Bottom Live: The Big Number 2 Tour Page #7

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EDDIE:

It's gas.

RICHIE:

Yes, I know it's gas, I'm not a complete tosser.

EDDIE:

Yes you are.

RICHIE:

Well, yes, I am a complete tosser, yes, but, I mean, what do you mean?

EDDIE:

Gas! You see, he once accidentally fell unconscious onto a stockpile of mustard gas. Breaking several miniatures of homebrewed vodka hidden about his person. Now, the subsequent reaction produced this cloud of gas, which smothered the nearby village and triggered off the now and legendary two month sex orgy of “bleugh.”

RICHIE:

The legendary two month sex orgy of “Bleugh”!?

EDDIE:

Yeah.

RICHIE:

So what do we need, Eddie, what do we need to make this, this, this love gas?

EDDIE:

We need mustard gas, and Great Uncle Susan's homebrewed vodka.

RICHIE:

Right, where are we going to get some mustard gas?

EDDIE:

I’ve got some.

RICHARD:

Yes, we’re all well aware of that, aren’t we, Chernobyl Anus? I’m talking about the real stuff.

EDDIE:

No, I've got some of that.

RICHIE:

Have you?

EDDIE:

It was one of the three things bequeathed to me by my mother on her deathbed. Mustard Gas, Cyanide Pills, and a giant man trap baited with a pint of lager and a packet of cheese and onion crisps.

RICHIE:

Well, this is fantastic. Well, go get the mustard gas, then. What a fortuitous happenstance. Should be porking the queen by 3. All we need now is some vodka.

EDDIE:

Oh, damn! And i’ve just been.

RICHIE:

No, no, Eddie, no. Great Uncle Susans Amateur Vodka.

EDDIE:

I’ve got the recipe for that.

RICHIE:

Have you?

EDDIE:

Here, in Great Uncle Susan’s wartime diary.

(Eddie walks over to the piano area, and grabs the diary.)

RICHIE:

Fantastic!

EDDIE:

That was a bit of f***ing luck, wasn't it?

(Richie and Eddie look over at the production team, accusingly.)

EDDIE:

Wasn’t there last night, was it?

RICHIE:

No, makes a f***ing change!

(Richie peruses the diary, looking more and more perturbed. Eddie hurriedly snatches it off him.)

EDDIE:

That’s not it, is it? Let’s have a look. Ah, here we are. Secret Vodka Recipe.

RICHIE:

Fantastic! Right.

EDDIE:

Yeah, we need potatoes.

RICHIE:

Yep?

EDDIE:

Methylated Spirits.

RICHIE:

Yes?

EDDIE:

AND... The secret ingredient.

RICHIE:

Riiight. What’s the secret ingredient.

EDDIE:

Well, that’s where there’s just a bullethole. But it begins with ‘H’ and ends with ‘T’.

(Eddie closes the diary. Richie puts on his thinking face.)

RICHIE:

Halibut.

EDDIE:

Hat?

RICHIE:

Hot. Hit.

EDDIE:

Right you are.

RICHIE:

What?

(Eddie hits Richie.)

RICHIE:

No, Eddie, no. I was just extemporizing.

EDDIE:

OK, i’ll go and get the tissues.

RICHIE:

Stop, Eddie, stop turning everything dirty, will you? I am trying to f*** the Queen.

EDDIE:

Oh, oh right.

RICHIE:

Come on, concentrate.

EDDIE:

Right.

(Richie and Eddie make straining noises as they “concentrate.” Richie stops.)

RICHIE:

That’s enough, god, i nearly lost an eyeball.

EDDIE:

I’ve shat myself.

RICHIE:

Right, come on, come on, what would they have in the trenches.

EDDIE:

Uh, VD? Rickets. Mud.

RICHIE:

I’ve got it.

EDDIE:

Yeah?

RICHIE:

The Shits.

EDDIE:

No, that begins with ‘S’.

RICHIE:

No, no, no. I’ve got it. The Shits.

(Richie looks pained.)

RICHIE:

Help it.

EDDIE:

I’m not sticking my arm up there.

RICHIE:

No, no, no, helmet must be the secret ingredient.

EDDIE:

Of course. This must be what he used to mix it all up in.

RICHIE:

This is fantastic, we’re up and running, Eddie. All we need now is something to, sort of, spray the love gas around with. I don’t suppose your mother left you her flamethrower, did she?

EDDIE:

No, ‘fraid not. Uncle Starling did though.

RICHIE:

Uncle Starling?

EDDIE:

Yeah.

RICHIE:

Any relation?

EDDIE:

I should think so, he put it about a bit, mate.

RICHIE:

Well, we’re up and running, then. Right, Eddie, you…

(Richie excitedly fondles his bollocks.)

RICHIE:

Nip upstairs. Get a firm grip on your helmet, grab a hold of your potatoes, swish them about in the meths, infuse the whole mixture with the mustard gas, then bung it all into great uncle starling’s flamethrower.

EDDIE:

Right.

RICHIE:

Sort of a normal morning for you, really, isn’t it?

EDDIE:

Yeah. And what will you be doing, Rich?

RICHIE:

Me? I’ll just sort of, hang loose and talk bollocks.

EDDIE:

Sort of normal morning for you, as well.

RICHIE:

Absolutely.

EDDIE:

Right.

RICHIE:

Right, on you go. Stop talking at me.

(Eddie starts to leave.)

EDDIE:

Okie-dokie, sonny jim, trouser skip matey, me old salty sea dog biscuit, bite-fish, nose train, hammer clip, ding dong, googlies in the gravy. I’m your man.

RICHIE:

Right…

(Eddie leaves, but the audience claps, and he comes back in to bow.)

RICHIE:

Perhaps i’d better rehearse it. (As himself) “Good afternoon, your ma’aaaaam” - (as the Queen) “Hello” - (Himself) “May i say what a smashing blouse that is you have on?” - (Queen) “Yes you may.” - (Himself) “Oh, what a smashing blouse that is you have on.” - (Queen) “Thank you.”

(Richie runs out of conversation topics, and just mimics both of them laughing awkwardly.)

RICHIE:

(Queen) “Would you like to give me a right royal seeing to?” - (Himself) “Oh, well, if that would be convenient.” - (Queen) “Oh, yes, i’ve been dying for it ever since i saw your trim young figure at the window. And the Duke of Edinburgh’s not much cop since he sewed his knob to his nose.”

(Eddie suddenly comes in with the flamethrower.)

EDDIE:

Love gas!

RICHIE:

Love gas!

EDDIE:

Love gas! Love gas!

RICHIE:

Right, Eddie…

EDDIE:

Yep?

RICHIE:

Give me a quick blast of the love gas, and see if it makes me horny.

EDDIE:

Right you are.

(Eddie fires it, and covers the entire flat with noxious yellow smoke. Richie falls to the floor, disgusted. We see Eddie trying to navigate through the gas.)

EDDIE:

Where the f*** are you?

(Finally locating Richie, Eddie walks over to him.)

EDDIE:

Well, how horny do you feel?

RICHIE:

Not very. Eddie, this love gas is crap, i don’t feel horny at all.

EDDIE:

Hmm. I think the problem may be, Rich, that you’re permanently horny, and that you may have simply “overloaded.” Whereas, you see, if you were the opposite of horn. Er… What is the opposite of horn?

RICHIE:

The opposite of horn?

EDDIE:

Yeah.

RICHIE:

We simply don’t know, do we? Is it fish?

EDDIE:

Whatever. But if you were this mystical opposite of horn…

RICHIE:

Fish.

EDDIE:

...yes, possibly - then this love gas would probably make you wanna do it quicker than you could say “Maria Whittaker’s bra.”

RICHIE:

Bloody hell, and i can say that really fast.

EDDIE:

Yeah.

(Richie spouts incoherent gibberish.)

RICHIE:

This is going to work, Eddie. Right, 12:20, the queen comes past, right?

EDDIE:

Yeah?

RICHIE:

We set of the love firework. BOOM! It explodes attractively. The Queen looks up “What the f*** was that?” I get the old todger out.

EDDIE:

I’ll throw her a microscope.

RICHIE:

Right. Give it a good old fashioned wiggle. You give her a quick squirt with the love gas.

EDDIE:

Squirt of the love gas.

RICHIE:

No, a f***ing great hose blast of love gas.

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