A Hard Day's Night Page #23

Across the poster is printed, "Way Out, your own T.V. Special

with Susan Campey. Director, Simon Marshal."

SECRETARY:

(proudly)

Will this do, Simon?

SIMON:

(looking at George)

Not bad, dolly, not really bad.

(he motions to George)

Turn around, chicky baby.

GEORGE does so.

SIMON:

Oh yes, a definite poss. He'll look

good alongside Susan.

(he indicates the

girl on the poster)

All right, Sunny Jim, this is all

going to be quite painless. Don't

breathe on me, Adrian.

ADRIAN has recognised GEORGE and is trying to stop SIMON.

GEORGE:

Look, I'm terribly sorry but I'm

afraid there's been some sort of a

misunderstanding.

SIMON:

(sharply)

Oh, you can come off it with us. You

don't have to do the old adenoidal

glottal stop and carry on for our

benefit.

GEORGE:

I'm afraid I don't understand.

SIMON:

Oh, my God, he's a natural.

SECRETARY:

(anxiously)

Well, I did tell them not to send us

any more real ones.

SIMON:

They ought to know by now the phonies

are much easier to handle. Still

he's a good type.

He now speaks to GEORGE in the loud voice that the English

reserve for foreigners and village idiots.

SIMON:

We want you to give us your opinion

on some clothes for teenagers.

GEORGE:

Oh, by all means, I'd be quite

prepared for that eventuality.

SIMON:

Well, not your real opinion,

naturally. It'll be written out and

you'll learn it.

(to secretary)

Can he read?

GEORGE:

Of course I can.

SIMON:

I mean lines, ducky, can you handle

lines?

GEORGE:

I'll have a bash.

SIMON:

Good. Hart, get him whatever it is

they drink, a cokearama?

GEORGE:

Ta.

SIMON:

Well, at least he's polite. Tony

Show him the shirts, Adrian.

A collection of shirts are produced and GEORGE looks at them.

While he is doing this SIMON briefs him.

SIMON:

Now, you'll like these. You really

"dig" them. They're "fab" and all

the other pimply hyperboles.

GEORGE:

I wouldn't be seen dead in them.

They're dead grotty.

SIMON:

Grotty?

GEORGE:

Yeah, grotesque.

SIMON:

(to secretary)

Make a note of that word and give it

to Susan. I think it's rather touching

really. Here's this kid trying to

give me his utterly valueless opinion

when I know for a fact within four

weeks he'll be suffering from a

violent inferiority complex and loss

of status if he isn't wearing one of

these nasty things. Of course they're

grotty, you wretched nit, that's why

they were designed, but that's what

you'll want.

GEORGE:

But I won't.

SIMON:

You can be replaced you know, chicky

baby.

GEORGE:

I don't care.

SIMON:

And that pose is out too, Sunny Jim.

The new thing is to care passionately,

and be right wing. Anyway, you won't

meet Susan if you don't cooperate.

GEORGE:

And who's this Susan when she's at

home?

SIMON:

(playing his ace)

Only Susan Campey, our resident

teenager. You'll have to love her.

She's your symbol.

GEORGE:

Oh, you mean that posh bird who gets

everything wrong?

SIMON:

I beg your pardon?

GEORGE:

Oh, yes, the lads frequently gather

round the T.V. set to watch her for

a giggle. Once we even all sat down

and wrote these letters saying how

gear she was and all that rubbish.

SIMON:

She's a trend setter. It's her

profession!

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