The Hippopotamus

[Ted] 'T. S. Eliot said that

'the purpose of literature

was to turn blood into ink.

'Well, I tried that.

'I published five collections

of poetry in eight years

'and I bled like a hemophiliac.

'Then, somewhere along the way,

the blood finally clotted.

'Over time,

the scab became a scar

'and now I can scarcely

feel the wound.

'All the arteries and veins

are dried out.

'I no longer turn blood

into ink.

'These days, I turn whiskey

into journalism.

'I haven't written a poem

since 1987.'

[Farts and blows bubbles]

[Men chant] Ah-ah-ah! Ah! Ah!

Ah-ah-ah!

Ah! Ah!

Ah-ah-ah! Ah! Ah!

Ah-ah-ah! Ah! Ah!

Aaah!

[Men] Aaah!

Aaah!

Yaaah!

Aaah!

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!

Aaah!

[Saturninus] Noble patricians,

patrons of my right,

defend the justice

of my cause with arms...

[Men chant]

[Saturninus] And, countrymen,

my loving followers...

[Bassianus]

If ever Bassianus, Caesar's son,

were gracious

in the eyes of royal Rome,

take then this passage

to the Capitol...

Complete and utter crap.

Shh.

You're not defending

this fecal matter, are you?

- To justice! Continence.

- [Men] Huargh! Huargh!

- And nobility.

- [Men] Huargh!

[Horn sounds]

Princes, that strive

by factions and by friends...

- [prompt] ambitiously.

- Oh, f*** off.

Will you keep your opinions

to yourself?

Goes rather against the grain,

being a critic, doesn't it?

Know that the people of Rome,

for whom we stand

a special party,

- have for... for...

- By common voice.

Have, by common voice, in

election for the Roman empery...

- [Prompt] Chosen Andronicus.

- Chosen Andronicus...

- Right, that's it.

- Surnamed Pius for many...

Get off the stage

and find new representation!

Is this part of the performance?

On the contrary, madam,

this is an intervention.

Where is the man responsible

for this theatrical audia?

Where is Matthew Lake?

- Throw him out!

- Not me, madam.

It is the director

who should be ejected,

then tarred and feathered,

for inflicting such

loose-stooled effluent

- [horn sounds]

- upon the paying public.

Say that again.

Loose... stooled...

- [people gasp]

- effluent.

Oh, do you need the line again?

Sun got it.

'Oh, come on!

'Get your f***ing hands off me!

'I haven't seen such a load

of sh*t on the stage

'since "Copraphilia",

the musical!

'Get off me! Get off.

'You should be ashamed

of yourselves.'

We need to put up

a strong front,

but first we have to

check you in for some rehab.

I can hold my drink.

Ted, I'm trying to help you.

This... this all...

all just needs management.

Needs management!

The war cry

of the brown-trousered.

You know I venerate your work.

I know no such thing.

I know you've been told by

people cleverer than you

that I'm a feather

in your greasy cap.

I know my writing for you

makes you feel successful.

I know you know

I could walk into any job

and spark grateful tears

from the illiterate

pricks in charge.

I also know you took culture

because you couldn't

get the news desk.

You would censure me?

You're the one

bringing down the tone

with your mealy-mouthed mummery

and your prostration before

the gods of public approval.

I bet you never had a wank

that wasn't focus-grouped,

you sexually craven

provincial nerd.

Why don't you take your

freckled ass on a sabbatical

and let a real man

edit the paper?

You may have been the great

hope for British poetry

once upon a forever ago,

but when did you

last write anything?

Huh?

When... when did you last

do anything at all?

I have about as much need of you

as I do a f***ing fountain pen.

Is that all?

No.

Get out. You're fired.

Fine.

'No use denying the fact

we all feel undervalued.

'To be told officially

that we are off the case

'confirms our sense of being

not fully appreciated

'by an insensitive world.

'Paradoxically,

this increases our self-esteem

'because it proves that

we were right all along,

'even when what

we're proved right about

'is that everyone considers us

a waste of skin.

'Finding myself at leisure,

'perhaps I shall have some time

'to craft the burning gems

of literature

'that I was once famous for.

'It was unlikely

a poem would come

'in such peaceful circumstances,

'but you won't get

if you don't ask.

'So, I listed, as is my custom,

'such few words

as my mood suggested.

'Egregious.

'Salsify.

'Monstration.

'The rare words

annoy the punter,

'but they never think

about a poet's lot.

'A painter has oils,

acrylics and pastels.

'Turpentine, linseed,

canvas, sable and hog's hair.

'A musician has entire machines

'of wood, brass,

gut and carbon fiber.

'The poet, though...

Oh, yes, the poor poet.

'Pity the poor bloody poet.'

[Background music plays]

[Coins clink]

Roddy?

I'm afraid I can't extend

your credit, Mr. Wallace.

Hell.

It's on me.

One of the finest phrases

in our language.

Your very good health, madam.

And yours.

You are Ted Wallace, aren't you?

You may not remember me.

We haven't done the deed,

have we?

I'm Jane Swann.

Jane Swann. One

of the Berkshire Swanns?

Cast your mind back to a small

font, a baby and a rising poet.

I'm Jane Burrell,

Rebecca's daughter.

F*** my best boots!

I haven't seen you since

your mother threw me out.

[Laughs] I know.

And I was always

very proud of you.

Two of your poems

were set text at school.

Oh, you should have written.

I would have come and

gabbled at the sixth form.

Well, I hoped I'd find you here.

Where the last of

the semi-famous get assholed.

More than semi-famous.

My friends adore your reviews.

That train has just

pulled out, I'm afraid.

Really?

Sooth. You see before you

a recently fired man.

That is simply the best news.

Is it?

Will you come home with me?

With pleasure.

'Jane's home lived up

to my ripest expectations.

'As degrading a cocktail

of over-priced cliches

'can be found

outside Beverly Hills.

'Any given surface

'crammed with some mad

medley of crystal flacons,

'miscellaneous fertility d*ldos,

'and a veritable "who's who"

of international deities.'

You like?

Like isn't the word.

Some of the pieces

are really special.

That thing on the sofa's

a Kazakh placenta sheet.

'In the taxi over, Jane had

mentioned she had a job for me.

'I demurred, of course,

'and asked to be let out

somewhere in St. John's Wood.

'But she told the driver

to keep driving

'and assured me I was going

to simply love her terrific

'new idea, which she troubling

referred to as "the project".'

So.

Why are we here?

I have a proposition.

That's practically incest.

My doctor tells me I have

three months to live.

Leukemia.

Oh.

That's a smeller.

Scared?

Not anymore.

That's ballsy.

But it's a grotty age

and a grotty world

and we'll all be joining you

soon enough.

Do you believe in miracles?

As in calming the storms

and feeding the multitudes?

Give us a fag.

A marvelous and mysterious

thing has happened to me,

and I want you

to investigate it.

I don't know

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes