Episode 7 - The Wrath of Grapes by George Paterson
Opens in a park, on a lovely spring day. Gordon and George are sitting on the grass, drinking beer, Gordon strums guitar.
Gordon - What about this?
Plays riff...
George (swigging beer, concentrating more on girls going by) - Nah.
Gordon - Ok, then.
Plays another piece.
George (dismissively) - A bit too...(makes sound with mouth) ewww?
Gordon (becoming impatient) - Right...this.
Gordon plays chord sequence but George is barely listening...
Gordon - Well?
George - A bit too chordy...Gordy!
Gordon - Can you pass me a can of beer, please?
George passes him the can.
Gordon bounces it back off George's head.
George - Fucking hell!
Gordon - Do I have your attention now?
George (mutters) - Watch the hair, big man.
Gordon - We need to finish these songs, in case you haven't realised. The set needs some fresh material. We can't keep living on the glory of the Barrowland. So, head out of arse and get fucking writing.
Narrator - To the point. We've been coasting the tidal wave of approval in the months since that incredible night at the Barrowland. But while we've been playing enough to keep us in new strings, fast food and booze, Devon has started to look for new seams to mine. Some...
(cut to montage of band playing sweaty pubs and clubs)
...have worked out pretty well while others ...well
(cut to band playing slow old fashioned song, waltz style. George walks up to the mike, pouts dramatically before throwing his hair back...)
George (deep) - Eyes down for a full house...
Camera pulls back to reveal the band playing an old folks day centre.
Two elderly ladies whisper as they look at the singer. George gives them a smouldering look and they giggle excitedly. George starts to call the balls.
George - Two fat ladies, 27.
Gordon loses himself in the music as Devon chats up elderly seductress who has a voice box.
An old lady shares some boiled sweets with Jim.
Old man approaches Billy.
Old man - Hawl son...can you play 'Such a Lovely Place'?
Billy - What?
Old man - You know, 'Such a Lovely Place'?
Billy (puzzled) - I have no idea what you're on about. Is it a song?
Old Man (snaps) - Of course it's a fucking song, you idiot!
Billy (apologetic) - How does it go?
Old Man (starts singing) Welcome to the Hotel California....Such a Lovely Place...Such a Lovely Place.
Narrator - ...perhaps it wasn't so appropriate for potential rock legends. But at least Devon enjoyed it.
Cut to after show, band packing away gear, a dishevelled Devon approaches.
Gordon (sings) - There's no one quite like Grandma...
Band laugh and join in.
Jim - Was she panting heavily or was that just the emphysema?
Band laugh again.
Devon (Fixing his clothing and anxious) - Are we ready to leave yet?
George - At least you scored mate. What about her tracheotomy? Any hole's a goal.
Billy - Her pacemaker is older than Jim!
Devon (Buttoning up his trousers) - Shut up you lot...
Pause...
Devon - Think I might have broken her hip.
Band - Ooooh!
Cut to shot of van driving away, old ladies waving in the background.
Narrator - I think we need a change of tack. But first...
Cut to George's penthouse...Landlord arrives to talk about lease.
Dick Turpin - So, what's wrong with the place?
(cut to George looking through hole in the roof as snow starts to fall)
Dick Turpin - Ok, how about I'll drop the rent by a fiver a week?
Narrator - So, it was a sad adieu to the penthouse and hopefully, a kinky big hello to this posh apartment Donny and I had our eyes on. Having natural air conditioning might work when I move into my beach house in Malibu but in bracing northern European climes, a 5 by 3ft hole in your ceiling isn't particularly conducive to robust health. As Brian was working away from home more often, it was left to The Skull and I to find Penthouse 2.0. We looked everywhere (cut to montage of flats in various states) ...driving around in Donny's chariot, a pale blue Ford Escort...
(Cut to Donny and George in car looking at a variety of newspapers and maps)
...listening to the only three tapes he had, Ian Dury's 'New Boots and Panties', 'Sandanista' by the Clash and a drunk country punk singer who sung songs about whiskey, Egyptians and shooting rabbits. Heady times. But to secure the place we really want, a balcony flat in the grandiosely named Hyndland Mansions, we might have to bend the rules ever so slightly...
Cut to Office, polite man signing papers as George and Donny look on. They are wearing white shirts, ties and crudely made home made name badges, bearing the names, Chad Bawhummer and Jeremy Cottontail III .
Letting agent - And here's your keys. I have to say, you are the first Jehovah's Witnesses we've had living in Hyndland Mansions. Our code of conduct is as much for your benefit as our other residents. We feel strongly here at Majestic Lettings that a peaceful home is a happy home. Well, gentlemen, I hope your stay here will be a long and happy one.
George - Thank you very much.
Donny - Cheers big man.
Letting agent - With regards payment, we collect from our tenants on the first of the month.
George (concerned) - No....we're away a lot. On God's business, you understand. We can drop it in here if that's ok?
Letting agent - That'll be fine.
Donny (mutters) - Thank Christ.
Letting agent - Excuse me?
George - He said 'That's nice'. OK, take care....bye...
Cut to outside of agency, Donny and George take their ties off and ruffle their hair.
George - OK, this is an awesome place. We cannot fuck this up.
Donny nods as they head off.
Narrator - I think it was St Bernard who said the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I wonder if he carried a bottle of brandy around his neck?
Cut to Donny standing on the balcony, wearing shorts and a robe, holding a bottle of Cognac...
Narrator - Or stood on a balcony in a robe?
Donny - Party!!!!
Cut to shots of flat filled to the rafters with people.
Narrator - Seven hours. Enough time to watch Connor McLeod fight the Kurgan 3.8 times, run two marathons or slow cook a 5lb pot roast. Seven hours. From keys to Caligula. The anally precise contract actually stipulated exactly how many people the living room could hold at any one time. (cut to contract) Eight. Not eighteen, definitely not eighty. Eight.
Cut back to living room. People are sitting on top of other people. Devon is fighting his way through the throng to get to George.
George (shouting above music) - What do you think? Cool flat,eh?
Devon - I'll tell you when I can actually see it. Listen, are you aware that you've got a hot TV presenter sitting on your kitchen counter?
George - Who?
Devon - Laura Muller Jones!
George - From the Arts Show? Fuck off.
Devon - We can use this. Get in there and schmooze. This is a great opportunity for us to move up a social level.
Narrator - No, this was an opportunity to see some supernatural titties.
George fights his way through the crowd in the hall, who include Gordon speaking to enthralled blonde. They're sharing bottle of wine.
Gordon - No, anyone can be a singer...listen (sings) see, I'm now a singer. No, I'm the guitarist. I'm the guy who holds it all together. Without me, it wouldn't be White, you know. All about symmetry, sweetheart. (takes swig from bottle) I'm more of an architect, an alchemist.
Blonde (slurring) - Surely if you're an alchochemist, you shouldn't be drinking this.
Gordon looks at her and smiles.
Gordon - Top up?
Brian is going back and forth, squeezing in between two girls with large breasts.
Brian - Excuse me...sorry, I forgot my drink....excuse me again. Where's my manners, let me get you two ladies something...George, guess who's in the kitchen?
George - I've just heard. (shouts) Bill!
Billy - What?
George moves towards Billy.
George (cups hands over breast, twiddles his fingers) - Serious peanut smuggling in kitchen area.
Billy (unmoved) - Serious peanut smuggling everywhere.
George - Who do we know that has nipples like a fighter pilot's thumbs? Three words....Laura...Muller...
Billy - Jones? Where?
Billy sniffs his armpits.
Narrator - Billy's weak spot. Not the armpits,which we'll get to later, but the presenter. She was definitely high on the Glasgow celebrity spank list. Quite a distance ahead of Muriel Gray but just behind another old paramour of Billy's, a nameless American based singer of Bond songs who once let our bassist slip the hand for a bag of chips. But Laura Muller Jones was different. Daughter of noted broadcaster, academic and pompous old fart, Clarke Muller Jones, she'd been the wanking man's bit of posh since she started broadcasting the Arts Show on the BBC, a show that until her arrival was as captivating as a week in a medieval Nordic wheel museum. And on these shows, she rarely employed ladies supportive undergarments. This made her rather appealing to males of all ages up and down the country, illuminating dull Sunday nights with the possibility of seeing her hide some legumes in her sweater. She was super cool, almost untouchable. Which was a drag. But God loves a trier. Billy reckoned he had a chance since they met at a gallery a few months back. Even Gordon's dubious but generally successful charms were repelled with the minimum of fuss.
(cut to Gordon giving her the smoulder, unsuccessfully)
But Billy's cool was definitely tested when she was around.
Cut to Gallery, a group of critics surround some conceptual pieces of modern art. LMJ holds court, Billy looks on, curious. Gordon and George look at the work. They smell it and are instantly repulsed and go back to staring at LMJ's breasts.
Gordon (quietly) - Cosmic.
George - Hypnotic.
Waiter - Wine gentlemen?
George (whines) - Whaaa!
Gordon - Two please. And two for my friend.
Critic - Does fortune favour the brave in this case? I think not.
LMJ - It's clear to see that her work is heavily influenced by the Wellesley findings of McClintock, in so much that the pheremonal pushes emphasis away from chance and more toward sheer animal attraction. That took courage in my opinion.
Gordon (to George) - I'm out.
Critic - So, you're saying that she believes that attraction is purely sensory?
LMJ - Very much so. And I agree.
Critic (dismissively) - Even a sweaty armpit excretes pheremones. Do you find that attractive?
LMJ - This is not about me but yes, I won't deny there can be a powerful attraction in the heat of a pheremonal male.
Billy's ears prick up.
LMJ - Let's just say that I'm in agreement with the view of the ancient Roman playwright, Terence.
Critic - What did he say?
LMJ - He said, 'Nothing human is alien to me'.
Billy (eyes light up) - Here we go...
Cut back to party in flat, George enters kitchen and sees Laura Muller Jones clutching a glass of red wine, slightly detached from the mayhem. She is wearing a tight sweater.
Narrator - You can see why she was so popular.
George - Hi, you're Laura aren't you?
Laura - And you're the singer. Haven't seen you play but I hear good things about you. And your band.
Narrator - There's a rumbling down under....
Billy - Hi.
Laura - Hi yourself. You would be the bass player?
Billy (smug) - Yes I am. We met at the Gallery.
Narrator - Hmm...,competition, eh?
George - I loved your programme on Gaelic punk.
Narrator - He lied...
LMJ - Thanks...(teasing) you never know but one day, we might have to make a show about you.
Narrator - Almost up to my full chub limit.
George - Really?
Billy - Cool.
LMJ - I'm going to have to leave shortly. Doing some editing on a Mackintosh feature that's going out soon. (to George) We could continue this discussion tomorrow?
Narrator - Houston, we have a...
George - Damn, we're playing in Houston tomorrow night.
LMJ - Sunday then. My father is having a discussion at the house about Pasolini...
Narrator - The Italian Dictator?
LMJ -..why don't you join us?
George - I'm there.
Narrator - Yes!
Billy - I took one of your father's European film classes, a few years ago.
LMJ - Then you must come too!
Narrator - Denied!
George and Billy smile at LMJ as she departs before scowling at each other.
LMJ - Don't cross streams, boys.
Narrator (sings) - It's gonna be a showdown! But first...
Cut to van driving out of city, into countryside..
Devon (voice over) - Easy wee gig, 45 minute set, £300, back in Glasgow for last orders. What's not to love?
Cut to Van heading into quaint village...
Jim - Looks quite nice here...
Billy - Don't you think it's a bit too quiet for a Saturday evening?
Gordon hums Duelling Banjos theme.
Devon - As I said, just an easy wee gig, good money, little village...
Jim - Full of skinheads?
The band look around and it appears that there is a multitude of neo nazi types wandering around.
George - Holy fuck!
Narrator - Holy fuck indeed. It looks like Ibrox on a matchday.
Billy - Is it normally like this?
Gordon - Not unless Houston has just been twinned with Nuremberg.
Devon - Let's just get to the pub...
The band drive into the centre of village and spot the pub.
Narrator - This... (cuts to skinheads slamming each other outside of pub) was not in the script.
Cut to band entering back entrance of pub.
Devon - Hi, we're the band.
Narrator - No, Devon. We're a band. A band. Something tells me we're not THE band they had in mind.
Barman - You'd better speak to the promoter.
Band goes to small office to speak to promoter.
Promoter - Who the fuck are you?
Devon - We're the band.
Promoter - No, you're not.
Devon - Yes we are.
Promoter - Do you play Deutschland Uber Alles?
Billy - No.
Promoter - Are you planning to cut your hair in the next half an hour?
George - Hell no.
Promoter - Do any of your songs last more than one minute?
Gordon - Yes.
Promoter - And are you comfortable with the tenets of National Socialism?
Narrator - Are we fuck!
Promoter - You're not my band.
Jim - Guys, take a look at the listing...
Cuts to posters displayed..it says...
Live on Saturday
WHITE POWER
ROCK GROUP FROM GLASGOW.
Narrator - A dash, a dash, my kingdom for a dash. Even a hyphen would do. If you want to point fingers at where the country has gone wrong, you could do worse than peruse this piece of pathetic punctuation.
Gordon - I'm out.
George - Back in the van boys.
Devon - But...it's still a gig...£300...
Billy - You stay and play then. We're off.
Promoter - We have a contract. I'll sue you.
Gordon (takes contract)- 500 skinheads, we play...our problem. 500 skinheads, no band...your problem. (tears contract)
Promoter (defiant) - You might need to get a lawyer.
Billy (spotting the throng of volatile skinheads in the bar) - You might need a good excuse.
Gordon - And a fresh pair of pants.
Cut to the band jumping back into the van. The van speeds off as bottles bounce off the sides. A skinhead attempts to jump onto the back of the van.
Devon (laughs) - That was close, eh?
Gordon leaps across the van, grabbing the manager.
Gordon - That's it. No more old folks homes, bingo houses and definitely no more trips to the village of the fucking damned!
George - I agree. I'm fed up with this shit. Don't you care about us? Our image? Why are we paying you?
Devon (angrily) - You're not. How much money have I taken since we started? Billy?
Billy - Err..I don't know.
Devon - Jim...George...how much?
Jim and George shake their heads.
Devon - Nothing. That's right. Nothing. Not a fucking penny. All outgoings. And why? Tell me Gordon, why?
Gordon stares back at him.
Devon - Ok, I'll tell you why. Because I love this band. That's it. I love this band. I wake up in the morning singing your stupid fucking songs. I spend all day calling people who couldn't give a toss about another bloody band and I fight, reason, beg then pay them to take a chance. They ask what makes you so special and I tell them. I tell them about the magic that you (to Gordon) create. There is no one in your league. No one does this. And Billy's grooves? Jim's drumming? That's why we have crowds bouncing. And then I tell them that this skinny tosser (to George) is the reason that all of this is going to go stratospheric. It's not just the girls who are going to bed dreaming of White... I lie down, and I rack my brains thinking of ways to get you heard. To get you on TV, radio. To get people to understand what I feel about a fucking three minute piece of magic. Sometimes, like today, it doesn't come off but am I still out there hustling for you? Want a good review? That's another journalist I need to get drunk. Want to hear your song on the radio? That's a DJ I've got to take care of? A chance to get some dead time in a top studio? That'll be another producer who won't even open the tape until he gets his tiny knob blown. I haven't paid my mortgage in three months.
Gordon - WHAT?
Devon - Close to four now. I need this breakthrough just as much as you do. Maybe more. But if I didn't believe in what you're doing...what we're doing...I'd have moved you on a long time ago.
The van goes quiet.
Billy - Fuck it, let's go to Nicos.
Gordon - One beer, five straws. I'll pay.
The tension breaks...
Narrator - As the old proverb goes, sometimes it is better to be in chains with friends, than to be in a garden with strangers. Paying through the nose for priapic, arsonist, cokehead drummers and mid range call girls in the name of chasing a rock and roll dream will do strange things to a man. But we got it. Devon, like the rest of us was ball deep now. All in. No going back.
Jim - What about him?
Cut to terrified skinhead still hanging to back of van.
Sound of brakes being applied then a thud followed by a groan.
Cut to George and Billy standing outside a large, foreboding gothic house.
Narrator - Sword fight at the Muller Jones Corral.
George - Rules?
Billy (putting shades on) - Where we're going...we don't need rules.
George - Do your worst.
Cut to LMJ walking George and Billy through the house, past a number of arty types...
LMJ - I've kept a space for you...over here.
Cut to couch, Gordon is already sitting, drinking from a large wine glass.
Gordon - Alright boys?
George - What the fuck are you doing here?
Gordon - You didn't think I was going to miss out on the a boozy kink fest, did you?
LMJ gives Billy and George large glasses of red wine.
George - Just keep away from Laura. She's mine.
Billy (sniffing his armpits) - We'll see about that, boy.
Gordon - You two are strange.
Narrator - Strange. There's an interesting word. Billy sniffing his matted armpit hair was the height of normality compared to what was coming...
Lights go down, loud voice bellows. A large man with wild hair enters the room.
CMJ - Welcome! Welcome all.
Narrator - Clarke Muller Jones. Fantasy Leeds attack of the 70's or mental old coot? You decide...
CMJ - Pasolini. Pasolini. What do we know about this artist? Satanic, visceral...coprophagiac? Misunderstood?
Clips from his film Salo, flash on the screen. The crowd are enthralled by the discussion, Billy, Gordon and George are disturbed. LMJ looks over at George and smiles. George nods in approval.
Narrator - The things one does to get ones Nat King Cole.
The lights go up and there is a round of applause.
LMJ (pouring more wine) - What did you think?
Gordon - It's no Ghostbusters.
Billy - It was very ...interesting. Allegoric, metaphoric...
Narrator - Horrific?
George - I have never seen shite eaten before. By a human. So, thanks for that.
CMJ - Ah! You must be the boys my daughter has been talking about. I have heard very good things about you. Young gods all. (To Billy and Gordon) Look, Spartacus and Apollo, striking, deliberate, strong. The one of entrapment. And you (to George) young Dionysus.
Narrator - Here we go...I think.
CMJ - Come with me young man.
George looks at LMJ who waves him on.
George - Where are we going?
Narrator - The way of all flesh, young George...the way of all flesh.
Cut to a private room, George sits on small couch. CMJ joins him
CMJ - Comfy?
George - I come fae Pollok, Southside. You?
CMJ (squeezing up) - No, are you comfortable?
George - I guess so.
CMJ - I could see from your reaction to the Pasolini film that you are a young man in search of both enlightenment and...experience.
Narrator - I wonder where this is going?
CMJ - Tell me, do you like eating oysters or eating snails?
George - Huh?
CMJ pours an oyster into George's mouth.
George (gagging) - I like chips.
CMJ (laughs) - Chips. Of course you do. Do you know Tristan and Isolde?
Narrator - Are they a folk duo?
George shakes his head.
CMJ (pouring George more wine) - Forbidden, dangerous passion has always inspired the greatest art. Pasolini knew this. So did this man.
CMJ starts to play a recording of Wagner's Liebestod. He loses himself in the opening before returning to sit very close to George.
CMJ - Illicit, profound...
George - It's nice.
CMJ (looks directly at George) - ...and beautiful.
Narrator - Gordon, Billy...get me fucking out of here!
CMJ (translating) - Softly and gently...how he smiles... how his eyes... fondly open...do you see, friends?
Narrator - I do not see my friends.
CMJ grips George's thigh.
George - Aaarrgghh....
Narrator - Saints preserve us!
The door opens and LMJ enters
LMJ - There you are. Can I have my boy back, Father?
Narrator - This miraculous escape was brought to you by Christina the Astonishing, patron saint of lunatics.
LMJ leads George away as CMJ continues to sing...
CMJ - unconscious...utmost joy! Where is my Spartacus?
LMJ - Come with me...I want to show you something.
Narrator - This had better not be some mad uncle in the tower with a penchant for buggering corpses.
LMJ - This is ...my old room.
Narrator - Promising, no relatives here.
LMJ - Do you partake?
George - Excuse me?
LMJ lights up a reefer, takes a drag then passes it to George before starting to remove her clothes.
Narrator - Breathe my boy. No pressure, she's just a famous TV personality. You've already cracked one or twelve off to her on TV. So now that you're here, don't fuck this up. And don't spooge in the first few seconds. That would be unforgivable.
George finishes his wine then takes a couple of deep drags before moving over towards LMJ.
They start to kiss.
Narrator - In ordinary circumstances, this would be one of the hottest moments of my short life. But...
LMJ - Are you alright? You look quite pale...
Narrator - Is it possible that the cubic gallon of red wine and killer joint, sitting on top of the kebab and shellfish combo I had forced upon me has knocked a fuck off hole in the side of my libidinous love boat?
LMJ - George...?
George proceeds to cover LMJ in gallons of luminous vomit.
Narrator - I have never seen sick that colour before. Vivid is the word. Redecorated her lady garden too. Somehow, I reckon her Dad would've have approved.
George (with vomit still in mouth) - Can I borrow your toothbrush?
Cut to George staggering out of the room towards Billy and Gordon. Someone offers him a glass of wine. George spits some vomit residue into the glass and hands it back.
Gordon - Nice touch.
George (to Billy) - She's all yours mate.
Narrator - Someone once said that wine gives courage and makes a man more apt for passion. They must have missed out the part about watching people eat faeces and fighting off Trumbo quoting, oyster wielding letches. Our desperate attempts social climbing ended with us barely getting out of base camp. It's not that we were particularly uncultured, but if you import a couple of drunken, horny philistines into a setting like this, you cannot expect the transition to be seamless, in the same way that the random shite monkeys throw at the walls might not immediately resemble Tintoretto. Lesson learned? Not quite. There's an interesting postscript to this tale...
Cut to flat...Billy takes coat off female companion.
Billy - White or red?
Lady - Red... (lighting a reefer) ...do you partake?
The lady is LMJ.
Narrator - As game as she was classy, Laura didn't hold my unfortunate episode against us and gave our bass player his chance to step up to bat.
Cut to Billy and LMJ getting passionate.
Narrator - And it looked like the bold Billy saved the day and restored our growing reputation as champion shaggers. However, in less than 10 minutes...
LMJ - Are you ok? You look pale...
Cut to Billy throwing up on LMJ who deadpans straight to camera.
Narrator - To date, she is the only woman we ever covered.
Cut to park, on a lovely spring day. Gordon and George are sitting on the grass, sipping on ice cold beer, Gordon strums guitar.
George - Lovely beer.
Gordon - No vino today?
George (eating grapes) - No, I think I'll stick to wine in pill form. Here, I've been working on something.
Gordon passes the guitar to George.
George starts playing a tune that's familiar then starts singing...
George (to the melody of Groovin') - Mon..ey...
Gordon - On a sunny afternoon?
George (realisation) - Oh...yeah.
Gordon - 100 million sperm. And you won?
End.
