destroy our history, our culture, our entire way of life, but I say no.
The crowd becomes so loud he has to shout over them.
CLIVE (CONT'D): I say we stand up against the oppressors of our nation. I say we don't wait to have our country seized like it has been so many times before. I say we get in there now and show them what the Irish really stand for. Who's with me?
Cheers, applause, etc.
INT. NIRA BASE, IRELAND, DYSTOPIA
People are on phones in the base, with CLIVE in the foreground being passed a phone. He has a slight grin on his face, which fades as the phone rings.
CLIVE: (serious) There is a bomb due to go off in the Manchester Arndale Shopping Centre at 9 AM, in approximately one hour. Unless you evacuate central Manchester in this time, there will be many deaths. So you have to ask yourself the question; what do you value more, the lives of your people, or your bureaucracy?
He closes the phone and hands it to a guard.
CLIVE (CONT'D): (to guard) Burn it.
EXT. PICCADILLY GARDENS, MANCHESTER, DYSTOPIA
Police are trying to usher people away from the potential bomb site, when the entire building explodes. Police and civilians are hurtled everywhere.
FADE OUT.
FADE IN:
INT. TELESALES OFFICE, LONDON, 2008
CLIVE is sitting opposite a WOMAN. He is being interviewed for a job in telesales.
WOMAN: (bubbly) So what gives you the power to be a true people person?
CLIVE: (sarcastic, pissed off) Well, I was born on the planet Krypton, which blew up, killed my family, and -
He is interrupted by the WOMAN's loud, raucous laughter.
WOMAN: Oh, we've got a joker in our midst!
CLIVE: I was actually referencing Superman. You do know it, don't you? Superman? The man who was... Super?
WOMAN: Haha... OK....
CLIVE: (pointing) Are those your degrees on the wall there?
WOMAN: (laughing) No, no, this isn't my office.
INT. OFFICE CUBICLE AREA, LONDON, 2008
The same WOMAN is showing CLIVE his cubicle.
WOMAN: So, this is your office.
CLIVE: It's beautiful.
WOMAN: Ha, d'you think?
CLIVE: Yeah. I've always loved grey.
INT. OFFICE CUBICLE AREA, LONDON, 2008
CUT TO: CLIVE is on the phone.
CLIVE: Hello. Do you want to buy some double glazing. No, neither do I.
He hangs up, then picks up again.
CLIVE (CONT'D): Hello, do you - how exactly should I fuck off? (pause) Wait, let me write this down.
INT. BREAK AREA, OFFICE BUILDING, LONDON, 2008
CUT TO: CLIVE is talking to TOM.
CLIVE: (nonchalantly) So I asked them, do you want any double glazing for your house?
TOM: (confused) But... we don't sell double glazing.
CLIVE: Oh. That's good.
TOM: Why?
CLIVE: They didn't want any.
TOM laughs.
TOM: Haha, God, you're so random!
CLIVE: What?
TOM: Yeah, like L-O-L!
CLIVE: Ever say that again and I'll kill you.
TOM: Aha! See, there you go again! You should get into comedy, man!
CLIVE: ... Been there, done that. Didn't work.
TOM: I've never seen you before.
CLIVE: It was in Somerset. They prefer sheep.
TOM splutters.
TOM: Ha, well, they all do in Somerset.
CLIVE: Dead ones?
TOM wavers, and gives a non-committal shrug.
CLIVE (CONT'D): Anyway, I've actually got something to ask you. Any idea where I can something to play a Betamax tape?
TOM bursts out laughing again, and CLIVE sighs.
INT. OFFICE CUBICLE AREA, LONDON, 2008
CLIVE is by the coffee machine, muttering under his breath as he examines the buttons.
CLIVE: Whisky... whisky... whisky... fuck it.
He knocks over the coffee machine. Silence falls.
EXT. OFFICE BUILDING, LONDON, 2008
CLIVE is being led out by security.
EXT. CLIVE'S GARDEN, IRELAND, DYSTOPIA
CLIVE is on the phone.
CLIVE: Right... you're gonna need to keep a low profile for a few days... don't try and cross back over the border for a good month. (he looks down at his own plants) Yes, I'll water your plants. (he pauses) It's fucking Ireland, I've got my own alcohol, why would I steal yours? Yeah, OK. Bye.
He closes the phone, smiles, and sighs. He looks out onto his garden - a middlish size but beautifully kept, and continues smiling. His shoulders relax, and he turns to go in, when a younger BILL steps out from the shadows, armed with a taser gun. CLIVE instantly reaches for his own gun, but he isn't quick enough and is tasered by BILL.
INTERROGATION AREA, GOVERNMENT BUILDING, DYSTOPIA
CUT TO: CLIVE is sat, motionless, with a bag over his head. A guard removes the bag, and CLIVE is revealed, smiling coldly. BILL sits opposite.
CLIVE: Can I get a cup o'-
BILL: (angrily, leaning in) Shut up. Terrorists don't get coffee.
CLIVE: I was gonna say tea.
BILL: (leaning in even closer, menacing) Or. Tea.
CLIVE: Water?
BILL: (ignoring him) I assume you know why you're here, so I'll save myself from reading out your charges for the time being.
CLIVE: (resigned, yet optimistic) So, public execution, then? I'm to be a martyr, is that it?
BILL: (laughing) Ha, course not! You're too... resourceful.
CLIVE: Resourceful?
BILL: Well, someone with your resolve, your talents, your passion, your balls....
CLIVE: Have you been looking at my balls while I was out?
BILL: We know everything about your balls.
CLIVE: Hey! No-one looks at my balls!
BILL: You're going to prison. You might want to alter that attitude a tad.
CLIVE: (slightly desperate) Oh, come on... I've heard about your overcrowding problems. I'm a terrorist! You may as well kill me and burn me like the rest!
BILL: Mmm... nah. See, give it a few years, and you might come around. We could do with someone like you working for us.
CLIVE: Me? Work for you?
BILL: And besides, you're not going to prison straight away. No... we're going to torture you first.
CLIVE: (grimacing) Oh... good.
BLACKOUT.
INT. CLIVE'S FLAT, LONDON, 2008
CLIVE arrives home, and as usual, sits down on the sofa and flicks on the TV. A documentary is on about stand-up comedy. A few clips are being shown, with an enthusiastic female voice-over.
FEMALE V. O.: Stand-up comedy dates back as far as the nineteenth century, but it's seen a number of pivotal changes over the years. In this series, we'll be getting a glimpse into the comedy industry, showcasing the best new talent, and finding out exactly where the comedy of today comes from. I went and found the hottest comedians out at the moment, to find out exactly where they get their inspiration.
Cut to a talking head - that of a FAMOUS COMEDIAN - talking to a person off-camera, interview-style.
FAMOUS COMEDIAN: (relaxed) Inspiration? I'd say... I take anecdotes from my life, then twist them in some way to get humour out of it. It's just a case of taking anything, whether it's mundane, or depressing, and turning it around to maximise the entertainment value....
CLIVE turns the TV off and looks down. Motivational, upbeat music starts.
CUT TO: CLIVE grabbing every single empty Jack Daniel's bottle - there are a lot of them - in the house, and throwing it into his recycling bin. CLIVE cleaning his house. CLIVE pulling up a chair to his kitchen table, getting a pad of paper, and beginning to write. Various shots of him writing pages and pages, and placing them on top of each other, ready to rehearse. The music fades to him still writing, about to finish.
He sets his pen down, and scans over it, smiling. He then places the page he is writing on top of the rest, shuffles them, and stands up. He clears his throat, and looks at the wall.
CLIVE: Hello, my name is Clive, and I, like you, was born into a fascist dictatorship.
He shakes his head, and starts again with a different, upbeat tone of voice.
CLIVE (CONT'D): My name is Clive, and I'm here today to talk to you about fascism. Fuck.
He tries again, this time in a monotone.
CLIVE (CONT'D): You know, fascism is really - fuck this.
He walks out of the room, comes back with a mirror, then hangs it on the wall.
CLIVE (CONT'D): Depressing as it might sound, this evening I'm going to talk to you about fascism, and how it's clearly represented in our daily lives. And I thought, and I looked at my history books, for I have them, and I browsed through the entirety of Wikipedia, and eventually I settled on what I believe is the foremost exponent of fascism in the UK today. I am talking, ladies and gents, of -
FANCY FADE IN EFFECT:
INT. THE COMEDY STORE, LONDON, 2008
CLIVE: (to a captive audience) - the Teletubbies.
Loud laughter.
The camera scans across the audience, and settles briefly on PATRICK GREENFIELD, the creator of the NIRA, who is laughing along, though not as strongly. He has yet to be won over completely.
FADE OUT.
FADE IN:
INT. THE COMEDY STORE, LONDON, 2008
CLIVE is still on stage.
CLIVE: (trying to keep a straight face as the audience laugh on) So all the people are trapped in another dimension that we see through the Teletubby belly pouches, where they're tortured by the little retarded aliens by repeating the same fucking thing, over and over again. Oh yeah. They cut the screams, but they do it.
He jumps onto one side of the stage, and acts like a Teletubby.
CLIVE (CONT'D): (retarded) Again, again!
He then jumps back again in response to the Teletubbies as one of the humans.
CLIVE (CONT'D): NOOOOOOOOOO! FUCK! NO MORE!
Awkward silence, punctuated by laughter as CLIVE stares at the audience.
CLIVE (CONT'D): I guess, what I'm trying to say with all this is... is that I get drunk and watch children's TV for kicks. (laughter) No. Um... what I guess you can take away from this is that I've been inspired, to some extent, by my past, and looking at you all today, worrying about economic recession, and terrorism, and all the things that just get you down, just try and get the best out of life. Because after all, you could have it a lot worse. I've been Clive O'Brien, you've been a great audience, goodnight!
He walks offstage to a full-audience standing ovation. We cut back to PATRICK GREENFIELD, who is cheering and clapping louder than anyone else. The camera moves over to DUDLEY, the only one sitting, who is just looking confused.
FADE TO BLACK.
INT. AUDITORIUM, UTOPIA
The NARRATOR is talking to the audience, underneath a heading titled "PARADOXES".
NARRATOR: We've all heard, and by this point should probably recognise that if we go back and change the past, then there are always consequences. The classic grandfather paradox, where we go back in time and execute our ancestors, would obviously nullify our existence. But what if all we changed was opinion? What if we somehow, accidentally, changed nothing but our own upbringing? Could our minds cope with the pressure of a radically altered lifetime?
Pause. A screen drops down, with the focus on PATRICK GREENFIELD.
NARRATOR (CONT'D): This man probably looks a bit different wearing a suit, and without the facial hair, but those of you who are more astute will recognise this as the face of Patrick Greenfield, one of the biggest humanitarians of the last century. Just to recap, we dug out some old news footage.
The lights dim. The view stays inside the auditorium during the video of a news channel of the future "Virgin News".
Two perfect-looking news presenters are covering a story headed "DISSENT CONTINUES IN IRELAND".
MALE NEWS ANCHOR: It's the third day of the British coalition forces moving to Ireland, in a move that has been condemned by both the UN and the general British public.
FEMALE NEWS ANCHOR: Even now, as the so-called "invasion" is taking place, it seems that the current Prime Minister is feeling the strain.
Cut to Prime Minister's press room, where is he is sitting with his disgruntled wife. He is sweating, and has bags under his eyes. There are various cameras going off, and a general buzz of attempted questions.
LOUD INTERVIEWER: Prime Minister, is it true that due to your recent decisions pertaining to the war in Ireland have put certain strains on your marriage?
PRIME MINISTER: That's nonsense. Everything is fine. I'm fine, my wife is fine, and I think we're all going to pull through.
At this point, the PRIME MINISTER'S WIFE gets up and walks out of the press room. Uproar, which then fades as it cuts back to the news room.
MALE NEWS ANCHOR: We can now go to our foreign correspondent, who is now at the Irish border. John, exactly what is happening over there?
Footage of the described events - JOHN is off screen.
JOHN: Well, the tanks are beginning to drive off the Navy ships, meeting with apparently no resistance whatsoever, leading us to question whether such an invasion as this can be called legitimate, but - wait a minute, can we get a close up?
The camera zooms to PATRICK GREENFIELD, wearing a sheet, with long hair and a beard, stepping out in front of the tanks, one arm held out in protest and another holding a cup of tea. The tanks stop.
JOHN (CONT'D): There's a man, standing in front of the tanks - God knows how he got there - and he appears to be holding... is that a cup of tea? Yes, he's got a cup of tea... I'm sorry, I'm not sure what to make of this, but I can confirm, the tanks have stopped. Could there be bloodshed today? We'll have to see. Rest assured, we'll keep you updated with any new developments.
The video cuts off abruptly and the lights go up to rapturous applause.
NARRATOR: Now, we all know in retrospect that that day was the end of any bloodshed whatsoever. One man, clad in no more than rags, revolutionised modern politics and helped create the society we live in today. But what if this man had a different attitude? What if - and I use the word tentatively - Patrick Greenfield, in some other timeline, was a terrorist?
Uproar.
INT. AUDITORIUM, UTOPIA (STAGE VIEW, SIDE ON)
The NARRATOR looks worried, and looks to the STAGE MANAGER for help. The STAGE MANAGER then speaks into his microphone, which goes to the tannoy system.
STAGE MANAGER: (nervous) Um... there will now be a short interval of fifteen minutes. The lecture will continue at - (pause) - eight-fifteen.
FADE TO BLACK.
FADE IN:
INT. BAR, LONDON, 2008
CLIVE is having a drink with TOM and a few other guys. The conversation comes in mid-laugh.
TOM: Anyway, I've got a present for you.
CLIVE: Woah... I mean, thanks, but... I dunno, this is very kind, but I've only just met you....
TOM hands over the present.
TOM: Open it, go on.
CLIVE: This is... Christmas wrapping paper.
TOM: Yeah... it's supposed to be... ironic.
CLIVE stares at him with a typical "what-the-fuck" expression on his face.
CLIVE: And there's a tag. Of a Christmas tree.
He flips it over, and TOM has scrawled "I LOVE YOU" on the tag. CLIVE stares, suddenly scared, at TOM. CLIVE tears off the tag and throws it on the floor. TOM is looking lovelorn. CLIVE shrugs, and tears the paper off. Inside is a brand new Betamax player.
TOM: I got it off eBay.
CLIVE: (worried, bemused) Tom... I told you about this two days ago. How could you....
TOM: Well, when you know (he raises his eyebrows) you know, right?
CLIVE: When you know... what? eBay?
TOM: Anyway, so....
CLIVE: Yeah... I can't accept this.
TOM: Why? It's a gift.
CLIVE: Yes, but if I take this, you know that I have something to put Betamax tapes on and you'll want to come round to my house to play your Betamax tapes on it, and before long you'll want to start a Betamax club, and you'll be the Treasurer, and I'll the President, and we'll start off going around just looking for rare Betamax tapes, but soon, we'll become more badass than that and turn into pirates, and someone'll make some cheap pirate video joke, and a policeman will overhear and we'll go to prison and I don't want to go to prison because it's not nice.
TOM: ... what?
CLIVE: I don't like you.
TOM: (crestfallen) Oh. Well... maybe you could take it and then maybe get me into your next gig?
CLIVE: No, I never want to see you ever, ever again.
Pause. TOM bows his head, then raises it again.
TOM: Then, can I take it back?
CLIVE: No. Like you said, it's a gift. You can't take back a gift. It's rude. Are you a rude person?
TOM: Well, you just said you never wanted to see me -
CLIVE: Yes, I'm a rude person, we've already clarified that, but are you a rude person?
TOM shrugs. A LARGE BREASTED GIRL, showing much cleavage, comes over and taps CLIVE on the shoulder.
CLIVE (CONT'D): (to TOM) Excuse me for a second. You're weird. (to the girl) Yes, madam? What is the matter?
LARGE BREASTED GIRL: Can you sign my tits?
CLIVE: Wow... is this what they do in your place?
TOM: (trying to interject) Look, I -
CLIVE: (to TOM) Do you have large breasts?
TOM: Um... no.
CLIVE: Then you're second on my list of priorities at the moment. (to the girl) Sorry. Yes. I can easily do it with my tongue, but I'm forced by decency to ask if you have a pen.
TOM: Your phone number, then?
CLIVE sighs.
CLIVE: (to TOM) Fine. Yes.
He hands over a blank piece of paper.
TOM: This is blank.
CLIVE: Yes. Take the hint.
INT. CLIVE'S FLAT, LONDON, 2008 (AFTERNOON)
The phone rings. CLIVE, in bed, reaches over and answers it.
CLIVE: (angry) I gave you a blank piece of paper, you stalking little shit. How did you get my number?
FRANK LOWE, the man on the other end of the phone, speaks.
FRANK LOWE: I'm sorry, am I talking to the comedian Clive O'Brien?
CLIVE: Who is this?
FRANK LOWE: I'm the manager of Frank Lowe Associates. We manage and provide agents for comedians. Uh, one of our scouts was at your show last night and we're wondering if you'd care to drop by our offices to discuss a potential contract?
CLIVE: It's four o'clock in the morning.
FRANK LOWE: It's four o'clock in the afternoon.
CLIVE: Shit, really?
FRANK LOWE: So, what do you say?
INT. FRANK LOWE ASSOCIATES OFFICE, LONDON, 2008
CLIVE is sitting in the office, opposite FRANK, his feet on the table. FRANK is eyeing CLIVE's feet, wondering if he should say anything. He doesn't.
CLIVE: So. A contract. Am I going to Wembley?
FRANK LOWE: Well, it's early days yet... you're not that well known yet, so it could take a while, but maybe, if you've got it -
CLIVE: How long would it take for me to get to Wembley?
FRANK LOWE: Well, first, we have to see if there's a market for your material, and -
CLIVE: How long?
FRANK LOWE: Hmmm... if we dumb you down a bit, advertise you a lot, and simplify your message a bit... about... eight months, two weeks, four days and... (he thinks) six minutes?
FADE TO BLACK.
The words "eight months, two weeks, and three days later" fade on screen.
EXT. CLIVE'S FLAT, LONDON, 2008
CLIVE is taking in the milk, when he notices a raven. He shrugs, and goes inside, but the camera lingers on the raven, as it croaks.
EXT. CLIVE'S FLAT, LONDON, 2008 (STREET VIEW)
We see a bunch of ravens flying overhead, in the direction of CLIVE's house.
INT. CLIVE'S FLAT, LONDON, 2008
CLIVE is chirpy, his flat is clean and his set is out on the table. He goes over, smiling, and starts editing it. At this point, he realises that the Betamax player is on the table. He becomes irritated, and moves it over to the side. Even then, the camera accommodates both him and the player. He sighs, and stands up.
He picks up the box, and sees that there is sellotape over the end. He picks at it, for about two seconds, then puts it down.
He finds his address book, and turns through the pages to find that they're all blank. Then, on the very last page, he sees, in TOM's handwriting, TOM's phone number.
CUT TO: CLIVE is on the phone.
CLIVE: (sighs) Hi, can I speak to -
He puts the phone down, and looks at the player again.
CLIVE (CONT'D): (to himself) OK. I can do this. I can do this.
He picks at it once more, getting angry.
CUT TO: CLIVE is on the phone again.
CLIVE (CONT'D): Hello, can I speak to Thomas please? Oh, it's you. Look, I do actually hate you, not to offend you in any way, but I don't like you at all. No, that's not why I called. The player you gave me doesn't work. No, I've not plugged it in. I only assume it doesn't work because it isn't out of the box yet. Yes. No. Yes. I can't get it open. Stop laughing. I am richer than you. Look, are you going to help me, or not? Great.
A second or two passes, then the doorbell rings.
CLIVE (CONT'D): That was quick. Too quick. How do you know where I live?
TOM: I live next door.
CLIVE: You didn't used to.
TOM: I know, but....
Awkward silence.
CLIVE: It's through there.
He gestures. There is the sound of the box tearing, of TOM plugging it in and setting it up, then TOM comes out again.
CLIVE (CONT'D): Do you want a drink?
TOM: Oh, that'd be great.
CLIVE: Good. Then go to the pub.
TOM: Alright, then, I'll meet you there, yeah? And what about some tickets for tomorrow? Big night, eh?
CLIVE: ... yeah, they're at the pub.
TOM: Oh, great! See you there, man!
CLIVE: Yes. Man. Go away.
TOM exits.
INT. CLIVE'S LIVING ROOM, LONDON, 2008
CLIVE puts in the Betamax tape and switches the TV on. Dark music plays, as BILL appears on screen. CLIVE is about to speak, when BILL interrupts.
BILL: (angry) You chicken-fucking, shitting, tit cunt arse wanker.
CLIVE laughs.
BILL (CONT'D): I'm assuming by this point you're laughing. Stop. You're going to die.
CLIVE looks confused.
CLIVE: Yes. I'm going to die. You're going to die. We're all going to die someday. Isn't it wonderful?
BILL: Look, did you get my message when you landed?
CLIVE: No.
BILL: Stop talking to your television. I can't hear you.
CLIVE: Then how do you know that I'm speaking?
BILL: No. I mean it. Stop. You look like a retard. Anyway, yeah, message. I assume you didn't get it, otherwise you wouldn't have royally fucked up the way you have.
CLIVE: I'm going to fucking Wembley! Fuck off!
BILL: FUCKING STOP TALKING TO YOUR TELEVISION. THIS IS A TAPE. YOU ARE AN IDIOT. (calming down) You changed history. Big time. You're broadcasting some namby-pamby political message to anyone and everyone, including some of the biggest terrorists of all time.
CLIVE: I'm one of the biggest terrorists of all time!
BILL: Bigger than we ever allowed you to be. Really. We're talking about Patrick Greenfield.
CLIVE's eyes widen.
CLIVE: Shiiiit.
BILL: Everything we have on the man has gone. All our records, all our surveillance, in fact, to be honest, as of late, a hell of a lot of our stuff is disappearing. And it's all your fault.
CLIVE: You look older.
BILL runs his hands through his hair, looking momentarily concerned. Then he snaps back.
BILL: We sent you for surveillance, not to have a life. And, I'm afraid that we've got links to your camera feeds here, and we've already seen what's going to happen.
CLIVE looks confused.
CLIVE: What? What's going to happen?
BILL: I'll be honest - if there's one thing you have done, it's let us understand exactly what's going on. You're our middle ground. So thanks for that. But... well, that's about it. You're a moron.
The video cuts out.
CLIVE: (shouting) What's going to happen?!
He looks over to the window, where a raven is pecking at the window. He opens the window to shoo it away, and then the flurry of ravens we saw before flood into the room, CLIVE screams, and the view cuts to static.
End credits.
Labels: content, literature, subsidiary
posted by Chris @ 14:48
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