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Two straight ,comedy-loving men, GSOH, seek opinions on their comedy-writing skills. We post sketches – you tell us if they're shite. Be honest, nice, mean, critical, constructive, we don't care, just let us know what you think. All you need to know is: 1 = ace, 5 = shite. Let the tsunami of comments begin.

Friday, March 24, 2006

Sketch 2: The Doctor Sketch

Physic, Heal Thy Shelf

INT. "DOCTOR'S" OFFICE

The room has very little furniture apart from a desk, a chair and several empty frames hanging on the wall behind the desk. A Doctor sits behind the desk, watching the door expectantly.

A Patient opens the door to the office, on which is written "DOCTOR'S OFFICE" in overlarge letters.

Doctor: Come in, have a seat.

Patient: Thanks.

Doctor: So tell me, what seems to be the problem?

Patient: Well, I’ve been having headaches –

Doctor: (shouts): Tumour!

Patient: I’m sorry?

Doctor: Tumour, definitely. In your brain. Big old tumour.

Patient: Um, what do you –

Doctor: No, wait, not a tumour, it’s a – what’s that other thing, not a tumour, but a...?

Patient: Cyst?

Doctor: No, no, not quite, nearly though...

Patient: Aneurysm?

Doctor: No, not that, something else, what’s it called, sounds like “inferno” or “herpes”...

Patient: Um, I’m sorry doctor, but what are you –

Doctor: Oh, I’m not a doctor.

Patient: What?

Doctor: No, not a doctor, I’m a healer, you see. An holistic, professionally psychic diagnostician, in fact, completely and utterly hands off. And one of the best if not the best in the field.

Doctor leans back and gestures to a collection of empty frames hanging on the wall behind him.

Patient: But there’s nothing there.

Doctor smiles for a moment, then looks defeated.

Doctor: OK, well, I would be considered the best in the field if this was a recognised field, but it’s not because those damn surgeons and veterinarians have it all locked up, don’t they? It’s all politics and anal thermometers with them, and all their fancy machines with their x-rays and stethoscopes. You won’t catch me with any of those syringes or tongue depressions, no sir, not on my watch!

Patient: But it says “Doctor” on your door, in big letters.

Doctor: Advertising. It’s good for business. If you read the small print, it explains that the fact that I have the word “Doctor” on my door is not to be construed in any way to infer that I am in fact a medical professional in any way. And that I am not responsible for any unexplained, sudden deaths which may or may not have occurred within this office or in my basement. Have to keep the punters coming in, don’t I?

Patient: Small print?

Doctor points to bottom of door.

Patient stands up and walks over to the door, before getting down on his hands and knees and squints at a small squiggle.

Doctor opens a door and pulls out a magnifying glass.

Doctor: You might want this. Some of my older patients find it helpful. Though most can’t get up afterwards.

A muted collective groan is heard off screen, as though a large number of OAPs had been piled atop one another in a closet. Doctor looks askance, before putting down the magnifying glass and becoming engrossed in a paperweight.

Patient stands up and returns to his seat.

Patient: Listen, Doc – whatever you are, I don’t think I’ll –

Doctor: Hernia!

Patient: What?

Doctor: Not a tumour, a hernia, that’s what I was trying to remember!

Patient: Hernia?

Doctor: Hernia. Absolutely.

Patient: And it’s giving me headaches? Isn’t a hernia in your belly, due to overexertion of muscles?

Doctor looks perplexed for a moment.

Doctor: What’s that one that you get, you know, when your head hurts and it won’t go away?

Patient: A headache?

Doctor: That’s the one - you have a headache.

Patient: Well, yes, I have a headache, but –

Doctor: See? There you go, diagnosed, completely psychically and without touching you once.

Patient: But I had the headache when I came in...

Doctor: And it is through the power of my mind that I have tracked down your pain and named it, lassoing it with my genius and taking it down like a calf at a gay rodeo.

Patient looks bewildered.

Doctor: Was there anything else?

Patient: Um, no?

Doctor: Excellent. You may pay the nurse on the way out.

Patient gets up and leaves.

Doctor sits writing at his desk for a moment before turning to his intercom and pressing a button.

Doctor: Miss Johnson? Can you please cancel my appointments for the rest of the day? I’ve got a terrible hernia.

Fade out

© Nick and Keith 2006.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Sketch 1: The Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse

Recruiting the fifth horseman

INT: Bleak-looking office

Two caped and hooded figures sit at a desk. They have name plates in front of them, which read Death and Famine. Two spaces are empty, their name plates reading War and Pestilence.

A third caped and hooded figure stands in the background, struggling with a photocopier. From time to time, he smashes it very aggressively with his fist, before shuffling through a sloppy handful of paper.

A horse whineying is heard outside.


Death: War, have you finished copying those CVs? You've been at that photocopier for two hours now.

War (smashing the machine again): I can't... it’s just not – wait I think that’s got it... nope, I can’t get it to work.

Death: Honestly, what are you good for?

Famine clicks his bony fingers together.

Famine (singing): Absolutely nothing, say it again.

War and Death (together) : Shut Up.

Horse whineys ouside.

Death: And you shut up too, you bloody horse. (points at War ) How do expect us to recruit quality staff if your pissing mare is neighing all day?

War (returns to desk and sits ): Sorry. And we’re just going to have to share.

War stacks the papers in front of him and Death and Famine shuffle their seats a bit closer to see them.

Famine: What time's lunch?

Death: That's all you think about! Food food food.

Famine: Sorry.

Death: And where the bloody hell is Pestilence?

War: He called in sick.

Death: Oh, just great – how do we recruit quality staff if one of us is always throwing sickies.

War: He didn't sound well on the phone. Very throaty.

Death: Oh for Christ sake, Famine, call the first interviewee.

Famine presses a little box on his desk and speaks into it.

Famine: Mrs Hydra, can you send the candidate in?

The speaker emits a deathly howl.

Famine: Thank you.

Into the office walks, a young nervous looking hoodie. Death points a bony finger in his direction and points to the chair. The candidate sits down.

Death: (in an ominous, echoing voice, with attendant thunder and lightning): Name?

Candidate: Steve Jenkins

Famine: Hello, Steve.

War: Hello Steve

Horse whineys outside.

Death: Shut up. So... (leans over to see CV, obviously irritated) Mr Jenkins. Why do you want to be the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse.

Candidate: I really like working with people and I think I'd be perfect for the job, because I’m a real go-getter and –

War: What's your speciality?

Candidate: Making people stub their toes.

War and Famine wince and exchange nods of sympathetic agreement. Death looks non-plussed.

Death: Hmm. Mr Jenkins. Do you really think stubbing toes is, how can I put this – scary enough?

Candidate: Can be.

Death: You think people are really going to quake at the thought of the rumbling hooves of War, Famine, Pestilence, Death and Stubbing Your Toe.

Candidate: Er....

War: Oh come on, Death, give him a chance. He’s got his own hood, so that’s a money-saver right there. How about War, Famine, Pestilence, Death – and Steve?

Famine (giggling) : On bass.

War and Famine raise their hands in classic devil’s horns of rock poses.

Death: Thank you Mr Jenkins, but I’m afraid we’re looking for something a bit more... epic, shall we say, than toe stubbing.

Jenkins exits.

Death:(into speaker): Mrs Hydra, send in next interviewee.

The intercom speaker howls. Horse whineys outside. Death grabs the pile of papers from War, stands and walks towards the photocopier. He stubs his toe on the desk as he goes.

Death (hopping around the room wincing and grabbing his toe): I hate this job.

Famine: Is it lunchtime yet?

Fade out

© Nick and Keith 2006.