MADBINTON 1:4

SCENE 4 - THE CLUBHOUSE

NARRATOR: (VO) There was clearly not much new information to be gleaned wandering around this patch of frankly pretty normal looking soil, knotweed notwithstanding, so I walked back into Wholdenheim proper. Perhaps the architecturally impressive village hall would yield more solid answers than I could coax from these landed dukes and earth-moving eccentrics. I entered, navigating its bewildering labyrinth of interconnecting corridors and vestibules, and eventually emerged in a brightly lit sports hall, its ceiling festooned with a large banner that read, in formidable capitals: ‘Club Registration Week - Colonel Presiding’.

PETE: Oops sorry I didn’t see you there. Did I tread on your foot?

CHARLOTTE: It’s alright, I have two.

PETE: What is all this?

CHARLOTTE: Oh, you’re in the queue for club registrations. It always happens this time of year.

PETE: I’ve never seen so many clubs and societies. Which club are you part of?

CHARLOTTE: None. I’m Charlotte, the pipe and hodge girl.

PETE: Pete. Pleased to meet you. Pipe and Hodge? Don’t tell me… wrestlers? You don’t look like the cheerleading type, parading around with numbers on placards, all scantily clad and…

CHARLOTTE: No silly. I said I’m not in any clubs. I work at the snack bar on Haslet Street. I’m just delivering the refreshments: a few tubs of pipe ‘n hodge.

PETE: Pipe and hodge eh. It looks... an acquired taste.

CHARLOTTE: Oh I don’t eat it. I’m a vegetarian. It’s very common around here though. I prepare it fresh from mixed animal elements: mostly indeterminate tubes and rubbery structures. 50p gets you extra bread and twenty eight microwave seconds. If you get hungry the snack bar is over there between Amateur Phrenology and Full Contact Chess.

PETE: Ah. I’m actually doing some research on the local vegetation. Perhaps you could assist me by…

CHARLOTTE: Maybe later. Was nice to meet you but I need to get back to my shop.

COLONEL: Next!

CHARLOTTE: Anyway, it looks like the Colonel is ready for you now. Bye.

PETE: Bye.

COLONEL: Next! Step forward soldier. Ahhh, you must be Charlotte. I’ve never met a Charlotte I didn’t like. Wenches in trenches, digging for victory or a flash of hosiery in a Whitstable sand dune. All in essence a Charlotte, full of Charlotty goodness and, sound a minced oath, here you are again.

PETE: Not Charlotte I’m afraid. I think you just missed her. My name is Pete and I’m a journalist, up from London researching some strange packages of fruit and vegetables that have found their way into local produce fairs. As a local man with some authority, of sorts, I wonder if you knew anything about them?

COLONEL: Gherkins on fire off the shores of Orion! Feathery pumpkins! Carrots in slacks!

PETE: So you have heard something? I’ve heard from another villager that they were burnt at the stake. Is this really true? Here’s my card.

COLONEL: Ah, you’re from The Times. Signs of the times. Purple rain.

PETE: Purple rain? Really? Oh I see, pur...

COLONEL: Don’t read the newspapers. I trust my senses. Eyes to the ground, ears to the right, balls to the grindstone. Noisy mushrooms. Dangblast the racket! Whole platoon of lavender court-marshalled. Wheat crops coming a cropper. Thyme full of glitches. Mint gone bad. Bad mint... BADMINTON! Excellent. Henceforth, you’ll run the badminton Club.

PETE: Ha! Not likely Colonel. Back to the plants if I may.

COLONEL: Pfah! A spirited young bantam you are. This grubby ol’ town’s been crying out for a fresh face to get the chocks away from the badders. You’ll ruffle a few feathers m’boy. Serve up hit after hit. Shrapnel. Short sharp cuttle shocks, popping corks, tennis shorts. Smashing idea. Cocked and loaded. You’ll start tomorrow, 11 o’ clock sharp.

PETE: Yes. No! What?

COLONEL: Deed’s done boy. You’re now the centurion of cock. I now pronounce you man and club. Sign here.

FX - SCRIBBLING

PETE: There. Colonel, just some information or perhaps a direction to someone who knows more would help me enormously.

COLONEL: Hard news for a Capital nose but sniffing up the wrong tree hack-man. Last competition I oversaw was Miss World 1926 as a lowly gusset stitcher. Not for me to dig up a tatty and despatch the chap to a foreign outpost. End of missive wordbean. Signing off. Next!