Ripped By mstoll
Nice of you to turn up, Col.
Yeah, didn't know we were part-time now, Col.
Ah, you're back, Colin.
Thank you, everyone. Yes, I am better now.
It was all hands on deck last week, Colin.
The "Big Freeze" - half of South-East Network paralysed for a fortnight. It has not been easy.
I had two days off with flu. Anyone would think I was Peter Sutcliffe.
We've all got to pull together.
Yes, I do realise, Mr Travers. I'll try and catch up as quick as I can.
I had a temperature of 104, and the doctor said...
Mandy?!
- You all right, Mand? - Just a sniffle.
She's been like that all last week, hasn't she, Trev?
Still managed to make it in, though, didn't she?
She's a little soldier, our Mand.
Mandy, you shouldn't be in if you're in that condition.
- Why don't you run along home to bed? - No, Mr Travers, I'll be OK.
Mandy, I order you to stop working and go home to bed.
It's Colin's backlog, Mr Travers. Someone's got to do it.
I mean, I even came in on Sunday and I still couldn't get through it!
I'm sorry, but wild horses will not drag me out of this office until I've cleared the lot.
What can you say to that, Colin?
Hello?
Ah, Mr Birtwhistle.
Oh, our Mr Birtwhistle, eh? One for Col, don't you think, Trev?
Yes, the supervisor is back.
- All yours, Col. - Who the hell's Mr Birtwhistle then?
He's on the South-East Region Passengers' Committee.
He was on that Sevenoaks train last week.
You know, the one that got caught in a snowdrift for 14 hours. Line four, Col.
Hello?
- 'Ls that Mr Watkins? ' - Yes.
'Look, I don't want to grill you for an apology or wheedle excuses out of you,
or put you on the spot or anything.
I mean, you must get this sort of thing all the time.
I just want to run riot with my Black and Decker all over your body!
Please, it would give me such pleasure! I want carte blanche... '
I don't think I can go through another winter like this.
- There's got to be a way out. - '... Off the face of the earth.'
Oh, God, give me a sign, just one sign.
Hello.
'Ls it convenient to speak to Colin Watkins? '
Er, not really. He's at a witch-ducking at the moment.
Shall I see if the mob have finished with him yet?
'Ls that Colin? It's John Langley - Langley & Edison, publishers. '
John Langley?
My God! Keep cool, Watkins.
'Look, your friend Jenny has sent me a copy of your short story The Orchid's Revenge.
I was wondering if you'd care to come in and discuss it.
Do you think you might be able to meet some time this week? '
I'll cancel the whole decade if you want.
Yes, yes, erm, yes, I think I should be able to, yes.
'Now, what does your diary look like, Colin? '
Erm, it's... it's black-ish and it's got a Tube map inside.
'Er, how about today? Would one o'clock suit you? '
Er, yes. Yes, er, yes. Er, I think today looks fine.
'See you at one, then. It's 36, Drummond Street. Just come to reception.'
Bye.
Colin, on behalf of Langley & Edison,
I would just like to say this is simply the finest piece of writing
to ever pass through our hands.
Colin, what you have presented me with here
is a gallery of cardboard caricatures
I could find in any schoolboy annual at a jumble sale.
Oh.
As for the narrative itself, you peak far too early.
Let's face it, there aren't going to be too many bedside lights left on after page...
46.
Hmm.
"Mallory lingered in the murky, mauve twilight of the mausoleum,
mumbling his maudlin mantra malevolently."
Were they doing "M" on Sesame Street that week, Colin?
- Right, I'm going to give you a commission. - What?
Faults aside, it's a good story while it lasts.
On the whole, the writing's tight and there's energy.
You know something? Once or twice I actually felt like turning the page.
And that's the first time in two years I can say that about an unsolicited manuscript.
So thanks to your girlfriend Jenny for getting that light out from under its bushel.
Now look, the Langley Book of Horror is out again this autumn.
- There are a couple of gaps still to fill. - The Langley Book of Horror?
There are several writers challenging, so I'm not making any promises.
But get the stuff into me by Monday next and you're in with a fighting chance.
And do us a favour - skip all that Gothic nonsense.
Scudding clouds, stagnant lily ponds - we've been there a million times.
Go for reality.
Make it personal, make it relevant. I want your nightmare, Colin.
Right, there's a standard contract. Pick it up from my secretary on the way out.
- Your first commission then, is it? - Yes.
Well, it's just a start. Don't get carried away.
Aaaagh!
A professional writer, Jen!
I'm a professional writer, yeah!
Oh, well done, my little Iris Murdoch!
Now...
...when are we going to discuss my agent's fees?
Anything you want! I'll give you anything - me, Colin Watkins, professional writer!
I want the world to know. I want them to know, Jen!
Yes, yes.
Yes, yes... No! You don't understand.
I want... I want it... I want it publicly proclaimed!
I want...
I want... I want airspace on TV!
I want a Zeppelin parading my name across the capital!
Yes, minaret callers bellowing it out across the Middle East!
Parakeets squawking it through the jungles of Zaire!
Across time zones, black holes.
I want God to get his finger out, dammit!
Well, we made a start in Gino's wine bar
and most of the Jubilee Line northbound are pretty much in the picture now.
What about that waiter in the falafel house?
He'd... he'd never even heard of the Langley Book of Horror.
- Bastard! - Bastard!
Come on, it's two o'clock. Let's go to bed.
No, I can't go to bed. I've got work to do.
Yes! From now on the old Watkins' creative boiler house is going to go full blast.
Yes! Yes!
Yeah, wait till Monday.
Oh, John Langley's not gonna know what's hit him!
I'm impotent.
I am creatively impotent.
Let's face it, I just can't get it up.
Oh, God!
Friday. Monday in three days. The more I panic, the more I can't think of a thing.
It's a nightmare!
'I want your nightmare, Colin.'
My nightmare?
My nightmare, hmm!
Wait a minute! This is my nightmare.
I'm sitting right on top of it. Of course!
A writer, a deadline and he can't think of a thing.
Just like me - a brilliantly creative mind,
trapped in a job that's far, far too mediocre for his extraordinary abilities.
Yes, yes.
A literary genius working in some dreary little office in... deepest Siberia.
Smuggles his work out to the West, where it's printed.
One night, he's thrown into prison
and his captors give him 24 hours to come up with his greatest novel yet.
Otherwise he'll be taken out,
marched by the guards, in the frosty dawn,
into the courtyard...
...for a boiled egg.
So... at last he hits on a story.
His own predicament - the same story and inside that, the same story again.
It's labyrinthine. It's ingenious.
It makes Franz Kafka look like Jackie Collins.
"Sergei Wadkinski...
...too tired to remember how he got there, too tired..."
Oi, Col!
- Who are you speaking to in there? - Er, nobody.
- It sounds like you got someone in there. - Er, well, I haven't.
Look, I ate a curry that was off, all right?
- Oh, it's going to be a long one then, is it? - Yeah, yeah, that's right. Yeah.
- Oh, hello, Mr Travers. - Have you seen Colin at all, Graham?
- Oh, yeah. He's in there. - Oh, hell!
Are you going to be long, Colin? There's a Mr Birtwhistle come through on my extension.
I really think you ought to be fielding this sort of thing. I had to leave Mandy dealing with him.
Look, Mr Travers, I've told him five times,
we've got one snowplough and it's being repaired in Aberdeen.
Mandy!
- Are you all right? - Er, what's up, Mand?
It's that Mr Birtwhistle, Mr Travers! He keeps shouting at me.
He said I was an incompetent little office junior
who shouldn't keep trying to cover up for her absent supervisor all the time.
Yes!
Yes, all right, I know, I shouldn't even have attempted it, should I?
Saturday tomorrow. Two days left. I haven't even finished the first sentence!
Thirty-six hours to go.
The Last Commission by Colin Watkins. Right.
"Sergei Wadkinski lay in his cell.
Too tired to remember how he got there.
Too tired to remember the police
dragging him from his flat
the night before, too tired..."
I just don't believe this! God's agenda for today?
Well, I think we'll have a couple of hurricanes in the Caribbean.
Topple a military regime or two. Oh, yes!
Must remember to pester the hell out of that bloke in London
who's had his first writing commission.
- Hello, Col! - Des.
Your phone was engaged all the time. I thought something was up.
Erm, yeah, well, I took it off the hook.
I've got that commission to get through - the one I was telling you about, remember?
Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah!
- Er, how's it going? - Well, the title page looks pretty good.
Erm, actually, I really should be getting on with this.
Why don't we fix something up for next weekend or something?
Oh. OK.
I mean, it's just, you know, it's not that convenient right now.
Right. Well, I'll, erm...
I'll make tracks then.
I mean, stay for a quick beer or something if you want, you know.
- You're working. - Well, no. I mean, if it's a quick one.
No, no! I wouldn't want somebody pestering me if I had something to be getting on with.
Look, you're not pestering me, OK? I mean, a quick beer is not pestering.
It's just that I'll have to work afterwards, that's all.
- I tell you what, I'll give you a ring next Friday. - OK, just a quick one.
Oh, bugger!
Sorry.
- Col! - What?
Concorde!
Oh, well... got to dash.
Don't want to be late. Give me a ring next weekend or something.
Yes, yes. See you next weekend. OK. Cheers, cheers.
Right...
Right, let's take it from the top...
"Sergei Wadkinski lay in his cell.
The early morning sun filtered through the bars.
Too tired to remember how he got there.
Too tired to remember the police
dragging him from his flat the night before.
Too tired to remember the dull glare of the interrogation room.
But he remembered the words of the General all right.
'I like your stories, Wadkinski.
They are bad, seditious stories, but I like them.
Now you are my captive, you will write one... '
Des, what on earth are you doing?!
These windows haven't been done in donkey's years, Col!
No, no, no, they've never been done and I don't want them done now.
- Des, please, don't bother... - No bother, Col. Just giving 'em the once over.
"'So... so you will write one for me...
...the best you've ever written.
And... you must finish it by tomorrow.
If not, then we are left with only one... alternative... '
What was this alternative?
What did the General...
What was the alternative?
What did the General have in store?
His thoughts were answered -
deep from within the prison courtyard...
came a long, protracted...
agonised scream."
Aaaagh!
"A scream...
to pierce the chilly November air,
or was it a distant cry from the heart?"
- Col!!! - Yes, yes! "A distant cry...
- Somehow strangely familiar..." - Col!!!
"The cry of a long lost friend perhaps?
Was it too late to save him now?"
For flipping 'eck's sake, Col! Get me up from here!
I'm on your downstairs balcony!
I don't believe it! Des, are you all right?
I don't know, Col!
I... I... I'll call an ambulance!
- Col! - What?!
Fancy me falling out of the window like that? You gotta laugh, haven't you?
Thirty-four hours to go.
Right!
"Sergei... Wadkinski...
...lay in his cell..."
Hi!
Aaagh! Aaaaaaaggggh!
It's a brilliant idea, Jen, brilliant.
If you don't get peace and quiet at Barry's, then you won't get it anywhere.
That cottage is so isolated, even he's stopped going there now.
Of course, something's bound to go wrong with the car, isn't it?
We're going to have a monumental breakdown, I know it.
We'll end up stuck in some godforsaken track in the middle of the marshes
miles from the nearest phone, freezing our arses off in the car.
We'll die of pneumonia. They'll find us a few days later.
Two frozen, emaciated corpses, mouldering in the front seat.
They'll chuck us on the old manure... Sorry!
Look, it's quarter to ten.
You've got one day to get down to Suffolk and get that masterpiece out. Now get in the car!
Right!
What?
There's nothing wrong with the car. I've only just had it serviced.
- There's a dead cat back there. - A what?
A cat in the road. It's dead.
Well?
We can't just leave it there.
The council will pick it up, eventually.
Please, let's get going.
What are you doing?
I'm sorry, we can't let the poor thing fester there in the middle of the street.
Colin, we're losing time. Look, it's five to ten already.
I know, I know, but that is somebody's pet rotting by the pavement.
- Have you ever had a pet? - Oh, yes, I had a herd of buffalo at college!
Get on with it then!
You driving then?
Well, if I leave it up to you, we won't make the North Circular by midnight.
- Can we just pop back to the flat? - Why?
- Got to phone the owner. - This is unbelievable.
I'm sorry, is my compassion getting in the way of your Doc Martens?
They'll be worried sick. Somebody's got to let them know. Come on, Jen.
Drive back to the flat, will you? Lt'll take two minutes.
Oh, hello. Is that Mrs D'Arcy? 'Yes.'
Yes, my name's Colin Watkins. You don't know me. I live in Hazelcroft Road.
Just off the High Road. I'm afraid I've got some rather bad news.
'Oh... oh, dear! Is it about Buster? '
Yes, yes, it is.
I'm afraid that I've... I've just found him. He's... erm...
Oh, I'm sorry, but he's... he's dead.
- Hello, Mrs D'Arcy? - 'Yes, yes, I'm sorry.
It's just a bit of a shock, although I suppose I should have suspected it really.
Hannah, my daughter Hannah's going to be dreadfully upset about this.
Still, I suppose children have got to get used to things.
I do appreciate your ringing, Mr, er, Watkins. It's not a very enviable task for you.'
Please, please, please! Please, don't mention it...
'May I ask what you've done with little Buster? '
I've, erm... Bunged him in a skip.
Wrapped him in a blanket.
I've brought him inside, yes.
'Oh, that's most kind of you.'
I'm sorry, Mrs D'Arcy, I'm supposed to be on my way down to Suffolk for the day.
Leave it with me, I'll see he gets taken to the vets or something.
I'm sure they'll know what to do with him. I am quite pushed for time.
'Yes, yes, of course, Mr Watkins. And thank you so much for all that you've done.'
- Yes. Goodbye. - 'Bye.'
There. Simple enough.
Right, that's that done. Let's go.
Hallelujah!
Stop!
- What now? - Oh, this isn't right.
- What isn't? - What a bastard.
- What are you talking about? - Me.
"Mrs D'Arcy, I've just phoned up to devastate your family.
Your cat's dead. Sorry, can't stop, must dash."
I mean, it was their pet. It died.
The way I spoke I could have been the Gas Board threatening to cut them off.
- Well, it's done. Let's get going. - That's incredibly callous.
Well, there's nothing we can do about it. The animal is dead!
Oh, the animal is dead! Let's cross another quadruped off the list, shall we?
Let's skip the grief bit and get on to the next item on the agenda.
Pity we just opened that new can of Whiskas, isn't it?
Never mind, we can always bung it in the curry tomorrow. I'm going to phone her back!
Erm... Jen.
Look, I've asked her to pop over and pick up the body to take it home. Jen!
This is the least we can do, really, I mean, she only lives in Maida Vale.
- And she'll be round right away. - Colin...
This is your first break. You've got a deadline tomorrow
and you're charging round like Francis of Assisi.
Oh, my God. Where the hell is it?
- You can't just lose a dead cat! - Oi!
- What you doing in there? - There was a dead cat in here.
Oh, it's yours, is it? We bunged it in the bottle bank.
What?!
That's our skip. We can't have a thing like that in there.
Bloody!
Oh, shit!
Oh! Oh, this is useless!
What am I going to do?
Nothing's broken, Col!
- Oh, Des! - You know, yesterday, when I fell.
X-ray was fine. Just a bit of a strain, nothing serious.
- Got to go back on Tuesday for a check. - Oh, good.
Fancy coming along? By the way, sorry I mucked up your afternoon yesterday.
I know you were trying to write and all that.
I was just on my way round to say you can relax cos I won't be coming round today.
Give you a buzz next week or something.
Aaaaaaaaggghhh!
It's in the bottle bank. She's coming round in half an hour. What do we do?
I tell you what you do, you tell her the truth!
Oh! Oh, yes! Yes! Yes!
Their treasured little Buster, the heart and soul of the family,
the cornerstone of their affection for the past 14 years,
is now decomposing under 40 empty bottles of Frascati?
Exactly, and then get the hell down to the country and finish the writing.
I don't know why I'm getting so worked up about it, it's your story.
You're right. You're right. OK.
Let's... let's nip this thing in the bud right now.
Er, Mrs D'Arcy, Robin, Hannah...
I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you.
In fact, I've been downright dishonest.
I've been telling you lie after shabby lie.
I'm afraid the truth is that... Buster isn't here at all.
Oh, but...
I'm going to tell you where he is - he's in a bottle bank.
- Sorry, did I just say bottle bank? - Yes!
I don't know what's up with me - the word just popped out!
I've been saying the most absurd words all day.
I said "rhododendron" for absolutely no reason whatsoever this morning.
Sorry, what I meant was... He's actually... He's in a pets' cemetery.
- A pets' cemetery? - Yes.
- I put him there yesterday morning. - Yesterday? But he...
Yeah, well, I didn't have the heart to tell you yesterday.
It's taken me up till now to pluck up the courage.
Where is this cemetery, Mr Watkins?
Where is the cemetery?
Erm, would you just excuse me for a moment?
- Bottle bank. - What?
He's in a bottle bank. I mean, he's in it. He's in it.
He's been there all morning. Probably half decomposed by now.
Yes, pretty nasty. How would you like to end your days in a bottle bank, eh?
- What's he doing in there? - Well, I put him in there!
No, it's the builders you want to get on to, not me. I put him in a skip.
A skip?!
It's better than a bottle bank, isn't it?
What do you want me to do? Embalm him? Have him buried in Westminster Abbey?
Next time, I'll arrange for a state funeral on a torch-lit barge going down the Ganges!
I mean, really!
Sorry.
Jen...
Yes?
You know this popping down to Suffolk to do a bit of writing business?
Mm.
Well, I don't know about you, but I've sort of lost the mood.
I've got it! It's been right under my nose all the time!
Ha!
"The more he tried to move, the more submerged he became.
They attacked him from all sides - Chianti to the right, Soave to the left.
Wave upon wave of Woodpecker surging from the front
and a phalanx of Paul Masson Californian carafes from behind.
There in the bowels of the bottle bank he'd been dumped,
Colin Watkins, jangling and clinking in the heart of the Suffolk Marshes,
with nothing but the lonely squawk of the heron
and the receding echo of demonic laughter
as Mrs D'Arcy headed back towards the A43."
Yeah!
What a barnstormer! Ha-ha!
It's 7:15am, but it's still a barnstormer!
Right. Photocopier's open at nine.
Catch the first post - it'll be on Langley's desk by 11 o'clock tomorrow morning.
Aah!
Cos all I need now is a hurricane!
Ripped By mstoll