SPLINKER:
And now, without further ado, let’s get this show on the road!
Cue lights!
Cue music!
And let the massacre – er, the fun, the FUN – begin!
And now, without further ado, let’s get this show on the road!
Cue lights!
Cue music!
And let the massacre – er, the fun, the FUN – begin!
=======================================================
CURTAINS OPEN TO REVEAL ENTIRE CAST OF BREATHERS AND ZOMBIES
[Oklahoma! – Oklahoma!] (Richard Maitland)
ALL:
I – I – I – I’ve Been Deader !
A show of comedy and horror
Why not come along
And join in our song
And then come back again tomorror !
Oh – oh – oh – Fred’s a Zombie !
He’ll eat your heart, your liver and your lungs.
And he’ll taste your gore
Then go back for more
His feasting has only just begun !
We know you’ll enjoy our little show
Pitching Breathers ’gainst Zombies – deadly foes!
We’ll make you – cheer (YAH !)
For Zombies that you’d – fear (YAH !)
For though you may be Brea–thers
Fred the Zombie’s OK !
(Zombies. Zombies. Zombies. Zombies...)
We know you’ll love this story about Fred
Even though the folk you’ll meet are all Undead !
We’ll make you – cheer (YAH !)
For Zombies that you’d – fear (YAH !)
For though you may be Brea–thers
Fred the Zombie’s OK !
Zed – Oh – Em – Bee – Eye – Ee – Ess
We all love Zombies ! – YAH !
[Oklahoma! – Oklahoma!] (Richard Maitland)
ALL:
I – I – I – I’ve Been Deader !
A show of comedy and horror
Why not come along
And join in our song
And then come back again tomorror !
Oh – oh – oh – Fred’s a Zombie !
He’ll eat your heart, your liver and your lungs.
And he’ll taste your gore
Then go back for more
His feasting has only just begun !
We know you’ll enjoy our little show
Pitching Breathers ’gainst Zombies – deadly foes!
We’ll make you – cheer (YAH !)
For Zombies that you’d – fear (YAH !)
For though you may be Brea–thers
Fred the Zombie’s OK !
(Zombies. Zombies. Zombies. Zombies...)
We know you’ll love this story about Fred
Even though the folk you’ll meet are all Undead !
We’ll make you – cheer (YAH !)
For Zombies that you’d – fear (YAH !)
For though you may be Brea–thers
Fred the Zombie’s OK !
Zed – Oh – Em – Bee – Eye – Ee – Ess
We all love Zombies ! – YAH !
CAST STANDS AROUND, MILKING APPLAUSE. A MURMUR IS HEARD: “Do we,
uh, just stay here? Weren’t we supposed to go offstage now?” FOLLOWED BY: “I’m
sure Mr Dadoo said we ought to just stay put while Splinker waffled on a bit.”
AND “Well, I heard we came off now, and there’d be chance of a bun and a cup of
O-rhesus negative before we were needed again. I think the Breathers come on
next”
(whisper offstage) Get off! Just bloody get off!
(whisper offstage) Get off! Just bloody get off!
(Backstage tannoy: Dadoo, B., -- anybody! Get that woman off the
stage and seated in the audience, please.
(Backstage tannoy : calling stagehands and Zombie Herder, calling
stagehands and Zombie Herder, remove female from stage, we have a female
intruder on stage, repeat, please remove)
SPLINKER:
Our tale tonight is set in England, in the near future. First there was the Olympics, then came the Apocalypse. Frankly, there was a bit of a blurring between the two events – losing finalists at the Olympics began disappearing at an astonishing rate – and, on the rare occasion a Brit was on the podium, anyone failing to sing the words of the National Anthem simply vanished. No one’s seen Wayne Rooney since Euro 2012. In that year, 2012, suspicions that the dead were reanimating came firstly with Englebert Humperdink at the Eurovision Song Contest, and confirmed at the Jubilee Concert by the appearance of Sir Cliff – a man of 72 with the ageless features of an embalmed corpse.
Once the Zombies grew in strength, they formed bands of the Undead [music sting] – not those sorts of bands – driving the living – the Breathers – indoors. Terrified of going out for fear of being bitten, they had only the State broadcaster for entertainment. But when Zombies over-ran Television Centre, turning the BBC from the British Broadcasting Corporation into the Breathers’ Brains Consumption organisation, people switched off the TV and listened to the radio instead. Although that, too, was also under Zombie control.....
SCENE I. THE LIGHTS COME UP ON A BREATHER SITTING-ROOM. A COSY, DOMESTIC SCENE. THREE FLYING DUCKS ON A WALL. ON A SIDEBOARD, A SMALL WIRELESS SET. UNINTELLIGIBLE GIBBERISH AND “BRRAAIINNSSS!”
COMES FROM THE RADIO.
THREE BREATHERS ARE SEATED IN WING ARMCHAIRS: FATHER, MOTHER AND DAUGHTER ALETA. FATHER IS DRESSED IN BEIGE TROUSERS AND A YELLOW KNITTED CARDIGAN. HE HAS A THICK BLACK MOUSTACHE AND SMOKES A PIPE. MOTHER IS A PLUMP DOWDY WOMAN. SHE IS KNITTING. ALETA – A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG GIRL IN HER EARLY TWENTIES – IS READING A MAGAZINE.
FATHER GETS UP, SWITCHES OFF RADIO AND COMES DOWNSTAGE TO DIRECTLY ADDRESS THE AUDIENCE.
[Radio Gaga] (Richard Maitland)
FATHER:
We sit at home, in dread and fright
Hiding from the Zombies’ bite
For every day outside the door
The living and the Undead war
MOTHER/ALETA: (looking up momentarily) Undead war.
FATHER:
BBC TV don’t care a jot
The service has all gone to pot
So everything we need to know
Now comes from Zombie radio
MOTHER/ALETA: Radio.
FATHER:
The latest Zombie victories and a
Stream of Zombie propaganda
Is all we hear. The news distorted
With only Breathers’ deaths reported
Like the demise of Jeremy Paxman
Felled by the blow of a Zombie axeman
Radio.
MOTHER/ALETA: Radio.
FATHER:
All we hear is Radio Zombie
Radio goo goo, Radio ga ga
All we hear is Radio Zombie
Radio goo goo, Radio ga ga
Radio, what’s new?
Radio, tell us it’s not true.
FATHER IS NOW STRIDING AROUND THE STAGE LIKE FREDDIE MERCURY.
We’re forced to lead a hunted life
Surrounded by this Zombie strife
Each day another Breather dies
Their brains made into Zombie pies.
We’re lost for news; no one explains
Why Zombies want to eat our brains
We only know they find us toothsome
In a way that’s particularly gruesome
And so we live in abject fear
Cos all we ever get to hear is radio
MOTHER/ALETA: Radio.
Our tale tonight is set in England, in the near future. First there was the Olympics, then came the Apocalypse. Frankly, there was a bit of a blurring between the two events – losing finalists at the Olympics began disappearing at an astonishing rate – and, on the rare occasion a Brit was on the podium, anyone failing to sing the words of the National Anthem simply vanished. No one’s seen Wayne Rooney since Euro 2012. In that year, 2012, suspicions that the dead were reanimating came firstly with Englebert Humperdink at the Eurovision Song Contest, and confirmed at the Jubilee Concert by the appearance of Sir Cliff – a man of 72 with the ageless features of an embalmed corpse.
Once the Zombies grew in strength, they formed bands of the Undead [music sting] – not those sorts of bands – driving the living – the Breathers – indoors. Terrified of going out for fear of being bitten, they had only the State broadcaster for entertainment. But when Zombies over-ran Television Centre, turning the BBC from the British Broadcasting Corporation into the Breathers’ Brains Consumption organisation, people switched off the TV and listened to the radio instead. Although that, too, was also under Zombie control.....
SCENE I. THE LIGHTS COME UP ON A BREATHER SITTING-ROOM. A COSY, DOMESTIC SCENE. THREE FLYING DUCKS ON A WALL. ON A SIDEBOARD, A SMALL WIRELESS SET. UNINTELLIGIBLE GIBBERISH AND “BRRAAIINNSSS!”
COMES FROM THE RADIO.
THREE BREATHERS ARE SEATED IN WING ARMCHAIRS: FATHER, MOTHER AND DAUGHTER ALETA. FATHER IS DRESSED IN BEIGE TROUSERS AND A YELLOW KNITTED CARDIGAN. HE HAS A THICK BLACK MOUSTACHE AND SMOKES A PIPE. MOTHER IS A PLUMP DOWDY WOMAN. SHE IS KNITTING. ALETA – A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG GIRL IN HER EARLY TWENTIES – IS READING A MAGAZINE.
FATHER GETS UP, SWITCHES OFF RADIO AND COMES DOWNSTAGE TO DIRECTLY ADDRESS THE AUDIENCE.
[Radio Gaga] (Richard Maitland)
FATHER:
We sit at home, in dread and fright
Hiding from the Zombies’ bite
For every day outside the door
The living and the Undead war
MOTHER/ALETA: (looking up momentarily) Undead war.
FATHER:
BBC TV don’t care a jot
The service has all gone to pot
So everything we need to know
Now comes from Zombie radio
MOTHER/ALETA: Radio.
FATHER:
The latest Zombie victories and a
Stream of Zombie propaganda
Is all we hear. The news distorted
With only Breathers’ deaths reported
Like the demise of Jeremy Paxman
Felled by the blow of a Zombie axeman
Radio.
MOTHER/ALETA: Radio.
FATHER:
All we hear is Radio Zombie
Radio goo goo, Radio ga ga
All we hear is Radio Zombie
Radio goo goo, Radio ga ga
Radio, what’s new?
Radio, tell us it’s not true.
FATHER IS NOW STRIDING AROUND THE STAGE LIKE FREDDIE MERCURY.
We’re forced to lead a hunted life
Surrounded by this Zombie strife
Each day another Breather dies
Their brains made into Zombie pies.
We’re lost for news; no one explains
Why Zombies want to eat our brains
We only know they find us toothsome
In a way that’s particularly gruesome
And so we live in abject fear
Cos all we ever get to hear is radio
MOTHER/ALETA: Radio.
ALL:
All we hear is Radio Zombie
Radio goo goo, Radio ga ga
All we hear is Radio Zombie
Radio goo goo, Radio ga ga.
Radio, what’s new?
Radio, tell us it’s not true.
All we hear is Radio Zombie
Radio goo goo, Radio ga ga
All we hear is Radio Zombie
Radio goo goo, Radio ga ga.
Radio, what’s new?
Radio, tell us it’s not true.
MOTHER SITS DOWN AND RESUMES KNITTING. FATHER
RESUMES SEAT AND TAKES UP HIS PIPE AND THE PAPER. ALL IS TRANQUIL. ALETA
DISAPPEARS MOMENTARILY, AND RETURNS, WEARING HER COAT.
FATHER: Where do you think you’re going?
ALETA: Out.
FATHER: Out where?
ALETA: Just out. I can’t stay cooped up day after day. I’m going mad.
MOTHER: Ooh, no, you mustn’t. It’s not safe. Is it, dear?
FATHER: No, it’s not. Aleta, take off your coat and sit down. You’re going
nowhere.
ALETA: Oh, Daddy, don’t fuss. I’m sure it’s perfectly all right if you’re careful. And as long as you go out in a group, you’re quite safe.
(Points to small trophy on sideboard). I won that every year for three consecutive Sports Days, if you remember. I know it’s a good while since then, and I’m no Usain Bolt, but I still fancy my chances over that of a Zombie if it comes to a 100-yard sprint. Besides, they only come out at night.
MOTHER: Nonsense! I heard only last week a woman was bitten outside theHampstead Deli in broad daylight. Only two tiny holes in her neck, but it was too lateto save her. She’d already started to reanimate, so they had to put her down. (sighs) I’ve no idea who ended up with her bag of groceries.
FATHER: She wasn’t ripped to pieces? Eviscerated? Head torn off? Brains sucked out?
MOTHER: No. You get a nicer class of Zombie in Hampstead.
ALETA: Just two puncture holes? Can’t you tell the difference between a Zombie attack and one made by Vampires?
MOTHER: What! Don’t we have enough troubles? Have we got to put up withVampires now? Neighbourhood’s going to pot! (she knits furiously)
ALETA: You know, Mum, I can’t help feeling sorry for the Zombies. First they were friends; now they’re fiends. We forget they were once our neighbours and workmates. And people we loved – like… like Fred, for instance.
MOTHER: Is that the posh one who used to write you poems? Nice boy. Never understood why he chose to live in the East End.
ALETA: I heard he got bitten at a funeral. Apparently they were just about to lower the coffin into the grave when they heard this frantic knocking. Fred and the vicar managed to get the lid off, and the corpse sat up and said, “How very dare you!” and
lunged at him.
MOTHER: Nasty.
ALETA: I don’t know what happened after that. All I know is that I’ve lost the only boy I’ve ever really fancied.
FRONT DOORBELL RINGS. FATHER GOES TO ANSWER IT.
ALETA: Mum, I promise to be careful. I’ve no intention of becoming a victim. But I must go out for a breath of fresh air. I’ll nip out the back way. Won’t be long.
FATHER: Where do you think you’re going?
ALETA: Out.
FATHER: Out where?
ALETA: Just out. I can’t stay cooped up day after day. I’m going mad.
MOTHER: Ooh, no, you mustn’t. It’s not safe. Is it, dear?
FATHER: No, it’s not. Aleta, take off your coat and sit down. You’re going
nowhere.
ALETA: Oh, Daddy, don’t fuss. I’m sure it’s perfectly all right if you’re careful. And as long as you go out in a group, you’re quite safe.
(Points to small trophy on sideboard). I won that every year for three consecutive Sports Days, if you remember. I know it’s a good while since then, and I’m no Usain Bolt, but I still fancy my chances over that of a Zombie if it comes to a 100-yard sprint. Besides, they only come out at night.
MOTHER: Nonsense! I heard only last week a woman was bitten outside theHampstead Deli in broad daylight. Only two tiny holes in her neck, but it was too lateto save her. She’d already started to reanimate, so they had to put her down. (sighs) I’ve no idea who ended up with her bag of groceries.
FATHER: She wasn’t ripped to pieces? Eviscerated? Head torn off? Brains sucked out?
MOTHER: No. You get a nicer class of Zombie in Hampstead.
ALETA: Just two puncture holes? Can’t you tell the difference between a Zombie attack and one made by Vampires?
MOTHER: What! Don’t we have enough troubles? Have we got to put up withVampires now? Neighbourhood’s going to pot! (she knits furiously)
ALETA: You know, Mum, I can’t help feeling sorry for the Zombies. First they were friends; now they’re fiends. We forget they were once our neighbours and workmates. And people we loved – like… like Fred, for instance.
MOTHER: Is that the posh one who used to write you poems? Nice boy. Never understood why he chose to live in the East End.
ALETA: I heard he got bitten at a funeral. Apparently they were just about to lower the coffin into the grave when they heard this frantic knocking. Fred and the vicar managed to get the lid off, and the corpse sat up and said, “How very dare you!” and
lunged at him.
MOTHER: Nasty.
ALETA: I don’t know what happened after that. All I know is that I’ve lost the only boy I’ve ever really fancied.
FRONT DOORBELL RINGS. FATHER GOES TO ANSWER IT.
ALETA: Mum, I promise to be careful. I’ve no intention of becoming a victim. But I must go out for a breath of fresh air. I’ll nip out the back way. Won’t be long.
FATHER: Where’s Aleta?
MOTHER: She went out, dear. She was determined. But she’ll be all right. She’s got a sensible head on her shoulders.
FATHER: Hmph. And how long before it’s torn off?
MOTHER: I don’t think she’ll come to any harm, dear.
NEIGHBOUR: I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Mrs H. I bring bad news, I’m afraid. They’re on the move – in broad daylight!
STAY TUNED FOR MORE!!
In the meantime, why not sit back, relax, open a can of beer and read a little something?
I read a little something recently and it put me off reading (and other small pleasures in life) for a very long time. I may need therapy. In the meantime, more singing and dancing zombies, please... :)
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