SFX: Fanfare of bent kazoos playing Bach's Trumpet Voluntary from "Don Giovanni in the Queue"


Narr:

We live in an everchanging world.

Many things that were considered taboo in recent generations have become commonplace.

Many things that were considered intensely private in previous ages are now waved around in public forums without a hint of a blink.


Ian P. Blurd:

Am I on, now?


Narr:

No. Let me finish my introduction.


Ian:

Why? I'm here, ain't I?


Narr:

Me and the writers have worked hard on this introduction. I practiced it for days in front of the mirror, then I had my mother coach me and I recorded it and listened to it on a personal stereo for a week whenever I went to the bog...


Ian:

Then you should be tatteringly well tired of it by now. I've only heard a few seconds of it and I can very well imagine wirelessesses being switched off all across the globe.


Narr:

What makes you such an expert on broadcasting or scripting? There is a standard that must be met when...

I AM THE GHOST OF ....


Both:

Oh, shut up!

SORRY... I THOUGHT....


Both:

Shut Up!


Narr:

Now, where were we?


Ian:

I think you were brazenly bringing up the prospect of my amazing lack of qualification for criticizing you and the way you run a programme.


Narr:

Right you are. Now, which page was that?


Ian:

I wouldn't know. I'm winging it.


Narr:

How horrifying for you!

Can I finish my introduction?


Ian:

I'd rather you didn't. Let's just get on with it.


Narr:

But, then, how, might the audience have any idea what the purpose of this programme is?


Ian:

Well, let's see what the listing says...

SFX: flipping of wet pages


Ah, here it is. "At six o'clock, IPR presents Ian P. Blurd in an expose of the way in which Social Services refuse to budget tea and condiments into Mental Retardation allotments..."


Narr:

Is that what we are doing?

I thought we were doing a show on Budgie Abuse: The Hidden Horror!


Ian:

Um. So, then, who am I supposed to be?


Narr:

A representative for the Royal Society for the Protection of Caged Birds. A Reverend Doctor Micheal Rummp, it says.


Ian:

Well, I'm not.


Narr:

How do I know you're not having me on?


Ian:

Look, here's my credentials, all in order, with my picture, name and Portcullis Polishers membership card.


Narr:

These are easily faked. You could have bought them off any Pincushions for the Troops sewing circle. Many of them have computers and quite adequate printers now-a-days.


Ian:

Are you calling me a liar?

Why wouldn anyone want to pretend to be me?


Narr:

I'm not sure you exist. Anyone can assume a name.


Ian:

Well, by the same biscuit, I'm not sure that you exist, and I don't even know your name!


Narr:

You don't need to. I am wearing the official IPR yellow and green tartan blazer, hose and matching undies. Would anyone wear those if they didn't have to?


Ian:

Yeah, well, there's a lot of weirdos running about these days.


Narr:

Well, I certainly don't qualify. I spend most of my days in this wheelchair.


Ian:

Oh, I'm sorry. I just thought you were lazy.


Narr:

Well, to tell an old family secret, I am, but I am also a bit deficient in the musculature of my legs. Some congenital bit of DNA or something that didn't fit within the master plan.


Ian:

My apologies for my insensitivity.


Narr:

No, no, I am perfectly happy to be insulted just like everyone else. As long as you don't mention my ferret.


Ian:

I'm sorry. What ferret?


Narr:

Look here, the one on the end of my nose!


Ian:

I'm sorry, I don't see any creature on your nose. I see a nose. That's it.


Narr:

Oh, My God! Where's my ferret gotten to! Help! Help me find my ferret!


Ian:

I'm leaving.

SFX: door opening, footsteps


Narr:

Someone close that door!

She might escape!

Here, Fiona!

Here, darling!

Here, Fiona Ferret-faced Cuddly Wuddly Daddy's Little Girl!

HEH, HEH, HEH, THAT'LL TEACH HIM TO TELL ME TO SHUT UP...