Peter Cook and Dudley Moore in a really filthy sketch...

Interior of a hardware store, Dudley behind the counter. Enter Peter, in long mac, looking decidedly unsavoury:

COOK: Hello, I’d like to buy one of those squirty things if you have one.

MOORE: Exactly what kind of squirty thing were you looking for, sir?

COOK: Well, it’s about six inches long…

MOORE: Paint spray? Aerosol?

COOK: …pink, and you hold it in your hand. Oh, what’s it called, it’s on the tip of my tongue… a cock, that’s it, a cock.

MOORE: I beg your pardon?

COOK: That’s it, a pink, squirty cock. Fits in your trousers. The man next door’s got one. I’ve seen him out in the garden watering the flowers with it.

MOORE: Ah. You mean a hosepipe, sir.

COOK: You obviously don’t know the man next door. What I’m after is a cock, exactly like the one he’s got. The wife’s been on at me for weeks to get one.

MOORE: Don’t you have one already?

COOK: Seemingly not. I’ve looked in my trousers, but all I found there were the keys to the house and sixty seven new pence in change. Anyway, it’s our anniversary coming up, and I thought I’d surprise the wife with a cock like the one the man next door has got. I have endeavoured to find out the name of the manufacturer, but every time I try to ask him about it he gets most abusive. Only this morning, I sidled up to the garden fence and said ‘psst, where can I get a cock like yours.’ I am unable to tell you his exact reply, other than that it began with the word ‘fuck’ and ended with the word ‘off.’

MOORE: I’m sorry sir, I don’t think I can be of any assistance.

COOK: Perhaps it will help if I describe it? As I mentioned previously, it’s about six inches in length, pink, oh, and it’s telescopic.

MOORE: Telescopic, sir?

COOK: Yes, it extends when you pull on it. I believe it’s called a pump-action mechanism. It fits inside your trousers or your wife. That’s why I’m so keen to get one like the man next door has got, since I happen to know that his is a perfect fit for my wife.

MOORE: Perhaps a marriage guidance counsellor would be more help than a hardware store, sir?

COOK: I’ve asked about getting one on the NHS, but they wouldn’t have any of it. I’ll admit I’ve thought about pinching the man next door’s cock, but he’d be sure to notice. If I could only just sneak it away while he wasn’t using it.

MOORE: Maybe your wife could assist you there, sir? Perhaps she could, er, pinch it for you?

COOK: Ah, but that would spoil the surprise. Imagine her face when she sees I’ve got the man next door’s cock.

MOORE: I’m trying to imagine that, sir.

COOK: So you can’t help me?

MOORE: Well, there might be something I could do for you sir. I happen to have a cock myself exactly like the one you described, and if you give me your address I could deliver it to your wife personally.

COOK: Would you do that? How very kind.

MOORE: My pleasure, sir.

COOK: In that case, I shall give you my name and address. It’s Ernest Cuckold, 69 Detumescence Gardens, Littlehampton.

MOORE: Your wife will get it first thing in the morning, sir.

COOK: Oh dear. You see, I work shifts, and I won’t be in.

MOORE: I don’t think that will be a problem, sir.

COOK: And you’re sure your cock will do the trick? It will surprise her, won’t it?

MOORE: I’m sure it will give every satisfaction, sir.

COOK: Well, that’s absolutely marvellous. In that case, I shall bid you good day.

MOORE: And the same to you, sir.

COOK: Oh, just one more thing before I go. I was wondering…could I possibly have a demonstration?

MOORE: A demonstration, sir?

COOK: Yes. I’d like to see your cock in action. Merely to satisfy my curiosity…

MOORE: Anything to oblige, sir… if you’ll step this way I’ll show you what it can do.

COOK: But that’s the door to the gentlemens’ lavatories…

FADE

DOCTOR WHO - THE NEW SERIES CONTINUES

DOCTOR WHO: SPACE:1969

The following exchange of dialogue to be delivered as fast as the actors can manage it, cut together in a dizzying sequence of camera angles:


Open on: a desert landscape. The DOCTOR lies dead at the feet of AMY, RORY and RIVERSONG.

AMY (Acting rather badly): Boo-hoo, the Doctor’s dead.

RIVERSONG: He didn’t even know who I was.

RORY (noticing something out of shot): Wait a minute, who’s that?

A long, dramatic shot of a rugged skyline. A lone figure stands silhouetted against the sun. He begins to walk towards us.

AMY, RORY and RIVERSONG shield their eyes and stare at the advancing figure.

AMY: It’s… it’s…

RORY: It can’t be.

RIVERSONG: It isn’t.

AMY: It is! It’s the Doctor! He’s alive! (Shouting, she begins to run towards him): DOCTOR! What happened? Are you all right? We thought you were dead.

DOCTOR: Who, me? What? Jamie, is that you?

AMY: Doctor, it’s me, Amy.

DOCTOR (looks puzzled): Doctor? Why do you call me that?

AMY: Because you’re the Doctor!

DOCTOR: I am? Doctor Who, exactly? (Checks inside his jacket, mutters to self). No name in there.

RORY: Don’t you know who you are?

RIVERSONG: Don’t you know who I am?

RORY (addressing Riversong): What’s this thing that’s going to happen to you, anyway?

RIVERSONG: Something dark and terrible but I can’t tell you until the last episode of the series. And even then I won’t tell you properly.

DOCTOR: Good girl, you’re learning. Whoever you are.

RIVERSONG: Don’t you know me, Doctor?

DOCTOR: No. And stop calling me Doctor.

AMY: We saw you killed. You were dead.

DOCTOR: No, not me. Now him over there, he’s definitely dead. (Indicates out of shot).

In the middle distance, the ‘dead’ Doctor is getting to his feet. He begins to walk away into the landscape.

AMY: Doctor! Wait! (runs after him).

Dramatic Murray Gold sound bed as RORY and RIVERSONG run frantically after AMY as she runs after the DOCTOR in a cascade of jerky camerawork.

RORY: Amy! No!

The DOCTOR has stopped. He turns, smiles and holds out his hand towards AMY. She reaches out but just as her fingers are about to make contact, the DOCTOR explodes in a shower of tiny white particles.

AMY stares in disbelief as RORY and RIVERSONG catch up with her. RORY catches her sleeve and points out of shot.

Cut to: the Tardis materialises. Door opens and the DOCTOR exits, wearing a fez.

DOCTOR: I trust I’m in time? Am I dead yet?

AMY: Doctor, is that really you?

DOCTOR: Oh, I’m always really me. (Takes pocket watch from his jacket and consults it). Tell me, how many times have I been killed and resurrected this week?

AMY: Ten times?

RORY: I’ve lost count.

RIVERSONG: Don’t you know who I am?

AMY: Please, Doctor, tell us what’s going on.

DOCTOR: It’s quite simple, Jamie. Just a straightforward plot convolusion. No more.

AMY: But what does it all mean?

DOCTOR waltzes around them, grinning and making random arm movements.

DOCTOR: Mean? Why does anything have to mean anything? It’s all lumpy bumpy timey wimey stuff after all. Nothing’s a straight line. Nothing makes any sense. No one is who they appear to be. Even Riversong here.

RIVERSONG (delightedly): He knows who I am!

DOCTOR: For the time being.

RORY: Look, where is all this getting us?

DOCTOR: Nowhere. Time is an illusion, a paradox. It can do whatever we want it to do. It’s just wibbly wobbly stuff. Time is a jelly. Actually, I quite fancy some jelly and blancmange.

AMY: Doctor are you all right? What’s going on?

DOCTOR: I don’t think anyone knows the answer to that, Jamie. Even the person who’s writing our lines for us.

RORY: Our what?

AMY: You mean we’re just characters in a TV series?

DOCTOR: Look, I can’t explain anything else at the moment. I have an urgent appointment with some weird aliens who are going to kill me, resurrect me, send me back in time a thousand years so that I grow a beard, then imprison me in 1969 for two hundred years, kill me again, resurrect me and send me back in time so I can prevent all of this from happening – which it hasn’t.

RIVERSONG: Just tell us, please – when is any of this going to start making sense.

DOCTOR: Sense, sweetie? You’ll have to wait for the final end of the universe as we know it cliffhanger episode if you want to make any sense of this. And even then, I can’t offer any guarantees. Whoever you are.

CUT TO: A suburban living room. The Doctor is on the television. He turns and, 'breaking the fourth wall', addresses a girl and boy sitting on a sofa.

DOCTOR: What do you think of it so far?

Girl and boy exchange glances. Girl picks up the remote control and aims it at the television. The picture disappears.

CUT TO: The original desert landscape. The DOCTOR is lying dead at the feet of AMY, RORY and RIVERSONG.

RORY: He's dead again.

AMY: He can't be...

Repeat all of the preceding sequence every Saturday evening for the next two months.

Paul McCartney and Elvis Costello attempt to write 'Veronica'

Elvis Costello's 'Spike' album contained a number of songs co-written with Paul McCartney, a collaboration we've heard no more of. Here's a short script attempting to visualise that process at work.


Elvis has just sung the verse and chorus of 'Veronica' to Macca:


Macca: That needs an extra note at the end of the phrase, Elvis.

EC: No, it's fine. (sings it)

Macca: Do you see what I mean? It needs to go 'Veronica-uh' (sings it)

EC: No it doesn't.

Macca: Hey, are you telling me how to write songs or what?

EC: I'm saying it doesn't need an extra note.

Macca: Right, so Mr. Oliver's Army knows better than the bloke who wrote Sgt Pepper, and She Loves You and all the other Beatles songs? You're not even the real Elvis! I've met him, he lives in a bungalow
surrounded by beefburgers.

EC: Well, if the sleeve of Abbey Road is to be believed, you're not even
the real Paul McCartney. He died in a motorbike accident in '66.

Macca: No he didn't. I mean, I didn't. Look, are you going to put that
note in or what?

EC: You're deliberately trying to spoil my song! No wonder the other
Beatles hated you.

Macca: So you admit I'm the real Paul McCartney, then?

EC: Only the real Paul could be as irritating as you are...


And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why no more was heard of the fabled
'McCartney/ Costello' songwriting partnership...

Alan Partridge

ALAN: And we’ve got Jenny on the line, she’s a mother of five (exaggerated amazement). So, Jenny, five kids…

CALLER: Well, they’ve all flown the nest now, Alan.

ALAN: Fabulous. So (stops himself mid-sentence): Sorry, you, er, you live in a nest?

CALLER: Well, you know, it’s just an expression. ‘Flown the nest.’

ALAN: Yeah, and you know what else it is? It’s a cliché. A cliché-ridden turn of phrase. ‘Flown the nest.’ ‘Building a nest.’ Let’s just get one thing straight: human beings do not build nests. They buy houses, or maybe rent them. If I want a place to live, I don’t go round gathering up twigs and then take them to the nearest tree, or anything like that. I go to the estate agent and ask if they have any houses for sale. I’m not a bird and I do not, repeat not live in a nest.

CALLER: There’s no need to go on about it.

ALAN: It’s not me who’s going on, you brought up the whole nest-based home making simile or metaphor or whatever you want to call it.

CALLER: We’ve all heard about your efforts at nest-building, Alan.

ALAN: What? I mean, what efforts? I just told you, I do not build nests. I, Alan Partridge, do not live in a tree. Well, I suppose, a pear tree possibly if you want to extend the metaphor or whatever it is, but if I did live in a metaphorical pear tree I would have a proper tree house constructed in it, like something off Grand Designs. What I would not do is build a nest. All right?