Parody of Thomas the tank engine & Friends season 4
I don't own either Blackdder and Thomas the Tank Engine
Sorry for any of those felt insulted because it is a parody that dose not make no sense at all!
James Goes Forth
Main starring
James the Red Engine as Captain James Redadder
Thomas the Tank Engine as Lieutenant Thomas St. Matthias Brighton
Percy the Small Engine as Private Percy Small
Henry the Green Engine as General Henry Green "Inanity" Stanier
Oliver the Second Great Western Engine as Captain Oliver Great Western
PRIVATE PLANE
"Skaries machine guns in front, North Westerns firing squads behind and guess who's in the middle? It'll take a better man than James to escape this prickly predicament."
Guest Starred:
Gordon the Big Engine as Lord Gordon "Greaseball" Greasley
Skarloey the Old Faithful Engine as Skarloey Talyllyn or Red Count
Fearless Freddie the Fearless Engine as Major Fearless Freddie
Molly the Yellow Engine as Driver Bob Molly Holden
Scene 1: James's Dugout
[James is listening to his phonograph. Artillery firing outside is causing the record to skip frequently. Annoyed, James storms outside.]
Scene 2: In The Trench
[Lt. Thomas is in the trench, peering through a pair of binoculars across No Men's Land.]
James: Oh, God, why do they bother?
Thomas: Well, it's to kill Skarloey Narrow Railway goons, isn't it, Sir?
James: Yes, but Narrowry is safe underground in super heavily fortified concrete bunkers. We've shot off over a million cannon shells and what's the result? Five sore throats, four itching, three bad jokes, two dancing chickens and one men with a slight limp!
[James yells at the artillery.]
James: Shut up!
[Artillery ceases. Thomas looks bemused.]
James: Thank you! Right, I'm off to bed where I intend to sleep until my name changes to Rip Van Redadder.
[James goes into his dugout.]
Scene 3: James's Dugout
[The phonograph is still playing. James stops it and lies down on his cot. An instant after his head touches the pillow there is the sound of aircraft and gunfire from outside. James rises from his cot.]
James: Oh, God! Bloody Skaries! They can't take a joke, can they? Just because we take a few pot-shots at them, they have to have an air-raid to get their own back. Where are our air force?
[James moves over to the table. A field-telephone sits on the table]
James: They're meant to defend us against this sort of thing.
[Noise outside continues. James puts on steel helmet, picks up telephone and dives under the table.]
James: Right, that's it!
[Picks up receiver.]
James: Hello? Yes, yes, I'd like to leave a message for the head of the North Western Flying Corps and head of Small Air Force, please. That's Air Chief Marshal Sir Harold Flobberchopper, NVC, DFC and bar as well Marshal Sir Jeremy the Second, COV, MC, RH and bar. Message reads "Where are you, you bastards?"
[Private Percy enters the dugout.]
Percy: Here I am, Sir.
[James puts down the receiver.]
James: For God's sake, Percy, take cover.
Percy: Why's that, Sir?
James: Because there's an air-raid going on and I don't want to have to write to your mother at Dryaw and tell her that her only boy is dead.
[Percy moves under the table with James]
Percy: All right, Sir. It's just that I didn't know there was an air-raid on. I couldn't hear anything over the noise of the terrific display by our wonderful boys of the North Western Flying Corps and the Small Air Force, Sir.
James: What?
[Thomas enters the dugout.]
Thomas: I say, those chaps can't half thunder in their airborne steeds, can't they just?
[Thomas notices James and Percy cowering under the table.]
Thomas: Oh, hello, what's going on here? Game of hide and seek? Excellent! Right now, I'll go and count to a hundred. Er, no. Better make it five, actually . . .
James: Thomas . . .
Thomas: Er. Oh, it's sardines. Oh, excellent! That's my favourite one, that.
[James rises from under the table.]
James: Thomas . . .
Thomas: Yes, Sir?
James: Shut up, and never say anything again as long as you live.
Thomas: Right you are, Sir.
[James removes helmet. Thomas is quiet for a few seconds.]
Thomas: Crikey, but what a show it was, Sir. Lord Gordon's Flying Aces. How we cheered when they spun. How we shouted when they dived. How we applauded when one chap got sliced in half by his own propeller. Well, it's all part of the joke for those magnificent men in their flying machines.
[Sound of plane plummeting, then crashing outside.]
James: For 'magnificent men, read 'biggest showoffs since Lord Godred entered the Royal Enclosure at Machan claiming he had literally nothing to wear'. I don't care how many times they go up-diddly-up-up, they're still gits!
Percy: Oh, come on, Sir! I'd love to be a flier. Up there where the air is clear.
James: The chances of the air being clear anywhere near you, Percy, are zero!
Percy: Oh, Sir. It'd be great, swooping and diving.
[Percy starts his impression of a Bristol Bulldog.]
James: Percy. . .
[Percy drones on . . .]
James: Percy. . .
[Percy stops droning on as James interjects a third time.]
James: Percy, what are you doing?
Percy: I'm a Bristol Bulldog, Sir.
James: Oh, it is a Bristol Bulldog. Ah, right, I always get confused between the sound of a Bristol Bulldog and the sound of a malodorous runt wasting everybody time. Now if you can do without me in the nursery for a while, I'm going to get some fresh air.
[James leaves the dugout, picking up his pipe on the way out.]
Scene 4: In The Trench
[As he emerges from the dugout James sighs and prepares to light his pipe. Squadron Commander Lord Gordon Greasley jumps down from his crashed plane.]
Gordon: Ha! Eat knuckle, Midget!
[Gordon knocks James to the ground with his pistol, then puts a foot on James's chest.]
Gordon: Aha! How disgusting. A Narrowie on the sole of my boot. I shall have to find a patch of grass to wipe it on. Probably get shunned in the Officers' Mess. Sorry about the pong you fellows, trod in a Narrowie and can't get rid of the whiff.
[James rises.]
James: Do you think we could dispense with the hilarious doggy-do metaphor for a moment? I'm not a Narrow. This is a North Western' trench.
[Gordon puts his pistol away.]
Gordon: Is it? Oh, that's a piece of luck. Thought I'd landed stupid-side! Ha!
[Gordon picks up the receiver of a field-telephone lying by the dugout entrance.]
Gordon: Mind if I use your phone? If word gets out that I'm missing, five hundred girls will kill themselves. I wouldn't want them on my conscience, not when they ought to be on my face! Huh!
[Gordon kicks the phone into action.]
Gordon: Hi, Gordon here. Yeah, cancel the state funeral, tell the Lord to stop blubbing. Gord is not dead. I simply ran out of juice! Yeah, and before all the females start saying "Oh, what's the point of living anymore", I'm talking about petrol! Woof, woof! Yeah, I dumped the kite on the proles, so send a car. Er, General Henry's driver should do. She hangs around with the big nobs, so she'll be used to a fellow like me! Woof, woof!
James: Look, do you think you could make your obscene phone call somewhere else?
[Gordon is still on the phone and ignores James.]
Gordon: No, not in half an hour, you rubber-desk johnny. Send the bitch with the wheels right now or I'll fly back to Suddery and give your wife something to hang her towels on.
[Gordon throws down the receiver.]
Gordon: Okay, dig out your best booze and let's talk about me 'til the car comes. You must be pretty impressed having Squadron Commander Lord Gordon drop in on your squalid bit of line.
James: Actually, no. I was more impressed by the contents of my handkerchief the last time I blew my nose.
Gordon: Yeah, like Hit. Huh, huh. You've probably got little piccies of me on the walls of your dugout, haven't you?
[Gordon tickles the front of James's trousers.]
Gordon: I bet you go all girly and giggly every time you look at me.
[Gordon twists James's groin. James (naturally) screams.]
James: I'm afraid not. Unfortunately, most of the infantry think you're a prat. Ask them who they'd prefer to meet: Squadron Commander Gordon Greaseball and the man who cleans out the public toilets in Ulfstead, and they'd go for Wee Jock "Poo-Pong" McPlop, every time.
[Gordon laughs, then belts James, knocking him to the floor.]
[Gordon goes into the dugout.]
Scene 5: James's Dugout
[Thomas and Percy are discussing the Flying Aces.]
Thomas: . . . so when that fellow looped-the-loop, I honestly thought that, that, that . . .
[Gordon enters, saluting. Thomas sees him. James enters behind Gordon.]
Thomas: My God!
Gordon: Yes, I suppose I am.
Thomas: Lord Gordon, this is the greatest honour of my life. I hope I snuff it right now to preserve this moment forever.
James: It can be arranged.
Percy: Lord Gordon, I want to learn to write so I can send a letter home about this golden moment.
Gordon: So all the fellows hate me, eh? Not a bit of it. I'm your bloody hero, eh, old scout?
[Gordon playfully scuffs up Percy's hair, then notices that this action has left something unpleasant on his glove.]
Gordon: Stephenson!
[Gordon wipes his glove on James's shirt.]
Percy: My Lord, I've got every cigarette card they ever printed of you. My whole family took up smoking just so that we could get the whole set. My grandmother smoked herself to death so we could afford the album.
Gordon: Of course she did, of course she did, the poor love-crazed old octogenarian.
[Gordon moves to hug and kiss Percy, then thinks better of it.]
Gordon: Well, all right, you fellows. Let's sit us down and yarn about how amazingly attractive I am.
James: Yes, would you excuse me for a moment? I've got some urgent business. There's a bucket outside I've got to be sick into.
[Gordon takes the mickey out of James's holier-than-thou attitude.]
Gordon: All right, you chaps, let's get comfy.
[Gordon sits down in chair. Thomas sits down on James's cot. Gordon turns to Percy.]
Gordon: You look like a decent North Western bloke. I'll park the old booties on you if that's okay.
Percy: It would be an honour, my Lord.
[Percy kneels down on all fours in front of Gordon.]
Gordon: Of course it would! Ha!
[Gordon rests his feet on Percy's back and sighs.]
Gordon: Have you any idea what it's like to have the wind rushing through your hair?
Thomas: No, Sir.
[Gordon farts on Percy's face lasted for thirty minutes.]
Gordon: He has!
Scene 6: James's Dugout
[Some time has elapsed. Gordon is regaling an enthralled Thomas with stories. James is reading a copy of 'Controller and Railways' at the table, uninterested in what Gordon has to say.]
Gordon: . . . so I flew straight through her bedroom window, popped a box of chocs on the dressing table, machine-gunned my telephone number into the wall, and then shot off and shagged her sister.
[As Thomas creases up, Bob Molly Holden enters the dugout.]
Molly: Ahem. Driver Holden reporting for duty, my Lord . . .
Gordon: Well, well, well. If it isn't little Bob Molly-saucier than a direct hit on a Molson factory.
Molly: I've come to pick you up.
Gordon: Well, that's how I like my girls-direct and to my point. Woof!
Molly: Woof!
[Gordon removes his feet from Percy, grabs Bobby and puts her across his lap and begins to snog her. During the snog James sarcastically checks his watch.]
Gordon: Ah! Tally ho, then! Back to the bar. You should join the Flying Corps, Tommy. That's the way to fight a war. Tasty tuck, soft beds and a uniform so smart it's got a PhD from Knapford.
[Gordon gestures at Percy.]
Gordon: You could even bring the breath monster here. Anyone can be a navigator if he can tell his arse from his elbow.
James: Well, that's Percy out, I fear . . .
Gordon: We're always looking for talented types to join the Twenty Minuters.
James:. . . and there goes Thomas.
[Gordon rises from the chair, lifting Molly in his arms.]
Gordon: Tally ho, then, Molly. Hush, here comes a whizz-bang and I think you know what I'm talking about! Woof!
Molly: Woof!
[Gordon and Molly leave.]
James: God, it's like Crufts in here!
[Percy and Thomas stand.]
Thomas: I say, Sir. What a splendid notion. The Twenty Minuters. Soft tucker, tasty beds, fluffy uniforms.
Percy: Begging your permission, Sir, but why do they call them the Twenty Minuters?
Thomas: Ah, now, yes, . . .
[Thomas moves across the dugout to get his card album.]
Thomas:. . . now this one is in my Monty Loader 'Book of the Air'.
[Thomas returns to the cot and sits down.]
Thomas: Now, you have to collect all the cards and then stick them into this wonderful presentation booklet. Er . . .
[Percy sits down next to Thomas.]
Thomas: Ah, here we are: Twenty Minuters. Oh, damn! Haven't got the card yet. Ah, but the caption says 'Twenty minutes is the average amount of time new pilots spend in the air.'
James: Twenty minutes.
Thomas: That's right, Sir.
James: I had a twenty hour watch yesterday, with four hours overtime, in two feet of water.
[Thomas, then Percy, rise from the cot and move to the table.]
Thomas: Well then, for goodness sake, Sir, why don't we join?
Percy: Yeah, be better than just sitting around here all day on our elbows.
James: No thank you. No thank you. I have no desire to hang around with a bunch of upper-class delinquents, do twenty minutes work, and then spend the rest of the day loafing about in Suddery drinking gallons of champagne and having dozens of moist, pink, highly-experienced young peasant girls galloping up and down my . . . Hang on!
Scene 7: Captain Oliver's Office
[Captain Oliver is writing at his desk. There is a knock at the office door.]
Oliver: Come!
[James enters the office.]
Oliver: Ah, Captain James.
James: Good morning, Captain Oliver.
Oliver: What do you want?
James: You're looking so well.
Oliver: I'm a busy man, James. Let's hear it, whatever it is.
James: Well, you know, Oliver, every . . . every men has a dream . . .
Oliver: Hmmm . . .
James:. . . and when I was a small boy, I used to watch the marsh warblers swooping in my mothers undercroft, and I remember thinking 'Will men ever dare do the same?' And you know . . .
[Oliver rises from his desk.]
Oliver: Oh, you want to join the North Western Flying Corps?
James: Oh, that's a thought. Could I?
Oliver: No, you couldn't! Goodbye!
[Oliver sits back down.]
James: Look, come on, Oliver, just give me an application form.
Oliver: It's out of the question. This is simply a ruse to waste five months of training after which you'll claim you can't fly after all because it makes your ears go 'pop'. Come on, I wasn't born yesterday, James.
James: More's the pity, we could have started your personality from scratch. So, the training period is five months, is it?
Oliver: It's no concern of yours if it's five years and comes with a free holiday in Suddery, contraceptives supplied. Besides, they wouldn't admit you. It's not easy getting transfers, you know.
[Oliver returns to his work.]
James: Oh, you've tried it yourself, have you?
[Oliver breaks his pencil.]
Oliver: No, I haven't.
James: Trust you to try and skive off to some cushy option.
Oliver: There's nothing cushy about life in the Small Air Force.
[James raises his eyebrows at this.]
Oliver: Ah . . .
[The door to General Henry's office opens and the General and Thomas enter. James and Oliver snap to attention. James salutes.]
Thomas:. . . and then the bishop said "I'm awfully sorry, I didn't realize you meant organist."
[Henry chortles.]
Henry: Thank you, Thomas. At ease, everyone. Now, where's my map? Come on.
Oliver: Sir!
[Oliver hands Henry his map.]
Henry: Thank you.
[Henry unfurls the map the wrong way.]
Henry: God, it's a barren, featureless desert out there, isn't it.
Oliver: The other side, Sir!
[Henry turns the map over. James turns to Thomas.]
James: Hello, Thomas. What are you doing here?
Thomas: Me, Sir? I just popped in to join the North Western Flying Corps.
[Henry looks up from his map.]
Henry: Hello, James. What are you doing here?
James: Me, Sir? I just popped in to join the North Western Flying Corps.
Oliver: And, of course, I said . . .
Henry: Bravo, I hope, Oliver. Because, you know, I've always had my doubts about you trenchy-type fellows. Always suspected there might be a bit too much of the battle-dodging, nappy-wearing, I'd-rather-have-a-cup-of-tea-than-charge stark-naked-at-Very about you. But if you're willing to join the Twenty Minuters then you're all right by me and welcome to marry my sister any day.
Oliver: Are you sure about this, Sir?
Henry: Certainly, you should hear the noise she makes when she eats a boiled egg. Be glad to get her out of the house. So, report back here 09:00 hours for your basic training.
Scene 8: Captain Oliver's Office
[It is the next morning. Oliver's office has been set out with chairs and there is a blackboard with a chalk picture of a Bristol Bulldog on it. James and Thomas are in the front row of seats. There are three other trainees. Oliver is at his desk at the back.]
Thomas: Crikey! I'm looking forward to today. Up-diddly-up, down-diddly-down, whoops-poop, twiddly-dee, a decent scrap with the fiendish Red Count, a bit of a jolly old crash landing behind enemy lines, capture, torture, escape and then back home in time for tea and medals.
James: Thomas, who's using the family brain-cell at the moment? This is just the beginning of the training. The beginning of five long months of very clever, very dull men looking at machinery.
[Gordon is heard in the corridor.]
Gordon: Hey, girls! Look at my machinery!
[The sound of screaming girls is heard from the corridor. Gordon enters Oliver's office, zipping up his fly. He is carrying a stick. All present rise to attention.]
Gordon: Enter a men who has no underwear. Ask me why.
All except James: Why do you have no underwear, Lord Gord (Lord Greaseball)?
Gordon: Because the pants haven't been built yet that'll take the job on.
[Gordon performs a groin thrust.]
Gordon: And that's the type of guy who's doing the training around here. Sit down!
[All sit. Gordon notices James.]
Gordon: Well, well, well, well, well. If it isn't old Captain Rusty Red Scrap Iron.
James: James.
Gordon: Couldn't resist it, eh, Tar-humber? Told you that you thought I was great. All right men, let's do-oo-oo it! The first thing to remember is: always treat your kite . . .
[Gordon taps the picture of the Bristol Bulldog with his stick.]
Gordon:. . . like you treat your women!
[Gordon whips the air with his cane.]
Thomas: How, how do you mean, Sir? Do you mean, do you mean take her home at weekends to meet your mother?
Gordon: No, I mean get inside her five times a day and take her to heaven and back.
[Thomas smirks.]
James: I'm beginning to see why the Suffragette Movement want the vote.
Gordon: Hey, hey! Any bird who wants to chain herself to my railings and suffer a jet movement gets my vote. Er, right. Well, I'll see you in ten minutes for take-off.
[Gordon begins to leave.]
James: Hang on, hang on! What about the months of training?
Gordon: Hey, wet-pants! This isn't the Great Western Air Force. You're in the Twenty Minuters now.
[Oliver stands up.]
Oliver: Er, Sir . . .
Gordon: Yes . . .
Oliver:. . . Sir!
Gordon:. . . Prat at the back!
Oliver: I think we'd all be intrigued to know why you're called the Twenty Minuters.
Thomas: Oh, Mister Thicko. Imagine not knowing that.
Gordon: Well, it's simple! The average life expectancy for a new pilot is twenty minutes.
Oliver: Ah . . .
[Oliver sits.]
James: Life expectancy . . . of twenty minutes . . .
Gordon: That's right. Goggles on, chocks away, last one back's a homo! Hurray!
[Gordon runs out of the room.]
Trainee Pilots: Hurray!
[Trainee Pilots run after Gordon.]
James: So, we take off in ten minutes, we're in the air for twenty minutes, which means we should be dead by twenty five to ten.
Thomas: Hairy blighters, Sir. This is a bit of a turn-up for the plus fours.
[Oliver rises and moves to the door.]
Oliver: I shouldn't worry about it too much, James. Flying's all about navigation. As long as you've got a good navigator I'm sure you'll be fine.
[Oliver sniggers as he opens the door to reveal Percy in flying gear. Percy enters. Oliver leaves.]
Scene 9: In The Air
Thomas, Percy, and James
proudly present
The Flying Yahoos!
[James and Percy are flying in a Bulldog. Thomas is another Bulldog.]
James: Actually, they're right. This is a doodle.
Percy: Careful, Sir!
James: Whoops, whoops, a little wobble there. I'll get the hang of it, don't worry. All right, Percy, how many rounds have we got?
Percy: Er, five thousand, Sir. Cream bun for you, spud for me.
Thomas: Tally ho!
Percy: What's this?
[Percy climbs out of his seat.]
James: Percy! Percy! Will you stop arsing about and get back in the plane!
Percy: Ooh, ooh, ooh! Hey, Sir, I can see a pretty red plane from up here. Ha ha! Woo woo!
[Red painted Gloster Sparrowhawk bi-plane, flown by Red Count overhead]
Count Skarloey or Red Count: Die! You North Western scum! Ha ha ha!
[Red Count shoots out one of the wing-supports on James's aircraft.]
James: Oh no! Watch out, Percy, it's stood right on our tail. Yes, now this is developing into a distinctly boring situation, but we're still on our side of the line so I'll crash-land and claim my ears went 'pop' first time out.
Percy: Ooh, let's hope we fall on something soft!
James: Fine. I'll try and aim between General Henry's ears!
The End!
Scene 10: A Skar's Prison Cell
[James is pacing about the cell. Percy is seated.]
James: I don't believe it. A Skarie's prison cell. For two and a half years the Sodor Front has been as likely to move as a pig who lives next door to a brothel, and last night the Skaries advance a mile and we land on the wrong side.
Percy: Ooh, dear, Captain J, my tummy's gone all squirty.
James: That means you're scared, Percy, and you're not the only one. I couldn't be more petrified if a wild rhinoceros had just come home from a hard day at the swamp and found me wearing his pyjamas, smoking his cigars and in bed with his wife.
Percy: I've heard what these Skaries will do, Sir. They'll have their wicked way with anything of mother-born.
James: Well, in that case, Percy, you're quite safe. However, the Stormtroopers reputation for brutality is well-founded: their operas last three or four days; and they hate the word 'fluffy'.
Percy: I want my mum!
James: Yes, it'd be good to see her. I should imagine a maternally-outraged women could be a useful ally when it comes to the final scrap.
[Footsteps are heard outside the cell.]
James: Prepare to die like a men, Percy.
[Percy stands.]
James: Or as close as you can come to a men without actually shaving the palms of your hands.
[The door opens and Major Fearless Freddie enters.]
Freddie: Good evening. I am Major Fearless Freddie. I have a message from the Count Skarloey Talyllyn, the greatest living Skarie.
James: Which, considering that his competition consists entirely of very large fattest baldish men in slaughter shorts burping to the tune of 'She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain', is no great achievement.
Freddie: Quiet!
[Fearless Freddie punch Percy at the face. Percy falls against the wall.]
James: And what is your message?
Freddie: It is: Prepare for a fate worse than death, Good men flying fellow.
James: Oh. So, it's the traditional warm Skarie welcome.
Freddie: Correct. Also, he is saying: Do not try to escape or you will suffer even worse.
James: A fate worse than a fate worse than death? Sounds pretty bad.
Scene 11: Captain Oliver's Office
[Thomas and Oliver are arguing loudly, there is confused chatter.]
Thomas: Yes well, you see, it's all very well for you, isn't it, sitting here behind yer, behind yer, behind yer comfy desk.
Oliver: Don't you take that tone with me, Lieutenant, or I'll have you on a charge for insubordination.
Thomas: Well, I'd rather be on a charge for insubordination than on a charge of deserting a friend.
Oliver: How dare you talk to me like that!
Thomas: How dare I . . .?
[General Henry, attracted by the noise, enters from his office.]
Henry: Now, then, now then, now, now, then, now then, now then, then now, now, now then. What's going on here?
Oliver: That damn fool James has crashed his plane behind enemy lines, Sir. This young idiot wants to go and try rescue him. It's a total waste of men and equipment.
Thomas: He's not a damn fool, Sir, he's a bally hero.
Henry: All right. All right, all right, all right. I'll deal with this, Oliver. Delicate touch needed, I fancy.
[Henry takes Thomas over to the fireplace.]
Henry: Now, Thomas. Do you remember when I came down to visit you when you were a nipper for your sixth birthday? You used to have a lovely little dog. Beautiful little thing. Do you remember?
Thomas: Gremlin.
Henry: That's right. Gremlin. Do you remember what happened to Gremlin?
Thomas: You shot him.
Henry: That's right. It was the kindest thing to do after he'd been run over by that car.
Thomas: By your car, Sir.
Henry: Yes, by my car. But that too was an act of mercy when you would remember that, that badger had been set on him.
Thomas: Your badger, Sir.
Henry: Yes, yes, my badger. But what I'm trying to say, Thomas, is that the state young Gremlin was in after we'd scraped him off my front tire is very much the state that young James will be in now. If not very nearly dead, then very actually dead.
Thomas: Permission for lip to wobble, Sir?
Henry: Permission granted.
[Thomas's lips wobble.]
Henry: Stout fellow.
Thomas: But surely, Sir, you must allow me to at least try and save him.
Henry: No, Thomas. It would be as pointless as trying to teach a woman the value of a good, forward defensive stroke. Besides, it would take Duke to get him out of there, not the kind of weed who bulbs just because somebody gives him a slice of worm pie instead of birthday cake.
Thomas: Well, I suppose you're right, Sir.
Henry: Course I am. Now let's talk about something more jolly, shall we? Look, this is the amount of land we've recaptured since yesterday.
[Henry and Thomas move over to the map table.]
Thomas: Oh, excellent.
Henry: Erm, what is the actual scale of this map, Oliver?
Oliver: Erm, one-to-one, Sir.
Henry: Come again?
Oliver: Er, the map is actually life-size, Sir. It's superbly detailed. Look, look, there's a little worm.
Henry: Oh, yes. So the actual amount of land retaken is?
[Oliver whips out a tape measure and measures the table.]
Oliver: Excuse me, Sir. Seventeen square feet, Sir.
Henry: Excellent. So you see, young James didn't die horribly in vain after all.
Thomas: If he did die, Sir.
Oliver: Tch!
Henry: That's the spirit, Thomas. If nothing else works, then a total pig-headed unwillingness to look facts in the face will see us through.
Scene 12: A Skarie Prison Cell
[James is seated. Percy is sitting on the floor. There is a jangling of keys, the cell door opens and the Count enters.]
Count: So! I am the Count Skarloey and you are the two North Western flying aces responsible for the spilling of the precious Skaries blood of many of my finest and my reddest friends. I have waited many months to do this.
[Count kisses James on both cheeks.]
James: You may have been right, Percy. Looks like we're going to get rogered to death after all.
Percy: Do you want me to go first, Sir?
[Count laughs.]
Count: You North Westerns and your sense of humour. During your brief stay I look forward to learning more of your wit, your punning and your amusing jokes about the breaking of the wind.
James: Well, Percy's the expert there.
Percy: I certainly am, Sir.
[Count laughs.]
Count: How lucky you North Western are to find the toilet so amusing. For us, it is a mundane and functional item. For you, the basis of an entire culture.
[Percy laughs, Count punch him in the face.]
Count: I must now tell you of the full horror of what awaits you.
James: Ah, you see, Percy. Dress it up in any amount of pompous verbal diarrhoea, and the message is 'Squareheads down for the big Skaries gang-bang'.
Count: As an officer and a gentlemen, you will be looking forward to a quick and noble death.
James: Well, obviously.
Count: But, instead, an even worse fate awaits you. Tomorrow, you will be taken back to Narrow Railway...
James: Here it comes!
Count:... to a convent school, outside Cros-ny-Curn, where you will spend the rest of the war teaching the young girls home economics.
James: Er . . .
Count: For you, as a man of honour, the humiliation will be unbearable.
James: Oh, I think you'll find we're tougher than you imagine.
Count: Ha! I can tell how much you are suffering by your long faces.
James: We're not suffering too much to say 'thank you'. Thank you. Say 'thank you', Percy.
Percy: Thank you, Percy.
[Count laughs.]
Count: How amusing. But now, forgive me. I must take to the skies once again. Very funny. The noble Lord Gordon Greaseball still eludes me.
James: I think you'll find he's overrated pompous arrogant self righteous buffoon. Bad breath like crap and . . .impotent, they say.
[Count laughs.]
Count: Sexual innuendo.
[Count laughs.]
Count: But enough of this. As you say in North Western, must fly.
[Count laughs.]
Count: Perhaps I will master this humour after all, yes?
James: I wouldn't be too optimistic.
Count: Oh, and the little fellow, if you get lonely in the night, I'm in the old chateau. There's no pressure.
[Count starts to leave. As he moves up the steps to the cell door he prat-falls and laughs.]
Count: Prat-fall!
[Count leaves the cell, laughing as he goes.]
Percy: Is it really true, Sir? Is the war really over for us?
James: Yup! Out of the war and teaching girls how to boil eggs. For us, the Great War is finito. A war that would be a damn sight simpler if we'd just stayed in Suddery and shot fifty thousand of our men a week. No more mud, death, bombs, shrapnel, whizz-bangs, barbed wire and those bloody awful songs that have the word 'whoops' in the title.
[James notices that the cell door has been left ajar.]
James: Oh, damn! He's, he's left the door open.
Percy: Oh, good! We can escape, Sir.
James: Are you mad, Percy? I'll find someone to lock it for us.
[James opens the door to find Thomas standing there.]
Percy: Ssh! Keep-ee! Mum's the word! Not 'arf, or what?
[James shuts the door in Thomas's face.]
Percy: Sir, why did you just slam the door on Lieutenant Thomas?
James: I can't believe it. Go away!
[Thomas pushes the door open and enters the cell.]
Thomas: It's me. It's me.
James: But what the Hit are you doing here?
Thomas: Oh, never mind the hows, and the whys and the do-you-mind- if-I-don'ts.
James: But it would have taken Duke to get in here.
Thomas: Well, it's funny you should say that, because as it happens I did have some help from a rather spiffing bloke. He's taken a break from some crucial top-level shagging.
[Gordon smashes through the cell door, swinging on a rope. As he lands, he trumpets his own arrival.]
Gordon: It's me. Hurray!
Thomas and Percy: Hurray!
[Gordon smashes Percy in the face. Percy falls to the floor.]
Gordon: God's potatoes, Thomas. You said noble brother friars were in the lurch. If I'd known you meant old Jim and the pull of the bull of the Dryaw, I'd probably have let them stew in their own juice.
[Percy rises.]
Gordon: And let me tell you, if I ever tried that, I'd probably drown.
[Percy laughs. Gordon laughs and smacks Percy in the face. Percy wings floor-ward again.]
Gordon: Still, since I'm here, I may as well do-oo it, as the Bishop said to the netball team. Come on, chums!
[Gordon runs out of the cell, followed by Thomas and Percy. James sits down and begins to moan, faking an injury.]
James: Aah! Ow! Aah!
[Gordon runs back into the cell, followed by Thomas and Percy.]
Gordon: Come on.
James: Yes, yes. Look, I'm sorry, chaps, but I've splintered my pancreas. Erm, and I seem to have this terrible cough.
[James fakes a couple of coughs.]
James: Coff-guards! Coff-guards!
Gordon: Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait a minute. Now I may be packing the kind of tackle that you'd normally expect to find swinging about between the hindlegs of a Grand National winner, but I'm not totally stupid, and I've got the kind of feeling you'd rather we hadn't come.
James: No, no, no, I'm very grateful. It's just that I'd slow you up.
Gordon: I think I'm beginning to understand.
James: Are . . . are you?
Gordon: Just because I can give multiple orgasms to the furniture just by sitting on it, doesn't mean that I'm not sick of this damn war: the blood, the noise, the endless poetry.
James: Is that really what you think, Gordon?
[Gordon whips out his pistol and threatens James.]
Gordon: Course it's not what I think. Now get out that door before I redecorate that wall an interesting new colour called 'hint of brain'.
James: Excellent. Well, that's clear. Let's get back to that lovely war, then!
Gordon: Woof!
Thomas: Woof!
Percy: Bark!
[As the group moves to leave, Count appears at the cell door.]
Count: Not so fast, James.
James: Oh, damn! Foiled again! What bad luck!
[Count enters the cell.]
Count: Ah, and the Lord Gordon. This is indeed an honour. Finally, the two greatest gentleman fliers in the world meet. Two men of honour, who have jousted together in the cloud-strewn glory of the skies, face to face at last. How often I have rehearsed this moment of destiny in my dreams. The panoply to encapsulate the unspoken nobility of comradeship.
[Gordon shoots Count .]
Count: Ow, that hurt damn it!
Gordon: What a bastard! Come on!
[All exit the cell, cheering.]
Scene 13: Captain Oliver's Office
[Oliver is dusting the office door. James opens the door in Oliver's face.]
James: Hello, Oliver.
[Oliver retreats backwards towards his desk as James enters.]
Oliver: Good Lord. Captain James. I thought, I thought you were . . .
James: Playing tennis?
Oliver: No.
James: Dead?
Oliver: Well, yes, unfortunately.
James: Well, I had a lucky escape. No thanks to you. This is a friend of mine.
[Gordon is standing on Oliver's desk. Oliver turns around and finds himself staring at Gordon's crotch.]
Oliver: Argh!
Gordon: Hi, creep.
James: Gordon, this is Captain Oliver Great Western.
Gordon: Captain Western? Funny name for a guy, isn't it?
[Gordon jumps down from the desk.]
Gordon: Last person I called 'Western' was pregnant twenty seconds later. Hear you couldn't be bothered to help old Jimmy here.
Oliver: Er, well, it . . . it wasn't quite that, Sir. It's just that we weighed up the pros and cons, and decided it wasn't a reasonable use of our time and resources.
Gordon: Well, this isn't a reasonable use of my time and resources, but I'm going to do it anyway.
Oliver: What?
Gordon: This!
[Gordon head-butts Oliver. Oliver groans and falls backwards across his desk.]
Gordon: All right, Jimmy! I've got to fly. Two million girls, only one Gordon. And remember, if you want something, take it. Molly!
[Molly enters the office and salutes.]
Molly: My Lord!
Gordon: I want something!
Molly: Take it!
Gordon: Woof!
James: Greaseball Git!
[General Henry enters from his office.]
Henry: Ah, James. So you escaped.
James: Yes, Sir.
Henry: Bravo!
[Henry notices the unconscious Oliver.]
Henry: Don't slouch, Oliver.
James: I was wondering whether, having been tortured by the most vicious, cruelist, sadistic, meanest, nastiest, insanest, in the Skarie army, I might be allowed a week's leave to recuperate, Sir.
Henry: Excellent idea. Your commanding officer would have to be stark raving mad to refuse you.
James: Well, you are my commanding officer.
Henry: Well?
James: Can I have a week's leave to recuperate, Sir?
Henry: Certainly not!
James: Thank you, Sir.
Henry: Baaaaaa!