Bottom Live: The Big Number 2 Tour Page #8

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EDDIE:

A F***ING GREAT HOSE BLAST OF LOVE GAS!

RICHIE:

Bob’s your uncle. Hey, Eddie, who knows. I might even shag the Queen so well, that she abdicates the crown, divorces the Duke, and we can split the money in three ways. Go live in the Carribean - Birds - Booze.

EDDIE:

...the Queen.

RICHIE:

This is it, Eddie, what could possibly go wrong?

PARROT:

F*** the queen.

RICHIE:

WHO. SAID. THAT?

PARROT:

It was me, penis breath.

(Richie is taken aback.)

RICHIE:

Eddie? Have you been teaching the vicar’s parrot to swear?

PARROT:

What that vicar needs is a good half-stiff cock right up his arse.

(The Audience claps.)

EDDIE:

Oh that’s right, give the lump of plastic a round of applause. We’ve been working our f***ing bollocks off.

(Getting back to the plot.)

EDDIE:

Er, um, er. No?

PARROT:

He spunky, wanky, titting well has, you know.

RICHIE:

Right, we’re going to have to kill the parrot before the queen gets here.

(Eddie points out the window.

RICHIE:

What?

EDDIE:

She’s here.

RICHIE:

Too late! Right, Eddie. The royal motorcade is, at this moment, passing through Mafeking Parade. Aim the love firework.

EDDIE:

Correct.

RICHIE:

Right, get the love gas ready.

EDDIE:

Right you are.

RICHIE:

Not yet! Not yet!

(Eddie has already accidentally started firing the love gas.)

PARROT:

It’s all going wrong.

RICHIE:

You keep your trap shut.

PARROT:

Arse scratchings.

(Richie waves out the window.)

RICHIE:

MAJ, MAJ, IT IS I! RICHARD, YOUR SUBJECT!

EDDIE:

Hey, Rich!

RICHIE:

...HELLO!

EDDIE:

Rich, you’re going to have to hurry up, i’m getting incredibly horny.

RICHIE:

Set off the love firework!

EDDIE:

RIGHT YOU ARE!

(Eddie presses the plunger, and the entire stage explodes, before being shrouded in darkness.)

ACT 2

(We open in a prison cell. Richie is sitting on a chair. Eddie is lying on the top bunk of the bunk bed. They are both wearing grey prison jumpsuits.)

RICHIE:

Well, that’s just effing marvellous, isn’t it? You stupid, stupid, stupid, STU-PID BASTARD! You effing stupid, effing stupid, bloody, yeah, bloody, you heard me right the first time, double effing, bloody stupid bastard buggery. You triple effing, double bloody, stupid effing gormless arse… head… features… pants… smell… er, vest. Why did you say “guilty”??

EDDIE:

Because i was drunk.

RICHIE:

But i was just about to get us off with my amazing advocacy. I mean, Perry Mason, eat your knob off. I had that jury eating out of the palm of my hand.

EDDIE:

What, you mean, slipping them a fiver and whispering “please, please, let me off, go on, i’ll give a snog, tongues and everything. In fact, while we’re at it, let’s get all nudey and have a good old fashioned writhe around the place. Here, ever seen one as small as this before?”

RICHIE:

Eddie, i was just trying to nobble the jury.

EDDIE:

You were trying to knob the jury! They had to pull you off that young bus conductress in the back row. It was only then the judge added sexual assault to the list of charges.

RICHIE:

Hey, Eddie, you can’t hold a good man down.

EDDIE:

They held *you* down, though, didn’t they?

(Richies face falls as he remembers the ordeal.)

EDDIE:

Stood on your neck and beat you senseless with their truncheons. Even the Judge had a swing at your bollocks with his gavel. Missed, of course. Couldn’t bloody find them.

RICHIE:

Yes, but you see, Eddie, i’m like one of those samurai warriors. I can sort of ingest my testicles at will.

EDDIE:

Yes, all you really need is a policeman’s boot brought up violently between your legs, and you, sort of, ingest them at will.

RICHIE:

Eddie, it takes years of intensive Tibetan meditation to train your fingers to assume this position.

(Richie holds up the “V” sign.)

RICHIE:

Then you have to run up to a policeman going “wanker, wanker!”

(Richie puts the “V” sign into motion.)

RICHIE:

Hey presto, ingested testicles. Mind you, it was a titanic legal tussle, though, wasn’t it? I mean, never mind O.J. Simpson and his phalanx of lawyers and handpicked jurors from his own family. Well, those that are still alive, that is. I mean, how long did his trial last?

EDDIE:

Uh, it was just over 9 months.

RICHIE:

That’s right, and how long did ours last?

EDDIE:

7 minutes.

RICHIE:

That’s right, and how long did we get?

EDDIE:

(Devastated) 350 YEARS!!

RICHIE:

That’s right, we don’t hang about! 350 years. That’s 50 years a minute.

EDDIE:

Yeah. I think what clinched it, Richie, was when you decided to conduct our defense. Or as i like to call it, “the prosecution.” Well, the f*** up.

RICHIE:

Eddie, there weren’t any lawyers avai-lee-able

EDDIE:

There weren’t any lawyers “avai-lee-able”, because you used our one and only phone call to ring the cones hotline. Mistakenly believing it was a “hot, instant relief, sex action line.”

RICHIE:

Yeah, but i thought cones was a sex word for knockers. Anyway, apparently, the M25 is crawling with b*obs.

EDDIE:

Yeah?

RICHIE:

Tell you what, i’m going to do my 350 years and get straight down there with a camera. Phwoar.

(Richie’s mood drops when he remembers the long wait.)

RICHIE:

Oh! 350 years. It’s a bit steep, isn’t it?

EDDIE:

Steep? It’s effing vertical.

RICHIE:

What were the charges again?

EDDIE:

Attempted asphyxiation of the population of West London. Detonating 400 pounds of semtex in contravention of the Anti-Terrorism Act. Attempted Regicide. Arson. Causing an Affray. And wiggling our todgers at the Queen.

RICHIE:

So, it’s a first offense. I mean, talk about draconian.

EDDIE:

I can’t, i dunno what it means.

RICHIE:

Nor do i, must be two other guys.

EDDIE:

Yeah.

RICHIE:

Oh, Eddie. 350 years. 350 year...s ...s. How long have we done so far?

EDDIE:

20 minutes.

RICHIE:

Well, we’re getting there.

(Richie slaps his wrist.)

RICHIE:

Come on.

(Richie pulls down his sleeve to reveal his bare wrist.)

RICHIE:

You know my great watch gag?

EDDIE:

Yes?

RICHIE:

I’ve forgotten to put my watch on. F***!

(The audience claps as Richie sits down despairingly. He flicks multiple V’s at the audience.)

RICHIE:

F*** off home.

EDDIE:

Well, that’s shagged that, then, hasn’t it?

RICHIE:

Hey-ho, the children didn’t notice.

EDDIE:

Yes.

RICHIE:

OH, Eddie, i’ll tell you what?

EDDIE:

Yes?

RICHIE:

I’m not going to take any more of this.

EDDIE:

Yeah?

RICHIE:

I’m going to apply for the supreme court, get a retrial.

EDDIE:

Yeah. Whereupon they’ll probably bring back hanging.

RICHIE:

Oh sod your trousers off, Eddie, you big chicken sandwich. I’ll romp it, i’ll be Richiepole of the Bailey. Oh no, Rumpy. Oh yeah. Yeah, Rumpy Bumpy Shaggy Waggy of the old Bailey Wailey. No, even better, i’ll be that American lawyer, Casey Jones. Yeah, all i need’s a stripy cap and some crap dungarees. Come on, let’s stage a mock trial.

EDDIE:

Oh, right you are.

RICHIE:

“Call, Richard Richard.”

EDDIE:

What shall i call him?

RICHIE:

Don’t f*** about.

EDDIE:

Ooh.

(Richie stands on his chair, pretending it’s the witness box.)

EDDIE:

DON’T F*** ABOUT!

(The Audience laughs, and claps.)

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