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: We had the most marvelous holiday. It was absolutely fantastic.
Host: 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: Dung, sir.
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.
(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.)
Gas Man: Dead Indian.
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.
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?
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?
Policeman: 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: 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 on screen: 'STOP-PRESS')
Voice Over: 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), and a hand-painted scene of Arabian splendour, complete with silly walk.
Continue to the next sketch... Timmy Williams Interview