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Festive Fules

Discussion in 'Break Room' started by Mark Russell, Jan 20, 2005.


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    By popular demand....the continuing adventures of Bagshot and his merry crew at the offices of a fantasy UK Podiatric representative organ.

    All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to any person is purely coincidental and is probably a figment of your imagination! Have fun.....and read at bed-time with a long glass of Ardbeg by your side!


    FESTIVE FULES

    SCENE 1: EXT: UNDER THE ARCHES OF TOWER BRIDGE: NIGHT

    Two men meeting clandestinely. Long raincoats. Mist from river. Rats scurrying around ground. The only light is the glow of cigarettes. All is quiet.

    GRANDEE: There you are; told you so. You won’t hear anything again. They get fed up in the end. They always do. We had the same problems with the lecturers during the 1970’s. They thought they knew what was best for the profession but they were wrong too. Best that these types are kept at bay; or as far away from us as we can manage. Lord! Why do they always think that they know best?

    NEW BOY: Mhmmmmm

    GRANDEE: I mean, can’t they see we can’t do anything else?

    NEW BOY: What do you mean?

    GRANDEE: We’ll we’re not going anywhere are we? Most of the members can’t be bothered right? What’s the point of us sticking our necks out? What good will it do?

    NEW BOY: {shifting uncomfortably on feet}
    But what about the new graduates? Or the ones with families? How will they cope? What will they do when they find out? They’ll have commitments to meet? How will they manage? What will they think about what the Society has done?

    GRANDEE: That’s their problem; not ours. It’s all about shifting responsibilities nowadays. The Department of Health is doing it. Why shouldn’t we?’ Christ! What do they expect anyway? They get a Journal and their insurance paid for them. What do they want for three hundred quid anyhow? Caviar and Perignon? We only get tea and crumpets! What makes them think they deserve better?

    NEW BOY: Who knows?

    They extinguish their cigarettes into the river, pull up the collars of their raincoats and emerge from the dark, damp shadows below. Their shoulders are stooped and low. The grandee at the rear, smiles with satisfaction at the back of his companion and blows his, not inconsiderable nose into a large pink handkerchief he extracts from his breast pocket. It has seen much use.

    As they climb the steps back up to Tower Bridge Road, the old man pauses and bangs his stick against the railing to catch the younger man’s attention.


    NEW BOY: Yes?

    GRANDEE: Keep them in the dark.. It’s the best way it is. Always worked for us.

    NEW BOY: What about the web-site. All those dissenters

    GRANDEE: Who cares? It’s just that bloody nutter again – he’s the one who’s stirring them all {looks away briefly and spits into the murky current of the river below} besides, steps have been taken…..pretty soon you’ll not be hearing from him anymore. Just ignore the rest of them, they won't give us any trouble now.

    NEW BOY: Yes, I suppose you’re right. Thing is, these songs have been on the website for ages. Nearly five thousand members have printed them off and are selling them to their patients. It's a phenomenon they say. I mean, I was driving down the M11 last week and Steve Wright played the ‘March of the Old Grandees’ on Radio Five Live – it’s up to number two in the charts now. It was supposed to be a secret within Council. God, it’s getting really embarrassing at work – it’s played constantly on the wards – they say it cheers the patients up.

    The grandee smiles to himself, content with the secret he dare not share with his companion. How would he take it? What would he say? If only he knew the real story. What would he do? What would anyone in his position do - a recently elected council member? Toe the line if they knew what was best for them. Or else!

    SCENE 2: EXT: EMBANKMENT: NIGHT

    They say their goodbyes near the Tower and the grandee makes his way to Liverpool Street Station; mist following him inland along the narrow embankment streets. He stops for a moment outside a cobblers, and admires the bespoke footwear scattered inside the floor of the shop window. A balloon stretcher is visible, protruding from the waist of a Hotter comfort shoe. Its apron is relaxed and soft.

    The grandee looks at the shoe, puzzled why anyone would want to stretch the upper in the manner that it is now being fashioned. He mutters under his breath…


    GRANDEE: It would get rid of the corn, it would. God; have they no sense at all?

    He shakes his head and marches into the station.

    SCENE 3: INT: RAILWAY STATION: NIGHT

    His is the last train home. He walks down the platform towards the locomotive. On the way a familiar song starts up over the Tannoy……

    {”Honourable Council Members, of the S.C.P…..”}

    Everywhere, people smile and begin to sing along. The grandee puffs out his chest with pride.

    SCENE 4: INT: RAILWAY CARRAIGE: NIGHT

    He takes his seat in a carriage near the rear. It is almost deserted. A single passenger is sitting on a bench seat, reading the final edition of the ‘Standard’. The grandee sits opposite, and peers out from over his half-moon glasses, reading the headline. It runs;

    “CHIROPODISTS ACCEPT 50% PAY CUT”

    The grandee smiles, nodding his head gently. Thank goodness the Christmas holidays were just starting. Good job they switched the answer machine off too. Opposite him, the top half of the paper folds down, and reveals a tall, elegant, well dressed lady with long blonde hair. Strands of grey run through it. Crows feet frame both eyes. The grandee smiles at her, admiring her beauty. There were times that he wished he was a little younger…not many…..but there were times.... Damn! The vagrancies of aging! The previous night he was unable to reach his feet to cut his toenails. How was he going to cope now? Same way as every other pensioner had to, he supposed. He shuffles uncomfortably in his seat; a tinge of guilt settling over him. Maybe he could bring it up at the next council meeting - see if they could relax the rules on expenses to get his chiropody treatment costs reimbursed. The fees were extortionate compared to what he used to charge when he was in practice. Mind you that was thirty years ago!

    He curses his stupidity with a small laugh. How stupid - getting council to endorse his suggestion. He IS the council! Ha!

    The woman looks at the grandee inquisitively.

    WOMAN: Well? Did you speak with him?

    GRANDEE: Yes, of course. That should do it. We shouldn’t hear any more complaints at council meetings now. Not until after the next election and we can still work our magic on the ballot papers again…mhmmm? Keep the buggers out in the first place! Damn good idea of yours it was. The best we’ve had for ages…….

    WOMAN: Yes…sometimes a younger brain has its advantages…..

    GRANDEE: {raising eyebrows} Don’t get carried away now…..you’re not in the Inner Sect yet. Don’t damage your prospects….remember ….ears are everywhere. {coughs gently} I see the Standard picked up the news. The Minister said he would release it to them first. Good headline. Plenty publicity – pity they don’t like using podiatry though – still I suppose we all graduated as chiropodists anyway. Front page eh?

    WOMAN: ‘Yes..... {she goes back to the section she was reading, doning her own half moon glasses to read the small print}...thing is, I can’t see our names here though, I’ve searched twice.’

    The grandee looks at her, a scowl creasing his well-lined face. He reaches over and snatches the newspaper out of her hands and looks for himself, running his well-manicured finger down the lines of newsprint. After a minute he throws down the paper in disgust.

    GRANDEE: Damn! They promised! Maybe they meant next year….

    The woman bends forward to retrieve the paper from the carriage floor, patting the grandee’s knee as she does. It is a rare display of compassion and he scowls at her in castigation for her stupidity and weakness. She lifts the paper and folds it on the seat beside her and looks out of the window to the darkness beyond. The window reflects the headine in the pages that she was looking at. It reads:

    “TSIL SRUONOH SRAEY WEN”

    FADE TO BLACK


    SCENE 5: INT: A BUILDING NEAR TOWER BRIDGE: MORNING

    A smoke filled room with a large table and seating for nineteen. Two men in the corner, one holding tightly to a Zimmer frame are huddled together in quiet conversation. The younger man – our grandee - has a name badge on the lapel of his jacket. It reads Peregrine Bagshot

    OLD GRANDEE: How did the business go last night? Everything taken care of?

    BAGSHOT: Yes, no problem at all. Didn’t even have to raise my voice. These new council members have no backbone at all. God they’re so weak…

    OLD GRANDEE: Ah, things were different in my day. Men were men and women knew their place in life. Things have changed so much today. Never mind; it makes our job so much easier. Now what about that nutter up north. Has he been taken care of yet?

    BAGSHOT: That’s being attended to as we speak….we know he likes red wine, God the whole world knows that…..so we’ve sent him a case of Lafite ‘83 for Christmas. Each one laced with a bottle of monocholoracaetic acid crystals.

    OLD GRANDEE: Ha! That should sort his peri-anal warts out if nothing else! Very good….very good. You get an extra crumpet for that one! Marvelous!

    They slap each other heartily on the back, the old man buoyant with joy. He turns away from his younger companion and hobbles in a strange higgledy piggildy fashion across to an enormous black leather commode in the corner and lifts the seat. Inside there is a shoebox. He beckons Bagshot across and gestures to him to remove it. This he does very gingerly.

    BAGSHOT: What is it?

    OLD GRANDEE: It’s for you. Go on take it.

    Bagshot is hesitant. The base of the box is wet from something in the commode. He opens the top with care.

    BAGSHOT: (excitedly) Oh it’s lovely. Yes, it’s just what I always wanted.

    OLD GRANDEE: You’re very welcome. You’ve worked hard for it.

    Bagshot holds aloft a small glass ornament. It depicts three monkeys; one holding its ears, another holding its mouth, the last covering its eyes. Underneath, engraved in the glass are the words; Hear no Sense, Speak no Sense, See no Sense. Bagshot has tears in his eyes and his hands tremble with excitement.

    BAGSHOT: I knew it! I knew it! I always knew it would be my destiny. The Master-elect of the Society. Oh that’s almost poetic! Oh my, inspiration….we can’t have that.

    OLD GRANDEE: (sternly) No we can’t now, can we? No slip ups at any time. You can never let the membership suspect anything. Never. That is the greatest secret. Always keep them in the dark. Feed them stories, anything. Never the truth.

    BAGSHOT: You’re right of course. I just couldn’t believe how easy it was when I started. Sheep are more inquisitive. No wonder they’re called sleepers, mhmm?

    OLD GRANDEE: True, but never forget who pays for the tea and crumpets though. Don’t forget them; ignore them maybe, but don’t forget them.

    BAGSHOT: Don’t worry. Election time is coming around soon and I’ve got a new video made. My strategic plan! It’s called ‘My Way’.

    OLD GRANDEE: That’s excellent. God all this new technology. I just can’t keep up nowadays. Video you say? Never heard of it! Is it like a cine? Can I see it?

    BAGSHOT: Yes of course you can…..let’s go; we’re showing it at the council meeting just now. Come along now, easy does it….

    SCENE 6 EXT: FELLMONGERS CLOSE: MORNING

    A convoy of bakery vans arrive at the entrance. Hundreds of men unpack box after box of cream cakes and crumpets. A tanker pumps steaming tea through an open window.

    SCENE 7: INT: CONFERENCE ROOM: NOON

    Twenty-four individuals huddled around a narrow table. A man with an electronic device searches for hidden bugs. He finds none. When he has gone, the assembled members take off their socks and shoes and raise their right legs. A tape recorder is switched on and an orchestra is heard playing the opening bars of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. In unison, the group begins to sing:

    COUNCIL: (collectively)

    Honourable Council Members
    Of the S.C.P.
    Onward to obli-vion
    That’s our destiny

    Pay no heed to mem-ber-ship
    They only get one vote
    Listen to the ancients
    We’ll give you all the hope
    For a brighter fu-t-ure
    We’ll lead you all the way
    Hark the glorious gran-dees
    And you'll be one some day

    Honourable Council Members
    Of the S.C.P.
    Our cup it flow-eth over
    With great sagacity

    Tell no-one what you’re do-ing
    That goes against the grain
    A 'cup of tea and crum-pets'
    Should be your sole refrain
    Zip your gob and key-bo-ard
    We’ve heard it all before
    The ungrateful damn dissenters
    They’re such a bloody bore

    Honourable Council Members
    Of the S.C.P.
    Nothing will ever change us
    We’re here ‘till eternity

    If you think we're lunatics
    It won't mean a thing
    Because we can dismiss you
    On the slightest whim
    We have the best intentions
    Of that we're sure you'll see
    If you don't like what we're doing
    Go and work for the H.P.C.

    Honourable Council Members
    Of the S.C.P.
    Onward to Obli-vion
    That's your destiny

    Bagshot stands erect once the voices have died down. The old grandee beside him wipes a tear away from his eye.

    BAGSHOT: That’s enough! Quiet! Sit down now, on the floor, cross legged. Welcome to the last Council meeting of the year. Now the business for today is as follows; first we will watch my new election video and then we’ll watch it again before the cakes arrive. Then we’ll watch it again and then well have the tea and crumpets. After that I’ll be asking you questions to see if you have been paying attention. An extra crumpet will go to all those who can recite the whole script accurately!
    {Excited chattering and gnashing of teeth}
    Now, any questions before we begin? No?

    WEE LASSIE: Eh....excuse me....

    BAGSHOT: (angrily) What? You wanted to talk? I hope it’s not rubbish….I’ve heard enough of that this week already!

    WEE LASSIE: Erm…no….it’s about the website. I was wondering, sir, if we can answer some of these questions that the members keep asking……they’re getting quite impatient….

    BAGSHOT: No! What have you been told. Don’t respond - there’s no need. That’s what we got that trainee for wasn’t it? Just ignore them. It’s the only way. Now sit down and don’t open your mouth again. Not if you know what’s good for you…..(mutters)... how stupid can you get....

    {He switches on the video and blows out all the candles. The television lights up showing the grandee sitting behind an operating table holding a scalpel in one hand and an amputated foot in the other. Blood runs down his operating gown. His pink handkerchief is around his head. He delivers his speech.}

    Bagshot takes his seat beside the old man. As the video progresses, a curious look befalls the old man’s face. After a moment he leans over to his younger compatriot.


    OLD GRANDEE: That’s familiar. Your speech. I’ve heard that somewhere before….

    BAGSHOT: Yesssss

    OLD GRANDEE: (puzzled) Where….where was it. Was it at conference?

    BAGSHOT: (smugly) No…no….try again.

    OLD GRANDEE: (angrily) Don’t be stupid. No games. No humour. Tell me now!

    BAGSHOT: (sheepishly) Oh all right then.

    The Grandee slips his hand into an inside pocket of his jacket and extracts a slim magazine and hands it to the old man. It is the April edition of Podiatry Now. A pink bookmark is visible protruding from the top. The old man opens the magazine and looks at the page. It is headed; ‘Reforming Foot Health Services’. The old man shuts the magazine and sits back and smiles.

    OLD GRANDEE: Oh, very good, Very good indeed! You’re learning all the time. I would have done the same myself! Excellent! And the best thing is, nobody will ever know. They’re all too stupid!

    BAGSHOT: Thank you. I knew you’d like it.

    OLD GRANDEE: Oh I do, I do. Tell you what Bagshot – just to celebrate. Can you get them to sing a couple of verses of the ‘Corn- Cutter's Lament’ for me? It’ll cap the day, just fine.

    BAGSHOT: Of course I will. They can sing it all; twice if you like! For you, anything at all……we might even have time to finish with some Christmas Carols....you'd like that wouldn't you?

    OLD GRANDEE: Yes.....'Silent Night' is my favourate....do they know it?

    BAGSHOT: I'm sure they do; should be second nature by now....

    They look at each other briefly, exchanging, only for a second, a look of shared happiness. A shudder passes through both of them as a result. They return their gaze to the assembled crowd, looking for any signs of discontentment or poor attention. They could never afford to let their guard down. Ever. After all, too much was at stake.

    SCENE 8 INT: THE COACH AND HORSES: EVENING

    A busy Soho pub. Much of the bar has been taken over by a school reunion. Tom and Brian stand at the end of the counter, their glasses replenished, filling in the years since they last met.

    TOM: I wasn’t really sure about coming along tonight – you know – it’s like some sort of barometer or gauge on how successful or otherwise you’ve become in life, and I really couldn't be bothered with that.

    BRIAN: Yes, it’s like a twenty five year report card – earn above fifty grand and you get an ‘A’; thirty to fifty a ‘B’; and twenty to thirty a ‘C’.

    TOM: What fifty grand and you get an ‘A’? At today’s rates? Christ Brian, you get twenty five grand a year working in the Parks Department cutting grass. You don’t have to be too clever to earn fifty grand nowadays – nah – you’d need to be earning over two hundred a year to get an ‘A’ – fifty would get you a ‘C’ pass – but only just.

    BRIAN: Oh dear then. I’ve just slipped from a ‘D’ to an ‘E minus’ in the past week on that scale.

    TOM: Why, what’s happened? You lose your job or something? Your business?

    BRIAN: No……I’m a chiropodist

    Tom nods to himself as he digests Brian’s words. When he responds there is concern in his voice.

    TOM: I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. God you’ve been shafted recently – haven’t you? We’ve been following the government’s maneuverings in chambers – one of our partners specialises in employment law – predominately public sector – and I have to say there is a great deal of disbelief at what’s happened to you and your colleagues. Never before have we seen such draconian pay cuts being implemented in such a manner. First, they relax the entry criteria for the profession, flooding the market with cheap labour, and then they use the ‘market principles’ argument to reduce the salary levels. Of course, the politicians then say that it’s the Health Authorities responsibility to commission and pay for services – not theirs – and all the NHS is doing is securing the care at the best price, but the reality is that thousands of chiropodists are going to be crippled by the cuts – if you’ll excuse the puns.

    BRIAN: Fine I know. My missus is a chiropodist too and even before the cuts, we both qualified for Tax Credits. That’s after twenty two years at the coalface. Some career choice eh? I was praying old Davidson was going to be here – you remember, the careers and guidance master? To tell you the truth, it’s the only reason I came. I was going to wait for him afterwards, take him to the far end of Firth Street, and give him the biggest thrashing of his life. You know something…..there’s never been one working day in the last twenty two years when I haven’t been asked a question from someone or another – a patient or a doctor. Anyone. The strange thing is, it’s always the same question.

    TOM: What is it?

    BRIAN: After five or ten minutes of conversation the question always arises.

    “Tell me, what made you want to do chiropody in the first place?”

    And it’s always asked with an accompanying look of genuine puzzlement. Buggers!

    Tom smiles and nods his head again.

    TOM: To be honest Brian, it was going to be my next question too.

    BRIAN: See! Bloody hell! You know, I must be the only one here tonight whose sole aim in life is to get through one working day without being someone’s source of amusement or whatever else they get out of asking the damn thing.

    TOM: Maybe pity now?

    BRIAN: Maybe it was always pity. But if it is pity it should be reserved for the new graduates and students. That's who I really feel sorry for - and their student loans. What if there's no jobs to pay them back? They've really been let down. Anyway....enough about chiropody, what of you? What adventures has life thrown at you? You said you were in law; what do you specialise in?

    TOM: Mostly trade union and contract law. Less of the latter in these times though – the trade unions have finally woken up to the fact that they are nearly extinct and they’ve decided to make one last stand. Should keep me busy until the next reunion methinks. Shall we mingle for a bit?

    Both men work the crowd. Music is blaring from the juke-box – Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody – the revelers know the words by heart. After a couple of hours the crowd starts to disperse, leaving a few diehards to prop up the bar and annoy Norman, the formidable bartender, and the handful of ‘regulars’. Tom spots Brian at the end of the bar. He is carefully counting the loose change from his pocket, calculating to the last the amount he needs to see himself safely home – and how much left he can spare for drinks. He has allowed himself twenty pounds for the evening – a luxury he can ill afford over the festive break what with the January pay check over six weeks away. But his wife had insisted. It would be good for him – it would buck him up a bit. It would be worth every penny, she said. In fact it was worth a turkey. They were having chicken roll from Bernard Matthews on Christmas Day instead. No great ‘festive fayre’ in that household then. Not of the edible kind anyhow!

    Brian looks up from his coppers and notices Tom staring at him. He realises in an instant what his friend is thinking and he blushes with embarrassment. Tom comes across and sits down beside him.


    TOM: If you like, I can drop you off. I mean, we’ve got an account with the black cabs – it’ll be no problem.

    BRIAN: Thanks and all that but I need to get the train. I couldn’t afford even to rent in London these days – I’m down in Sussex now. Thanks anyway.

    Tom orders another couple of drinks from Norman, who has a face like thunder. As he does so Brian’s gaze shifts to the pub doorway. Bagshot has entered and has removed his overcoat. A large pink handkerchief hangs from the breast pocket of his jacket. He stands for a minute, looking into one of the mirrors near the door. After a moment he extracts a small metal comb and runs it carefully through his bouffant grey hair. When he is satisfied, he turns and approaches the bar. He carries an air of aloof arrogance, impervious to the onlookers’ gaze. By now the whole bar is watching him. There is not a whisper from anyone.

    BAGSHOT: Yes, good evening. Can I have a glass of claret please?

    BARMAN: A claret? Would sir like any particular year – or chateau?

    BAGSHOT: Well as a matter of fact, I have a penchant for Pomerol ’62 or a Lafite ’76 at a push. Do you have them?

    BARMAN: As a matter of fact, I don’t. I’ve got our house red, which if you’re lucky might still register on the pH scale, but I wouldn’t want to bet on it though. Still, it’ll be nice and musky, just like a good claret. Not a Lafite though – that’s a Bordeaux. Do you want a pint or a half pint then squire?

    {muffled laughter from the regulars)

    BAGSHOT: No, no. I’ll have a sweet sherry then instead.

    BARMAN: Right. Good choice. One pickled fairy coming up.

    Bagshot collects his drink and waits patiently until Norman has written a receipt for the £1.75 he has handed over. Finally he makes his way over to a vacant table near a coat stand and sits down. Lifts up the glass and sniffs the bouquet with his eyes shut. This he does for nearly a minute, his nostrils flaring every few seconds. Finally he takes a sip and his eyes snap open with a look of disgust. Tom turns back to Brian.

    TOM: What a strange character and I’m sure I’ve seen him….……you okay Brian? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Do you know him?

    BRIAN: Sorry….Christ I certainly do! That’s the new Master – elect of the Society. You’ve probably seen his picture in the press recently. He’s usually on his hands and knees behind the Health Minister. Sometimes you see him peeking round the arse of his trousers for a look at what’s going on. The Labour party might have a poodle leading it. We had to have a ****z-zu!

    TOM: Bloody hell. That’s the one who sold you down the river then. Never mind old Davidson – why don’t we take him up Firth Street instead?

    BRIAN: No, don’t tempt me. It wouldn’t take much.

    As they talk another man enters the pub and sits down at the same table as Bagshot. He has greasy hair and shifty eyes. His dental health is poor – probably as a result of crunching numbers too long. He is grossly obese and his puffy face has strange feline characteristics. He does not approach the bar. Norman is, on the surface, nonplussed. Inside an atavistic rage begins to boil.

    TOM: That’s strange…

    BRIAN: What’s that?

    TOM: That chap that’s just come in….he’s the new chair of that quango that was formed the other month – the one that’s supposed to oversee all public sector appointments - the ones at board level. He used to be a client at our chambers – something to do with a dispute over his last platinum handshake. I wonder what he’s talking to your man about….?

    Tom, careful to remain unnoticed, stares intently at the newcomer for a few moments then raises his eyebrows in mild astonishment. Brian looks at him curiously.

    BRIAN: What are you doing?

    TOM: I can lip read. Learned about twelve years ago. Invaluable in this profession I can assure you! Hang on a sec…..

    Tom continues to look. After another pause he relates what he has been able to discern.

    TOM: Something about him being offered a Chief Executive or Chairman’s post in the New Year. In recognition of his cooperation. No bong just now…too sensitive…..maybe next year……but six figure salary with the new post. Lucky for some.

    BRIAN: Well someone from the profession might manage to get a ‘B’ pass then after all!

    TOM: Aye, but few others will though. If any. Never mind though, there’s one benefit that I can see coming.

    BRIAN: What’s that?

    TOM: Well if he’s appointed a management post in the NHS he can’t run the Society anymore. Maybe the new broom will sweep in a different direction – be more assiduous and assertive with the government.

    BRIAN: What do you mean he can’t run the Society? Of course he can.

    TOM: Not if he’s NHS management. You can’t have management sitting on a staff side trade union council. That would flaunt the founding ideology of trade unionism and make a mockery of the basic employment principles to boot! No trade union membership will allow that.

    BRIAN: That can’t be right. We’ve got loads of NHS managers sitting on our Council. Have you not heard the song that's in the charts right now….Council Members? The bit about vested interests?

    TOM: So that’s what that refers too! My God! I don’t believe it.

    BRIAN: I’m afraid it’s true. The thing is, few in the profession seem to think it’s a problem. Either that, they’re too scared of their jobs and are staying quiet.

    TOM: That's precisely the reason you can't have that set-up. No wonder you got shafted proper. Tell you what though…this is really interesting….maybe we can do something about it after all. I’ve got a client – an investigative reporter who does these in-depth exposés – you know, the Russian mafia, Afghan war lords. That kind of thing. You’ll have heard of him – McIntoes Undercover? Anyway, he owes me a favour or two. I think I’ll ask him to turn his gaze on our friend here – if he doesn’t make a documentary he can always send the tape to ‘You’ve been Framed’. It would make a mint! Give me your number before we leave and I’ll get Donald to give you a call….you can give him the whole picture.

    BRIAN: Yes sure.

    Suddenly Bagshot and his companion stand and make for the door. Bagshot hesitates, turns, and then makes his way back to the bar. Norman is at the far end near Tom and Brian. He ignores Bagshot completely. After a minute Bagshot makes his way to speak directly to him. He stands between Brian and Tom.

    BAGSHOT: Ahem.

    BARMAN: (snarling} What?

    BAGSHOT: I’ve left fifty pence for the service charge. I wonder if you would be so kind to get me a receipt. If you don’t mind.

    BARMAN: What service charge?

    BAGSHOT: You know, your tip? That’s what you do in these places, isn’t it?

    BARMAN: Tip! I’ll give you more than a tip. You’ll get the whole of my foot up your arse if you don’t get out of here, never mind the tip. You and your chateau lafite’s and sweet sherry and your stingy faced pal. Bugger off.

    Bagshot is unperturbed. If he is shocked at the onslaught, he does not show it. He has dealt with much worse before. What is a mere publican to him? Or his sordid regulars? Bagshot looks with disdain at Brian. Brian is smiling back.

    BRIAN: Hello there.

    Bagshot tilts his head back and looks down his nose at Brian. His look is even more scornful and it wipes the smile from Brian’s face. Bagshot turns and walks away and as he does, we hear a muttered {commoners} from his receding back. Once more at the pub door he hesitates. Turns to the table and lifts the 50p tip. Walks to the jukebox, slots the coin and makes a selection. He turns towards the bar once last time and leaves them with a sneer he reserves for special occasions. His eyes are fixed on Brian. As the door closes behind him, the music starts up with Art Gurfunkel on the vocals.

    {Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to talk to you again……}

    Only Brian makes the connection.

    BRIAN: Bloody hell!

    TOM: What?

    BRIAN: I didn’t think he recognised me then. I spoke to him at conference just a few weeks ago, but I thought he’d forgotten after the look he gave me just now. But he knew who I was all the time.

    TOM: How can you be sure.

    BRIAN: When I cornered him on the final day I mentioned to him there was never any response from himself or from most of his colleagues on the website…no-one knew what was happening until it was too late. I said something along the lines… “the only sound is silence.” The song he put on…..?

    TOM: Bloody hell indeed!

    BRIAN: You know that Donald you mentioned?

    TOM: Yes.

    BRIAN: Is it too late to call him tonight?

    They smile and make their final toasts. At the door they exchange their contact details and resolve to meet after the undercover McIntoes completes his initial investigation. More handshakes and warm words. As they head outside to the wet December night they both fail to see the back cab parked with its lights off, fifty yards down the road. In the distance, through the driving rain, we can make out Bagshot’s face peering into compact binoculars. As he watches the men leave he extracts a small black notebook from his overcoat pocket and scribbles a few words and underlines the last word three times. It says simply ‘TROUBLEMAKER’. Thank God for his intellect and his photographic memory. He needed them for all these clandestine activities. No wonder the Old Grandees wanted him in the Inner Sect as soon as possible. He was unstoppable. Providing he kept the troublemakers at bay. And that was his greatest skill.

    Slowly, as the mist sweeps in from the river on a southerly breeze, the taxi drives off into the night. It heads east, its tail lights casting an eerie red glow into the greying gloom. When it disappears at last, the night becomes discernibly darker.




    SCENE 9 EXT: TOWER BRIDGE ROAD: MORNING

    The bridge is busy with traffic and pedestrians on their way to work. It is snowing heavily and the large piles at the side of the pavement suggest that the weather has been inclement for several days. Beggars line the sides of the bridge, huddled together in small groups to keep the chill air at bay. Condensed breath hangs in miniature clouds above their heads. As we move past them we can see that some are no more than children, many with eastern-European features. But most are elderly people. At their feet are a row of placards proclaiming their plight. They read:

    “Give us some Chiropody for Christmas”

    “I lost my right foot at Dunkirk. Please help save my left one now.”

    “92 year-old; 6 stone; 12 inch toenails. Please give generously”

    “Save us from the cuts!”

    “NHS = National Health Service NOT National Hard-Ship”


    In front of the placards are some tin cans. The occasional passer-by slows and drops some coins into them. They all receive a gracious ‘thank-you’. After a while a white van appears and a television crew exit with their equipment. They disappear down Fellmonger’s Lane towards a shiny glass tower and wait patiently outside the front door. After a while another man joins them and they enter the building together. The pensioners on the bridge look on curiously. Several walk down Fellmonger’s Lane to see what is happening. Soon they are joined by others. A small, but growing crowd starts to form.

    SCENE 10 INT: GLASS TOWER RECEPTION: MORNING

    McINTOES: Morning. We’ve an appointment to see the Master-Elect today at nine-thirty. The name is Finnegan from GTMV.

    RECEPTIONIST: Ah….let me just check…..yes here it is. You’re making a film about careers aren’t you? That’s right; Mr Bagshot was telling us about it yesterday. He’s really looking forward to this. I’ll let him know you’re here.

    McINTOES: Thanks.

    The receptionist turns and pulls a small lever on the wall behind him. In the distance we can hear a bell ring. Within a few seconds a door opens and Bagshot appears and beams an enormous (and rare) smile. Unused to such a position, his lips fissure at the corners causing him to grimace – but only for a second. Today is a special day. His debut on national television. He would stand naked in the middle of a raging fire in Hades to ensure it is successful. Painful lips are nothing to him. The smile grows even wider. He rushes over and extends his delicate, manicured hand to the reporter.

    BAGSHOT: Oh Mr Finnegan, can I say how wonderful it is to meet you at last. I don’t get much opportunity to watch daytime television nowadays, but a lot of my colleagues, who do enjoy a bit more leisure time than me, say that you are their favourite.

    McINTOES: That’s really good to hear sir. Please pass on my best wishes to them all.

    BAGSHOT: Oh I will, I will. I’m going to be writing about your visit in next month’s journal and I’ll make sure everyone reads it. We’ll have a photograph of you on the front cover too if you like?

    McINTOES: On the front cover of a chiropody magazine? Really?

    BAGSHOT: Oh yes – our covers are the talk of the printing world you know. No stuffy professional designs for our flagship rag. No! We have VIP’s, celebrities, film stars – all the beautiful people – on our cover. It was my idea you know. You can mention that if you like.

    McINTOES: Right, yes. I just might. Now where can we do this?

    BAGSHOT: Oh right…follow me.

    All exit through the inner door.


    SCENE 11 INT: THE CONFERENCE ROOM: MORNING

    The crew have just finished setting up. A make-up girl is applying compact to Bagshot’s nose. She is a buxom girl and her choice of low-cut tee-shirt was perhaps not the best choice for this morning. Not for our Peregrine anyhow! She is inches away from his face and his mouth twitches from the excitement of the moment, revealing the fissured corners.

    LUCY: Oh dear. Shall I get some Vaseline?

    BAGSHOT: Pardon?

    LUCY: For your lips. I’ve always found that Vaseline works best on painful cracks. Didn’t you know that?

    BAGSHOT: Certainly not. Vaseline you say?

    LUCY: Oh yeah. I use it on my cracks all the time. I get them every summer I do. Must be the warm weather. And the slingbacks of course! Just slap on the Vaseline at bedtime then wrap myself in some cling film. Just the job. You should try it you should!

    Bagshot’s eyes open wide at the thought.

    BAGSHOT: Yesss. Maybe I will…..

    The make-up girl finishes her administrations and packs her equipment away into a neat metal case. As she opens the lid a certificate attached to the inside cover catches Bagshot’s eye and he stoops to read it more closely. It is a Health Professions Council certificate with CHIROPODIST/PODIATRIST written under the girl’s name.

    BAGSHOT: Oh I didn’t know that you belonged to my fold too!

    LUCY: Well I don’t really….I mean I do the occasional manicure and pedicure as part of my job. So when I heard the other year that anyone could be a chiropodist I thought it would be a good idea to buy myself the certificate. Something to fall back on if the make-up business goes up the spout. And what’s sixty quid a year to the HPC? Good insurance I think. Anyway that’s you done. Good luck.

    BAGSHOT: Yesss. Right.

    The girl walks away leaving the Grandee at the head of a large table. In the far corner, McIntoes peruses the professional regalia. He is trying to look interested. He knows all that he needs to know about the Society and its Council. His file on the Grandee is almost an inch thick. He has spent the last few days in the hostelries of east London speaking to fellow Scots about their experiences at the hands of the Society. They painted a depressing picture. He turns towards Bagshot at the table and walks briskly over.

    McINTOES: Okay, are we ready? Good. Let’s start.

    (Lights snap on; the camera rolls.)

    {three, two, one…}

    McINTOES: Good morning. Today we’re at the elegant headquarters of the Society of Chiropodists and Podiatrists in London. The Society represents nearly nine thousand specialist clinicians all over Britain who work hard to keep the likes of you and me on our feet. Without chiropodists, this country would simply stagger to a painful ‘stop’. Sitting beside me is the Master-Elect of the Society, Peregrine Bagshot, and he’s kindly agreed to give us his pitch for a career that some of you are perhaps thinking of joining…….sir?

    BAGSHOT: Ahem. Yes……

    Bagshot launches into a detailed and articulate description of the profession of podiatry. It is a speech he has consigned to memory. It is littered with words and phrases such as; ‘caring’, ‘dedicated’, ‘rewarding’, ‘secure’, ‘important and vital role’, ‘progressive’, ‘familial’, ‘community’, ‘open and transparent’ and ‘robust representation’. There is not a single mention of tea and crumpets, yet, just before he finishes, a door opens and four servants pull in trolleys laden with just that. Bagshot continues without interruption. McIntoes looks bemused. When Bagshot has finished he sits back in his chair, head and shoulders held high, and breathes slowly and deeply. A confident smile is set on his face.

    McINTOES: Thank you very much for that. Now, while we’re here….I wonder if I can ask you a few supplementary questions about the profession.

    BAGSHOT: Certainly. Ask away…

    McINTOES: I was just wondering why it is that a profession, one of such great importance as podiatry obviously is, is regarded with such disdain and ridicule almost, by most of the public and politicians today. Why do most of your members have to rely on Tax Credits to earn a decent income in the twenty first century?

    BAGSHOT: {looks as if he’s just sat on a 18g needle}
    Well…..ah…..I’m not quite sure what you mean. Disdain? Ridicule? Oh I don’t think so. We’re highly regarded by everyone. I got a Christmas card from Tony this year, you know? And a box of handkerchiefs – the right colour too! (pause) Tax Credits? What are they?

    McINTOES: Oh nothing much. Just something that half your membership need to stop them starving to death this winter. Nothing important. Now then…….can you also comment on why there’s been no public outcry about all our pensioners who have been removed from chiropody lists in the NHS over the last seven years? Why hasn’t the Society been fighting on their behalf? They stop the bus passes and there’s a national strike, but when they stop chiropody – and you can’t walk to the bus anymore– we hear nowt! How come?

    BAGSHOT: Oh…erm…..I’m not sure. Maybe not enough people read our magazine. There’s been one or two small but vigorous statements in there during the last couple of years. I think. But that’s really a question for our Fraternity of Health Service Managers, not really me. I don’t bother with those sort of things. Would you like to see our magazine…it’s got a super cover this month…

    McINTOES: No thank you. What exactly does this ‘career’ offer the youngster of today? Can you explain the attraction of spending time and money at university, toiling to make a hard-earned degree, only to find yourself in the dustbin of the NHS, struggling to keep your head above the poverty line? Why take this road when you can do a correspondence course over three weeks and still have the same qualification?

    BAGSHOT: Well of course they can join an organisation like ours and have a lovely new home in London {he throws his arms around him}, with lovely views. Well I should add that it’s not really their home, but they can visit for an hour once a year. If they’re invited.

    McINTOES: So? The correspondence chiropodist can join as well, can’t they?

    BAGSHOT: Yes but only as an associate. They get to visit every three years. If they’re lucky.

    McINTOES: So the reward for your studies and financial burdens is the joy and contentment of belonging as a full member to the Society. Is that right.

    BAGSHOT: Erm… yesss….I think so.

    McINTOES: Right. Fine. One last question. Do you have any concrete plans to move this profession away from its lowly status. Surely as an organisation you must constantly be looking at ways of improving the circumstances of the ordinary nail cutter. How are you going to achieve it?

    BAGSHOT: Well as a matter of fact you might be interested to see the new video I’ve had made. It’s called ‘My Way’ and it’ll tell you all you want to know. Would you like a copy?

    McINTOES: Yes that would be most useful. I’m sure we could use it. Thank you very much for your time.

    BAGSHOT: No, no…thank you. It was most enjoyable. (then quietly) I think.

    McIntoes smiles in response. The crew begin to dismantle their equipment whilst the Grandee rummages around in a filing cabinet. After a moment he extracts a videocassette and holds it aloft.

    BAGSHOT: Here it is.

    He takes the video over to McIntoes who is standing by a window looking out to the street below. A large crowd of pensioners has caught his attention. They are sitting down in the snow and slush, their shoes and socks removed. Long gryphotic toenails spiral skywards. The demonstrators’ mouths are taped closed with meefix. A large banner is unfurled in front of them. It says simply: ,/I]

    ‘PLEASE HEAR US – HELP US WALK’

    McIntoes looks questioningly at Bagshot who in turn looks disinterested. The Grandee ushers him away from the window.

    BAGSHOT: Don’t mind them out there. Just ignore them. That’s the best way. It works for us. They’re just the dregs of society after all. The government should bring in compulsory euthanasia at sixty unless you’ve got a healthy bank balance. That would sort them out! Keep them under the streets instead of cluttering the top of them! That’s what I say. What?

    McIntoes looks astonished then realises that his lapel mike is still switched on. Bagshot is looking seriously at him then he breaks into another grin, opening the fissures once again.

    BAGSHOT: Just kidding! That fooled you…Ha! No we couldn’t do that now could we. No, we need them all for our practices we do. They’re our customers after all. What would we do without them? Mhmm?

    McINTOES: I don’t know. But maybe you’re going to find out sooner than you think.

    BAGSHOT: Mhmm….er…what? What was that?

    McINTOES: Nothing…it doesn’t matter. Anyway, thanks for your time and we can see ourselves out. Lovely crumpets and cakes too. Did yourselves proud, you did. Cheerio then…

    Bagshot remains in the Council room and watches the crew depart towards Tower Bridge. The videocassette is visible in McIntoes jacket pocket. As soon as they are out of sight Bagshot rushes downstairs to the basement and opens a heavy steel door, which leads to a long narrow room with a number of curtained cubicles. He flicks a light-switch and the room is illuminated.

    SCENE 12 INT THE BASEMENT LATE MORNING

    ,I]Bagshot has pulled on an old dirty-white nylon overcoat. Blood and pus stains the front and sleeves. The basement has been converted from a historical museum to a working surgery with minimal (or no) alterations or additions. Leather strops decorate the walls. There are no windows to the outside world but there is a trapdoor in the ceiling where coal was once dropped. A new loft ladder has been affixed to its underside. Bagshot walks over to the ladder and pauses. Takes deep breath, closes eyes, arches fingers and cracks the joints, then exhales slowly and with purpose. He is ready to begin.

    He opens the trapdoor and lowers the ladders. The trapdoor is directly in front of the crowd of pensioners. A telescopic pole is pushed up through the opening and secured to an old table leg. On the top of the pole a notice proclaims.


    TOENAILS TRIMMED; CORNS CUT.
    £5.00 PER FOOT
    BEST PRICE IN LONDON
    CASH ONLY
    ONLY VISIT A STATE REGISTERED CHIROPODIST


    Except STATE has now been scored out.

    Bagshot waits expectantly. There are nearly five hundred people outside. A thousand feet (maybe). Five thousand pounds and he could be finished them by late afternoon. Not bad for a days work. Bloody Tax Credits indeed! Anyway, he should be charging extra today. A new celebrity was about to ‘do their feet’. That was surely worth another pound a foot, wasn't it? He couldn’t wait to tell them all about his TV debut. He looks up in anticipation.


    BAGSHOT: Come on then….who’s first?


    SCENE 13: INT: BAGSHOT’S BEDROOM: NIGHT

    Two single beds. Mrs Bagshot is propped up in one, reading a Francis Gay Yearbook. On a bedside table sits the ornament of the glass monkeys that was gifted to her husband just a few days ago. A bulge under the sheets of Bagshot’s bed outlines the shape of a ceramic hot water piggy. Suddenly there is a resounding (crash) from the adjoining en-suite bathroom. Mrs Bagshot springs from the bed to investigate. She opens the door to the bathroom to find her husband close to death, on his hands and knees. He is wearing pink silk pyjamas with the Society's crest on the breast pocket, and a pair of white cotton bed-socks. Around his head is wrapped several layers of cling-film. The skin under the food wrap is tinged with a bluish-grey hue. Mrs Bagshot is a woman of practical means. Quickly she lifts a nearby loo brush and, without a moment’s hesitation, she rams the brush end through the PVC into his mouth, then pulls it out again. The sides are covered in Vaseline.

    There is a huge intake of air.


    MRS BAGSHOT: My God….what on earth are you doing?

    BAGSHOT: {gasping} I…I…I was trying to fix my mouth…and I must have passed out. Good God!

    MRS BAGSHOT: Fixing your mouth? With cling film? That’s a joke! Try using Duck-Tape next time – it might be more successful. Cling film – what rubbish! Go on now into bed. And I don’t want to hear another squeak out of you again tonight. God knows what you’ll get up to next. Men….who would have them?

    She marches her husband off to bed and tucks him in. She looks down forlornly as he drifts off to sleep. It was always the same. Great intellect – No common sense. She was grateful that he was a chiropodist and worked on his own. She couldn’t bear the worry if he was responsible for employing other people – it would surely be a disaster. Better that he was responsible only for himself. But even then she couldn’t be too careful. Cling film and Vaseline! Whatever next…..

    FADE TO BLACK

    SCENE 14 INT BROADCASTING HOUSE EVENING

    FADE FROM BLACK

    {subtitle} …eight months later….

    A huddle of men and women around a large circular table. Low lighting. VCRs and TV monitors strewn all around the floor.

    MCINTOES: Okay, tomorrow it is. We’ve got enough material here for a whole series never mind a fifty-minute exposé. Jeezy peeps, this is going to be good! Ten times better than the British Dental Association. You okay about it Lucy?

    LUCY: Yeah, it’ll be a scream Donal…. d’ya think he’ll recognise me from the last time?

    MCINTOES: I’m counting on it. There was definitely some chemistry there, especially when you were winding him up about the cling film and Vaseline. There are certainly hidden depths to this character, that’s for sure. We just gotta look in the right place, that’s all. But…..

    EDITOR: But what?

    MCINTOES: Well, it’d be better if we can get him to loosen up more. That way he’s liable to do anything…remember what Brian told us about the incident in the pub. A wee sip of sweet sherry and we could be in line for a RTS award with this one!

    EDITOR: But he’s hardly liable to drink during the day though, especially with the cameras there.

    MCINTOES: No…. more’s the pity. (pause) What?

    He looks across the table at Lucy who is grinning mischievously. She winks in response and the investigative reporter studies her face hard for some insight. She raises both eyebrows and shrugs her shoulders. The rest look on suspiciously.

    MCINTOES: Okay, we won’t ask. Right, let’s go over it one more time…..

    FADE TO BLACK

    FADE IN

    SCENE 15 INT TOWER BRIDGE DAY

    Peregrine Bagshot is walking briskly across the bridge towards Fellmongers. There is a spring in his step and although it’s a glorious summer’s afternoon, he wears a bowler hat and carries a black umbrella. As he turns into the Path a number of filthy, wretched pensioners reach out to him; the remnants of the protest at Christmas. Those who make it close get prodded sharply with the business end of the umbrella. He makes it to the door unscathed – as always.

    SCENE 16 INT RECEPTION DAY

    Lucy is sitting on a sofa reading a magazine as the Master enters the building. Beside her is a cardboard box – approx 12” square. A receptionist is typing away on a keyboard.

    BAGSHOT: Ah, the lovely make-up girl. Good afternoon to you….

    LUCY: You remembered then?

    BAGSHOT: Of course. You didn’t expect me to forget did you? How could I?

    He beams a broad smile and this time, the corner of his lips stay intact. Lucy stands and extends her hand. He holds her fingers gently then lifts them to his mouth and kisses the back of her hand with affection. She looks on bemused. Behind the desk the receptionist looks on in astonishment until he glances sideways and she quickly looks away. Bagshot ushers Lucy through a door and into the building proper and as she walks ahead of him she catches a sweet sickly smell and she realises that it is comes from the back of her hand…..

    SCENE 17 INT: BAGSHOT’S OFFICE SUITE: MORNING

    Opulent décor. Heavy dark-red velvet curtains and matching carpet. Louis IV reproduction furniture. On the walls are a number of famous paintings – the Madonna dell Granduca, the nymph Galatea, La Belle Jardinère and St George fighting the Dragon – all mounted in heavy gilt frames. In the far corner, behind the desk, an elegant Victorian changing screen partially obscures a leather chaise longe. Lucy is agog.

    LUCY: My goodness, this is fabulous. I mean it looks so different….

    BAGSHOT: Yessss.

    LUCY: It must have cost an absolute…

    BAGSHOT: Yessss.

    LUCY: It’s fabulous and all in, what, eight months?

    BAGSHOT: Yessss.

    LUCY: You don’t waste any time do you? Gosh, it’s unbelievable!

    Lucy walks around admiring the paintings. Bagshot watches her intently, a huge smile lighting up his face.

    LUCY: Italian Renaissance? Leonardo da Vinci?

    Bagshot opens his mouth to reply just as the door to his office opens and the receptionist enters, carrying the box Lucy left on the sofa. Bagshot turns on her with a fury.

    BAGSHOT: How many times have you to be told? You knock and wait. Never enter until I say so.

    RECEPTIONIST: But…

    BAGSHOT: No buts. No excuses. Get out of here. (turns to Lucy) I’m terribly sorry….

    LUCY: Actually it’s my fault. (walks over to the trembling girl) I left this in reception by mistake. It’s a present for you; a sort of belated congratulations for your coronation…..sorry, I forgot all about it in my excitement.….

    She takes the box from the receptionist and thanks her. Bagshot is coming back from the edge of an apoplectic fit {huge intake of air} Dismisses the receptionist with a wave of his hand (muttering ‘last chance’ under his breath). His face softens and he takes the box from Lucy when it’s offered. He is immediately calm and chivalrous.

    BAGSHOT: Why this is so kind…..oh, I say! I say!!

    Inside is a large, exquisitely decorated chocolate cake with a winged foot made of white marzipan delicately balanced on top of the letters SCP in the centre. All around the edge, in small gold icing, are the words, looking after our interests, enabling us to live more luxuriously……

    LUCY: I made it myself.

    BAGSHOT: Why thank you….it looks delicious.

    LUCY: I remembered the lovely spread you laid on for us the last time. The crumpets were out of this world. But I thought you’d appreciate some home baking for a change.

    BAGSHOT: Oh yes. Tell you what; we’ll have it at the council meeting this afternoon. There’ll be plenty to go around.

    LUCY: Council meeting?

    BAGSHOT: Uh huh. Didn’t I mention it on the telephone?

    LUCY: No I don’t think you did. I thought you were going to show me round the offices then we’d film the interview later on when Mr McIn….I mean, Mr Finnegan comes with his crew.

    BAGSHOT: Well if it’s going to be a problem I can just send them home. They won’t mind you know; they get their expenses and plenty more besides! (winks conspiratorially) Keep them sweet and you can get anything you want. That’s the secret.

    LUCY: I’ll bet. No it won’t be a problem. What time does it start?

    He looks surprised.

    BAGSHOT: My dear girl, when I’m ready, of course. Shall we…?

    He leads her out of his office, breathing deeply, chest puffed out.

    SCENE 18 INT ANTE-ROOM DAY

    (cut to)

    In a small ante-room next to his office, Bagshot punches a seven-digit number into a key-pad concealed behind a plastic rubber-plant. Immediately a mirrored wall slides away to reveal a heavily reinforced steel door with another numeric keypad. He punches in another code and the door swings seamlessly open and he walks slowly inside.

    SCENE 19 INT: THE INNER SANCTUM: DAY

    (cut to)

    The twenty-four members of the Council sit in silence around a large circular board-room table. In front of each one is a yellow legal pad and pencil; a cup and saucer; and a large plate with fork and knife. As soon as Bagshot enters the room the assembled group stand and bow their heads. Bagshot walks slowly to his chair – a step-up black leather Hinders-Leslie, complete with extendable leg-rests – and sits down.

    BAGSHOT: Ready? After three…..

    They all take a step back and kick off their right shoe. A tape recorder is switched on and a string quartet plays ‘Clemintine’. On ‘three’ the entire group raise their right legs straight out and start to sing in unison…..

    COUNCIL: Pods of Britain, Pods of Ireland
    Pods of every land and clime
    Be assured we’re here to serve you
    And we do that task just fine

    Council members are united
    We shall serve both true and strong
    Never fear that vested interests
    Will conspire to get it wrong

    Do not listen to the doubters
    Pay no heed to what they say
    Council members are quite certain
    That there can be no other way

    The Promised Land is coming closer
    Bountiful its riches be
    Not in money for the masses
    But for us with cakes and tea

    For that day you all must labour
    Work hard and have no fear
    We will lead you to greater glory
    Trust the Council of the S.C.P.

    Do not worry at the silence
    Council members they know best
    Send your thanks and hard-earned money
    These good chaps will do the rest

    Pods of Britain, Pods of Ireland
    Pods of every land and clime
    Be assured we’re here to serve you
    And we do that task just fine.

    Bagshot is breathing deeply, eyes closed. Suddenly they snap open and he nods his head in appreciation. They look on anxiously.

    BAGSHOT: Good. Very good. Now sit.

    Smiles all around as they take their seats. {Quiet chatter, building….}

    BAGSHOT: Silence! Now to business. Right, you all remember Lucy here….

    He waves her across from the doorway where she has been standing, looking on in absolute astonishment.

    LUCY: Hi.

    BAGSHOT: The BBC are coming back later today to finish their filming for the documentary on the Society and I thought I’d invite Lucy here along to see how I do things at Fellmongers before the production team bring their inevitable chaos. And a good thing too! Look what she’s brought….

    He shows them the chocolate cake and an excited murmur fills the room.

    BAGSHOT: If you’re good, only if you’re good….

    Hungry hands clatter cutlery and plates.

    BAGSHOT: Enough. We’ve got some business to attend to first. Now then Lucy, you sit over there beside one of our new members from the Fraternity of Managers. (quietly) Just watch his hands.

    He points towards a timid looking middle-aged man who is wearing a large badge on his lapel with ‘New Boy’ emblazoned in red letters. She sits down and as she does she notices a half-bottle of cheap brandy protruding from his pocket.

    BAGSHOT: Now then, first on the agenda today is the strategic plan. You all know I’ve been working day and night to devise the road map for the profession over the next ten years. This is vital if podiatry is to take its rightful place on the medical stage. With that in mind, you’ll be pleased to know it’s coming along just fine and you needn’t ask about anything about it again. A letter is being sent to the members to tell them the same. Right; next on the agenda is Income Generation (rubs hands together). Well I can now tell you what we’ve decided.

    He leans forward and presses a button underneath the table and a door to the rear of the room opens. A well-dressed man with silver-white hair walks into the room carrying a perspex box.

    BAGSHOT: For those who are forever ignorant or stupid, this is Dr Kim Pine-Martin, one of the finest podiatric surgeons this country has ever seen. Dr Pine-Martin has been working with the Society on a top-secret project for nearly ten years. Now, I’m excited to say, that project has reached fruition and we are all about to reap the dividend. Well some of us anyway. Dr Pine-Martin…

    DrPM: Thank you Master. Right, you’ve possibly heard a rumour over the past few years of an incredible new discovery some of us top pods have made. It’s a new form of bio-mechanics or as it’s now being called, Calibrated Resonance Articular Protocol. You might also have heard that the Americans are pursuing their own research too, in an attempt to steal our thunder, but they’re way behind with their work. Their system, is fatally flawed; even its name is a loser…Schematic Horizontal Integration and Tensioning Equation. Quite a mouthful mhmm? And not very pleasant either.

    BAGSHOT: Yes quite. Get on with it.

    DrPM: Sorry. Yes, right; well the end result is this…..

    He opens the box, removes a set of carbon-graphite orthoses and places them flat on the table.

    DrPM: These are called Bunny-Orthotics and they have a unique patented prescription. See here, look how they lean into each other. That’s because of a fifteen degrees lateral heel wedge. There’s a cut-out first ray which ensures forefoot adduction and also restricts the windlass effect and…..

    LUCY: Sorry, I’m not technically minded…..

    BAGSHOT: Don’t worry, neither is anyone else.

    DrPM: Well it’s like this. They’re absolutely guaranteed to produce a condition called Hallux Abducto Valgus for whoever wears them. They way the big toe lies when you have a bunion.

    NEW BOY: What, they’re going to give the wearer bunions?

    DrPM: No son, hallux valgus. There is a difference you know. Bunions come after….
    .
    NEW BOY: Oh, right.

    LUCY: Why would you want to make a deformity though? Surely you want to prevent it?

    BAGSHOT: Ah….that’s what you’d think, wouldn’t you? But you see straight toes are the problem nowadays. Especially for you girls. Just think of all the nice shoes you could wear if your toes were the same shape as the toe-box. It would prevent corns you know. Why fight fashion when you can embrace it with comfort and style. These patented devices will do just that. And if you get bunions in later life then that’s all the better for our members, isn’t it? The surgeons especially!

    DrPM: You can throw away your Hotter’s and Ecco’s. You’ll be wearing Jimmy Choo’s all the way to the coffin. And the smile will never leave your face for a moment.

    A small beady woman with a calculator puts her hand up to ask a question.

    BAGSHOT: Yes Mrs Kipper?

    MRS KIPPER: As dean of the Fraternity of Health Service Managers I would like to know what the cost of these insoles are to the NHS.

    The Master glares at her and she shrinks back into her chair whilst hiding the calculator under the table.

    BAGSHOT: Why don’t you concentrate on your service redesign Mavis? I’m sure there are still some pensioners getting free chiropody in your district. Don’t you think your time would be better used trying to weed them out? Anyhow they’re NOT insoles, they’re ORTHOTICS. God, will they never learn! The point is this. The Society is part owner of the patient. These devices will make a fortune if they’re marketed properly.

    MRS KIPPER: (quietly) I don’t do service redesign anymore. I’ve been seconded to the HPC for the time being.

    COUNCIL: (in unison) Oooooooooooooo! The H. P. C.!! Whoopee!! (Mavis blushes)

    NEW BOY: (helpfully) But who is going to make them for us? Do you think Tx-Labs will be interested? I went to the summer school this year and it was really good.

    DrPM: Don’t be stupid. Tx? Are you mad?

    BAGSHOT: Keep your suggestions to yourself in future. Unless you’re asked. Got it?

    NEW BOY: Yes Master. Sorry.

    BAGSHOT: For your information we’re manufacturing the devices ourselves. That way it keeps the costs down and maximises the profits. Are you listening Mavis? Good. Dr Pine-Martin has set up a laboratory in his garage and we’re sending some of the admin staff to work the grinders. Cheaper than Chinese, so it is. Anyway that’s the future as far as income is concerned. Thank you Dr Pine-Martin. Close the door as you leave.

    MRS KIPPER: What about the new members you promised earlier in the year? You know, the quacks. That should have brought in quite a bit of money by now.

    BAGSHOT: Yes, well it’s in hand Mavis. Just a slight delay, that’s all.

    MRS KIPPER: What’s the problem?

    NEW BOY: (To Mrs Kipper) Sshh! That’s the thing we’re not supposed to mention – remember? Do you not read the website?

    MRS KIPPER: What website?

    NEW BOY: The Society’s website ….the Forum ?

    MRS KIPPER: What’s he talking about?

    BAGSHOT: Rubbish Mavis; just ignore him. Everyone else will…. sooner or later…..

    The Master fixes the new boy with a hard stare then he turns his attention back to the cake. He removes a large fish-belly fixed-blade scalpel from his pocket and quickly slices the cake into twenty-four pieces. One by one the council members line up with their plates.

    FADE TO BLACK

    SCENE 20 EXT FELLMONGERS PATH LATER

    Lucy standing outside the offices, a mobile telephone pressed to her ear.

    LUCY: Yes, about forty-five minutes. An hour at the most. I’ve gotta go….


    SCENE 21 INT THE INNER SANCTUM LATER

    Lucy re-enters the fortified room just as the Council members are finishing the last crumbs of cake. A trolley has arrived beside Bagshot. It is covered in hundreds of crumpets and freshly whipped cream. Bagshot beckons her in….

    BAGSHOT: Come in, come in. You find the little girls room alright?

    LUCY: Yes thanks. Right next door to the big boys room, just like you said.

    BAGSHOT: Good. I must say, your home baking was wonderful. Isn’t that right people?

    COUNCIL: (collectively) Yes Master…thank you Lucy.

    LUCY: (flushing with embarrassment) Thank you, you’re most welcome.

    BAGSHOT: We already ordered those from Fortnum and Mason (pointing to the crumpets). We might not manage them now but I’ll keep them here anyway. Helps to concentrate their minds. Right now; back to business.

    Lucy takes her seat again. A strong smell of alcohol makes her turn and look at the New Boy sitting beside her. She notices a length of flexible rubber tubing protruding from the collar of his jacket. When she looks down she can see the other end in the neck of the brandy bottle. He smiles lecherously at her……

    BAGSHOT: Right now; last thing on the agenda before the film crew arrives, is my proposal for a new Council structure – or as I would like it to be referred to from now on - the House of Depravities. (questioning glances around the table) The way it works is like this. Members from all over the country will be putting their name forward to sit at a trial assembly next year. We’ll pay their bus fare from the benevolent fund – it’s rarely used nowadays – and they’ll spend the day at a conference centre listening to some of our distinguished senior members talk about professional obligations and commitment to the Society.

    MRS KIPPER: Conference centre? That’ll cost a fortune!

    BAGSHOT: No actually Mavis. Once again it pays to get your facts right before you open that rancid mouth of yours. We’ve hired Battersea Picture House for the day, alright?

    MRS KIPPER: Battersea Picture House. But I didn't think that was open anymore.

    BAGSHOT: So what?. That’s why it’s only costing twenty quid. Dearie me; can I continue? Anymore of this and I’ll have to get the duck-tape out again. You’re worse than the members! Right now where was I….Oh yes, the speakers. We’ve got Alister Dumpling giving a two-hour talk on how to fill in a NHS Travel Claim properly – without being found out; the Reverend Pamela Sogone on the by-laws of the Health Professions Council; and the Chief Executive will speak about the importance of ledger accounting. Good huh?

    {silence}

    Well, what do you think?

    NEW BOY: Can you repeat the quesh-ton?

    BAGSHOT: What?

    NEW BOY: ……forgotten what I shaid.

    BAGSHOT: Do you know the one thing about you northerners that I cannot stand?

    NEW BOY: Whashat?

    BAGSHOT: Your smell. Now be quiet.

    {muffled laughter}The New Boy sits back in his seat trying to work out what the Master has said. After a minute he lifts the collar of his jacket and sucks hard on the material.

    MRS KIPPER: Well if you pardon me, I must say that it doesn’t appear to be terribly exciting. If you think members will come down to London for the day – even paying their bus fares – for that programme, you’re badly mistaken.

    {stunned silence}

    BAGSHOT: Really Mrs Kipper. That’s precisely the reaction from membership that we want! In fact we won’t even book Battersea Picture House because it was knocked down three years ago. Nobody will come. Which is precisely what we want! Good God woman, have you no sense at all? Do you think we want members taking part in the affairs of the Society? Do you? If we allow that it’ll be the beginning of the end; it’ll be anarchy! These famous offices will be populated with corn-cutters and pedicurists and we’ll be the laughing stock of the medical establishment. HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT THAT MAVIS? OBVIOUSLY NOT! Besides, I’ve already chosen the lucky members who will be serving on the committee. They were selected in keeping with the Society’s policy of open democracy.

    MRS KIPPER: How’s that?

    BAGSHOT: They successfully completed a questionnaire I sent out the other month. Those with the highest scores were the lucky ones.

    MRS KIPPER: What questions did you ask?

    BAGSHOT: (angrily) Oh, this and that. The questions weren’t important; it was the answers that counted. Those with the most number of ‘yeses’ came top. Have you finished?

    Everyone around the table has shrunk down into their seats during the tantrum, with the exception of Lucy, who has a small digital recorder in her right hand. Even the New Boy looks sober after the outburst.

    BAGSHOT: (exasperated) Oh, I don’t know why I bother anymore. Each time we make a little progress, some fool comes along and before you know it we’re back at square one. Why do I bother? (Rolls eyes upwards and slumps back in the chair)

    LUCY: Because it’s worth it?

    BAGSHOT: Pardon?

    LUCY: Because it’s important and the profession is worth all the effort. That’s why you bother, isn’t it? That’s why all of you bother.

    BAGSHOT: (sitting up) What do you mean?

    LUCY: Well it always struck me, that the profession that kept homo-sapiens upright and mobile has got to be more important than the profession that gives you a nice smile. Isn’t that obvious? And if you’re more important then you should be rewarded more for what you do. Isn’t that the whole point of what the Society stands for? Making things better for its members?

    BAGSHOT: Well yes, of course. I hadn’t thought about it like that before, but I suppose you’re right……

    Council members exchange surprised looks with each other. Lucy stands.

    LUCY: Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but having read all the research that the BBC has done on podiatry, it strikes me that you really could be on the threshold of something quite big here. I mean, what other business has the advantages that podiatry has to offer? You’ve got guaranteed custom from an increasing sector of society and there’s all the work that’s been done with children. I’m not sure about Dr Pine-Martin’s philosophy, but if you can stop people getting painful knees and hips when they get older, then I think you’re onto something really special.

    BAGSHOT: You do?

    LUCY: Yes of course. For the last few months we’ve been filming podiatrists at their work all over the country, and it’s been a tremendous opportunity to hear what they have to say. They’ve got some wonderful ideas and it wouldn’t be amiss if you spent some time listening to their proposals for a change.

    MRS KIPPER: What’s the point? All they moan about is more money or poor conditions.

    LUCY: Yes, well if you were in their shoes, you’d be moaning and complaining too. The NHS podiatrists are the most underprivileged of the lot. Poor pay, no prospects, grumpy managers – not a very enjoyable environment is it? More than that they’re worried about their jobs. Perhaps you need to think about how you make life better for them. A sympathetic ear would be a good start.

    MRS KIPPER: As long as they don’t get more than me!

    LUCY: Why not? They’re the most important people in the health service after all. They look after the patients. What do you do?

    MRS KIPPER: Well, I…I…I…go to meetings and sign their expense forms and now I discipline them. So there!

    LUCY: My point exactly. For what it’s worth, it’s the ordinary podiatrist you should be supporting and encouraging. (looks directly at Bagshot) Keep them sweet and you might just see things happening in podiatry – more than you ever imagined.

    BAGSHOT: (suspiciously) Yessss, but they’ll get all the credit.

    LUCY: Not necessarily. I read something somewhere when I was researching the profession, hold on.

    Lucy rummages in her pockets and pulls out a neatly folded sheet of A4 paper and opens it. She reads it to complete silence.

    LUCY: It’s a quote that I thought was very apt. It says;

    Leadership is power governed by principle, directed towards raising people to the highest levels of personal motive and social morality. Power manipulates people as they are; Leadership as they could be. Power impacts; Leadership engages. Power tends to corrupt; Leadership creates.

    Lucy folds the paper and returns it to her pocket. There is a look of confusion on the faces of the Council members – except that of the New Boy who is lying slumped, comatose, in his chair.

    BAGSHOT: Yes, well very eloquent. But what has that got to do with anything?

    LUCY: I think it was something that one of your members wrote. Maybe they were trying to tell you something?

    BAGSHOT: (sarcastically) Yesss, I can imagine.

    LUCY: No, really. For what it’s worth, everyone we spoke to wants the Society to do well – you lot included. It’s just that they feel they never get listened to; that their voices fall on deaf ears. I mean this business about the Picture House is a good case and point. Mrs Kipper is right; they won’t come down and participate because they can see right through what it is you’re trying to do. They don’t like being ignored. Would you?

    BAGSHOT: I’m never ignored.

    LUCY: Really? I wouldn’t be so sure about that.

    She stops speaking and looks down at the New Boy to her right. He is sound asleep and snoring gently, head tilted over to one side – the tubing from his lapel, still between his lips.

    BAGSHOT: Hmmmm! So what do you suggest?

    LUCY: Well…….I’ve been thinking. The most important thing any organisation like the Society could do, is to make sure it is communicating effectively with all its members. That means opening the doors to all suggestions and listening carefully when they come in. But you’ve first got to get your message across – that you’re willing to listen - that you’ve turned over a new leaf.

    BAGSHOT: What? Admit we’re wrong you mean?

    LUCY: No! You shouldn’t be so defensive all the time. We all make mistakes. I’m sure most of your members do as well. But humility can be seen as a great strength, especially in leadership. Listen, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you do this?

    With the exception of the New Boy (who cannot be roused) the Council pull in their chairs and listen carefully to what Lucy has to say.

    FADE TO BLACK

    SCENE 22 EXT FELLMONGERS LATER

    Three dark-blue transit vans with BBC emblazoned on the side. A huddle of people. In the middle Lucy is holding court.

    LUCY: So that’s what we’re going to do. Another fifteen minutes should do it. They were really getting into it when I left.

    MCINTOES: That’s brilliant. Bloody brilliant. But how did you manage it?

    LUCY: That was the easy bit. I just added a secret ingredient to the chocolate cake. Half an ounce of Nepalese Hash! (looks at her watch) It should be kicking in right about now…….

    FADE TO BLACK (AND STARS!)


    To be continued…….
     
    Last edited: Jan 20, 2005
  2. martinharvey

    martinharvey Active Member

    Awed!

    My God Mark, how long did it take you to write that. If ever you run out of feet you could start another career. regards, Martin
     
  3. One Foot In The Grave

    One Foot In The Grave Active Member

    No time to read it all, (2 more sleeps to xmas) just wanted to say I admire the efforts and thought put into such a mammoth piece of literature!!

    Will read in the New Year.
     
  4. davidh

    davidh Podiatry Arena Veteran

    Good one Mark,
    As usual, right on the button!
     
  5. Er, that was last year's submission. The final part of Bagshot's adventures should be submitted sometime over the weekend. ;)
     
  6. Peter

    Peter Well-Known Member

    Strewth!

    This posting should come with a health warning. Read this at your leisure and MISS CHRISTMAS!

    Don't work too hard whilst we enjoy our lunch on Sunday.

    Merry Christmas
     
  7. The Awakening

    For those following the mischievous misadventures of Bagshot et al., herewith the final Act of the general festivities that has plagued podiatry forums for the last three years. To be taken with a large glass of cheer, a mediocre pinch of salt, and a healthy dose of disbelief and on the absolute understanding that any resemblances to persons alive dead or almost dead, is purely coincidental and quite unintended.

    Merry Christmas and warmest wishes for 2006.


    THE AWAKENING

    ACT ONE - FESTIVE FAYRE (2003)

    SCENE 1: EXT: UNDER THE ARCHES OF TOWER BRIDGE: NIGHT

    Two men meeting clandestinely. Long raincoats. Mist from river. Rats scurrying around ground. The only light is the glow of cigarettes. All is quiet.

    GRANDEE: There you are; told you so. You won’t hear anything again. They get fed up in the end. They always do. We had the same problems with the lecturers during the 1970’s. They thought they knew what was best for the profession but they were wrong too. Best that these types are kept at bay; or as far away from us as we can manage. Lord! Why do they always think that they know best?

    NEW BOY: Mhmmmmm

    GRANDEE: I mean, can’t they see we can’t do anything else?

    NEW BOY: What do you mean?

    GRANDEE: We’ll we’re not going anywhere are we? Most of the members can’t be bothered right? What’s the point of us sticking our necks out? What good will it do?

    NEW BOY: {shifting uncomfortably on feet}
    But what about the new graduates? Or the ones with families? How will they cope? What will they do when they find out? They’ll have commitments to meet? How will they manage? What will they think about what the Society has done?

    GRANDEE: That’s their problem; not ours. It’s all about shifting responsibilities nowadays. The Department of Health is doing it. Why shouldn’t we?’ Christ! What do they expect anyway? They get a Journal and their insurance paid for them. What do they want for three hundred quid anyhow? Caviar and Perignon? We only get tea and crumpets! What makes them think they deserve better?

    NEW BOY: Who knows?

    They extinguish their cigarettes into the river, pull up the collars of their raincoats and emerge from the dark, damp shadows below. Their shoulders are stooped and low. The grandee at the rear, smiles with satisfaction at the back of his companion and blows his, not inconsiderable nose into a large pink handkerchief he extracts from his breast pocket. It has seen much use.

    As they climb the steps back up to Tower Bridge Road, the old man pauses and bangs his stick against the railing to catch the younger man’s attention.


    NEW BOY: Yes?

    GRANDEE: Keep them in the dark.. It’s the best way it is. Always worked for us.

    NEW BOY: What about the web-site. All those dissenters

    GRANDEE: Who cares? It’s just that bloody nutter again – he’s the one who’s stirring them all {looks away briefly and spits into the murky current of the river below} besides, steps have been taken…..pretty soon you’ll not be hearing from him anymore. Just ignore the rest of them, they won't give us any trouble now.

    NEW BOY: Yes, I suppose you’re right. Thing is, these songs have been on the website for ages. Nearly five thousand members have printed them off and are selling them to their patients. It's a phenomenon they say. I mean, I was driving down the M11 last week and Steve Wright played the ‘March of the Old Grandees’ on Radio Five Live – it’s up to number two in the charts now. It was supposed to be a secret within Council. God, it’s getting really embarrassing at work – it’s played constantly on the wards – they say it cheers the patients up.

    The grandee smiles to himself, content with the secret he dare not share with his companion. How would he take it? What would he say? If only he knew the real story. What would he do? What would anyone in his position do - a recently elected council member? Toe the line if they knew what was best for them. Or else!

    SCENE 2: EXT: EMBANKMENT: NIGHT

    They say their goodbyes near the Tower and the grandee makes his way to Liverpool Street Station; mist following him inland along the narrow embankment streets. He stops for a moment outside a cobblers, and admires the bespoke footwear scattered inside the floor of the shop window. A balloon stretcher is visible, protruding from the waist of a Hotter comfort shoe. Its apron is relaxed and soft.

    The grandee looks at the shoe, puzzled why anyone would want to stretch the upper in the manner that it is now being fashioned. He mutters under his breath…


    GRANDEE: It would get rid of the corn, it would. God; have they no sense at all?

    He shakes his head and marches into the station.

    SCENE 3: INT: RAILWAY STATION: NIGHT

    His is the last train home. He walks down the platform towards the locomotive. On the way a familiar song starts up over the Tannoy……

    {”Honourable Council Members, of the S.C.P…..”}

    Everywhere, people smile and begin to sing along. The grandee puffs out his chest with pride.

    SCENE 4: INT: RAILWAY CARRAIGE: NIGHT

    He takes his seat in a carriage near the rear. It is almost deserted. A single passenger is sitting on a bench seat, reading the final edition of the ‘Standard’. The grandee sits opposite, and peers out from over his half-moon glasses, reading the headline. It runs;

    “CHIROPODISTS ACCEPT PAY FREEZE FOR NEXT DECADE”

    The grandee smiles, nodding his head gently. Thank goodness the Christmas holidays were just starting. Good job they switched the answer machine off too. Opposite him, the top half of the paper folds down, and reveals a tall, elegant, well dressed lady with long blonde hair. Strands of grey run through it. Crows feet frame both eyes. The grandee smiles at her, admiring her beauty. There were times that he wished he was a little younger…not many…..but there were times.... Damn! The vagrancies of aging! The previous night he was unable to reach his feet to cut his toenails. How was he going to cope now? Same way as every other pensioner had to, he supposed. He shuffles uncomfortably in his seat; a tinge of guilt settling over him. Maybe he could bring it up at the next council meeting - see if they could relax the rules on expenses to get his chiropody treatment costs reimbursed. The fees were extortionate compared to what he used to charge when he was in practice. Mind you that was thirty years ago!

    He curses his stupidity with a small laugh. How stupid - getting council to endorse his suggestion. He IS the council! Ha!

    The woman looks at the grandee inquisitively.

    [/i]WOMAN: Well? Did you speak with him?

    GRANDEE: Yes, of course. That should do it. We shouldn’t hear any more complaints at council meetings now. Not until after the next election and we can still work our magic on the ballot papers again…mhmmm? Keep the buggers out in the first place! Damn good idea of yours it was. The best we’ve had for ages…….

    WOMAN: Yes…sometimes a younger brain has its advantages…..

    GRANDEE: {raising eyebrows} Don’t get carried away now…..you’re not in the Inner Sect yet. Don’t damage your prospects….remember ….ears are everywhere. {coughs gently} I see the Standard picked up the news. The Minister said he would release it to them first. Good headline. Plenty publicity – pity they don’t like using podiatry though – still I suppose we all graduated as chiropodists anyway. Front page eh?

    WOMAN: ‘Yes..... {she goes back to the section she was reading, doning her own half moon glasses to read the small print}...thing is, I can’t see our names here though, I’ve searched twice.’

    The grandee looks at her, a scowl creasing his well-lined face. He reaches over and snatches the newspaper out of her hands and looks for himself, running his well-manicured finger down the lines of newsprint. After a minute he throws down the paper in disgust.

    GRANDEE: Damn! They promised! Maybe they meant next year….

    The woman bends forward to retrieve the paper from the carriage floor, patting the grandee’s knee as she does. It is a rare display of compassion and he scowls at her in castigation for her stupidity and weakness. She lifts the paper and folds it on the seat beside her and looks out of the window to the darkness beyond. The window reflects the headine in the pages that she was looking at. It reads:

    “TSIL SRUONOH SRAEY WEN”

    FADE TO BLACK


    SCENE 5: INT: A BUILDING NEAR TOWER BRIDGE: MORNING

    A smoke filled room with a large table and seating for nineteen. Two men in the corner, one holding tightly to a Zimmer frame are huddled together in quiet conversation. The younger man – our grandee - has a name badge on the lapel of his jacket. It reads Peregrine Bagshot

    OLD GRANDEE: How did the business go last night? Everything taken care of?

    BAGSHOT: Yes, no problem at all. Didn’t even have to raise my voice. These new council members have no backbone at all. God they’re so weak…

    OLD GRANDEE: Ah, things were different in my day. Men were men and women knew their place in life. Things have changed so much today. Never mind; it makes our job so much easier. Now what about that nutter up north. Has he been taken care of yet?

    BAGSHOT: That’s being attended to as we speak….we know he likes red wine, God the whole world knows that…..so we’ve sent him a case of Lafite ‘83 for Christmas. Each one laced with a bottle of monocholoracaetic acid crystals.

    OLD GRANDEE: Ha! That should sort his peri-anal warts out if nothing else! Very good….very good. You get an extra crumpet for that one! Marvelous!

    They slap each other heartily on the back, the old man buoyant with joy. He turns away from his younger companion and hobbles in a strange higgledy piggildy fashion across to an enormous black leather commode in the corner and lifts the seat. Inside there is a shoebox. He beckons Bagshot across and gestures to him to remove it. This he does very gingerly.

    BAGSHOT: What is it?

    OLD GRANDEE: It’s for you. Go on take it.

    Bagshot is hesitant. The base of the box is wet from something in the commode. He opens the top with care.

    BAGSHOT: (excitedly) Oh it’s lovely. Yes, it’s just what I always wanted.

    OLD GRANDEE: You’re very welcome. You’ve worked hard for it.

    Bagshot holds aloft a small glass ornament. It depicts three monkeys; one holding its ears, another holding its mouth, the last covering its eyes. Underneath, engraved in the glass are the words; Hear no Sense, Speak no Sense, See no Sense. Bagshot has tears in his eyes and his hands tremble with excitement.

    BAGSHOT: I knew it! I knew it! I always knew it would be my destiny. The Master-elect of the Society. Oh that’s almost poetic! Oh my, inspiration….we can’t have that.

    OLD GRANDEE: (sternly) No we can’t now, can we? No slip ups at any time. You can never let the membership suspect anything. Never. That is the greatest secret. Always keep them in the dark. Feed them stories, anything. Never the truth.

    BAGSHOT: You’re right of course. I just couldn’t believe how easy it was when I started. Sheep are more inquisitive. No wonder they’re called sleepers, mhmm?

    OLD GRANDEE: True, but never forget who pays for the tea and crumpets though. Don’t forget them; ignore them maybe, but don’t forget them.

    BAGSHOT: Don’t worry. Election time is coming around soon and I’ve got a new video made. My strategic plan! It’s called ‘My Way’.

    OLD GRANDEE: That’s excellent. God all this new technology. I just can’t keep up nowadays. Video you say? Never heard of it! Is it like a cine? Can I see it?

    BAGSHOT: Yes of course you can…..let’s go; we’re showing it at the council meeting just now. Come along now, easy does it….

    SCENE 6 EXT: FELLMONGERS CLOSE: MORNING

    A convoy of bakery vans arrive at the entrance. Hundreds of men unpack box after box of cream cakes and crumpets. A tanker pumps steaming tea through an open window.

    SCENE 7: INT: CONFERENCE ROOM: NOON

    Twenty-four individuals huddled around a narrow table. A man with an electronic device searches for hidden bugs. He finds none. When he has gone, the assembled members take off their socks and shoes and raise their right legs. A tape recorder is switched on and an orchestra is heard playing the opening bars of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. In unison, the group begins to sing:

    COUNCIL: (collectively)

    Honourable Council Members
    Of the S.C.P.
    Onward to obli-vion
    That’s our destiny

    Pay no heed to mem-ber-ship
    They only get one vote
    Listen to the ancients
    We’ll give you all the hope
    For a brighter fu-t-ure
    We’ll lead you all the way
    Hark the glorious gran-dees
    And you'll be one some day

    Honourable Council Members
    Of the S.C.P.
    Our cup it flow-eth over
    With great sagacity

    Tell no-one what you’re do-ing
    That goes against the grain
    A 'cup of tea and crum-pets'
    Should be your sole refrain
    Zip your gob and key-bo-ard
    We’ve heard it all before
    The ungrateful damn dissenters
    They’re such a bloody bore

    Honourable Council Members
    Of the S.C.P.
    Nothing will ever change us
    We’re here ‘till eternity

    If you think we're lunatics
    It won't mean a thing
    Because we can dismiss you
    On the slightest whim
    We have the best intentions
    Of that we're sure you'll see
    If you don't like what we're doing
    Go and work for the H.P.C.

    Honourable Council Members
    Of the S.C.P.
    Onward to Obli-vion
    That's your destiny

    Bagshot stands erect once the voices have died down. The old grandee beside him wipes a tear away from his eye.

    BAGSHOT: That’s enough! Quiet! Sit down now, on the floor, cross legged. Welcome to the last Council meeting of the year. Now the business for today is as follows; first we will watch my new election video and then we’ll watch it again before the cakes arrive. Then we’ll watch it again and then well have the tea and crumpets. After that I’ll be asking you questions to see if you have been paying attention. An extra crumpet will go to all those who can recite the whole script accurately!
    {Excited chattering and gnashing of teeth}
    Now, any questions before we begin? No?

    WEE LASSIE: Eh....excuse me....

    BAGSHOT: (angrily) What? You wanted to talk? I hope it’s not rubbish….I’ve heard enough of that this week already!

    WEE LASSIE: Erm…no….it’s about the website. I was wondering, sir, if we can answer some of these questions that the members keep asking……they’re getting quite impatient….

    BAGSHOT: No! What have you been told. Don’t respond - there’s no need. That’s what we got that trainee for wasn’t it? Just ignore them. It’s the only way. Now sit down and don’t open your mouth again. Not if you know what’s good for you…..(mutters)... how stupid can you get....

    {He switches on the video and blows out all the candles. The television lights up showing the grandee sitting behind an operating table holding a scalpel in one hand and an amputated foot in the other. Blood runs down his operating gown. His pink handkerchief is around his head. He delivers his speech.}

    Bagshot takes his seat beside the old man. As the video progresses, a curious look befalls the old man’s face. After a moment he leans over to his younger compatriot.


    OLD GRANDEE: That’s familiar. Your speech. I’ve heard that somewhere before….

    BAGSHOT: Yesssss

    OLD GRANDEE: (puzzled) Where….where was it. Was it at conference?

    BAGSHOT: (smugly) No…no….try again.

    OLD GRANDEE: (angrily) Don’t be stupid. No games. No humour. Tell me now!

    BAGSHOT: (sheepishly) Oh all right then.

    The Grandee slips his hand into an inside pocket of his jacket and extracts a slim magazine and hands it to the old man. It is the April edition of Podiatry Now. A pink bookmark is visible protruding from the top. The old man opens the magazine and looks at the page. It is headed; ‘Reforming Foot Health Services’. The old man shuts the magazine and sits back and smiles.

    OLD GRANDEE: Oh, very good, Very good indeed! You’re learning all the time. I would have done the same myself! Excellent! And the best thing is, nobody will ever know. They’re all too stupid!

    BAGSHOT: Thank you. I knew you’d like it.

    OLD GRANDEE: Oh I do, I do. Tell you what Bagshot – just to celebrate. Can you get them to sing a couple of verses of the ‘Corn- Cutter's Lament’ for me? It’ll cap the day, just fine.

    BAGSHOT: Of course I will. They can sing it all; twice if you like! For you, anything at all……we might even have time to finish with some Christmas Carols....you'd like that wouldn't you?

    OLD GRANDEE: Yes.....'Silent Night' is my favourate....do they know it?

    BAGSHOT: I'm sure they do; should be second nature by now....

    They look at each other briefly, exchanging, only for a second, a look of shared happiness. A shudder passes through both of them as a result. They return their gaze to the assembled crowd, looking for any signs of discontentment or poor attention. They could never afford to let their guard down. Ever. After all, too much was at stake.

    SCENE 8 INT: THE COACH AND HORSES: EVENING

    A busy Soho pub. Much of the bar has been taken over by a school reunion. Tom and Brian stand at the end of the counter, their glasses replenished, filling in the years since they last met.

    TOM: I wasn’t really sure about coming along tonight – you know – it’s like some sort of barometer or gauge on how successful or otherwise you’ve become in life, and I really couldn't be bothered with that.

    BRIAN: Yes, it’s like a twenty five year report card – earn above fifty grand and you get an ‘A’; thirty to fifty a ‘B’; and twenty to thirty a ‘C’.

    TOM: What fifty grand and you get an ‘A’? At today’s rates? Christ Brian, you get twenty five grand a year working in the Parks Department cutting grass. You don’t have to be too clever to earn fifty grand nowadays – nah – you’d need to be earning over two hundred a year to get an ‘A’ – fifty would get you a ‘C’ pass – but only just.

    BRIAN: Oh dear then. I’ve just slipped from a ‘D’ to an ‘E minus’ in the past week on that scale.

    TOM: Why, what’s happened? You lose your job or something? Your business?

    BRIAN: No……I’m a chiropodist

    Tom nods to himself as he digests Brian’s words. When he responds there is concern in his voice.

    TOM: I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. God you’ve been shafted recently – haven’t you? We’ve been following the government’s maneuverings in chambers – one of our partners specialises in employment law – predominately public sector – and I have to say there is a great deal of disbelief at what’s happened to you and your colleagues. Never before have we seen such draconian pay cuts being implemented in such a manner. First, they relax the entry criteria for the profession, flooding the market with cheap labour, and then they use the ‘market principles’ argument to reduce the salary levels. Of course, the politicians then say that it’s the Health Authorities responsibility to commission and pay for services – not theirs – and all the NHS is doing is securing the care at the best price, but the reality is that thousands of chiropodists are going to be crippled by the cuts – if you’ll excuse the puns.

    BRIAN: Fine I know. My missus is a chiropodist too and even before the cuts, we both qualified for Tax Credits. That’s after twenty two years at the coalface. Some career choice eh? I was praying old Davidson was going to be here – you remember, the careers and guidance master? To tell you the truth, it’s the only reason I came. I was going to wait for him afterwards, take him to the far end of Firth Street, and give him the biggest thrashing of his life. You know something…..there’s never been one working day in the last twenty two years when I haven’t been asked a question from someone or another – a patient or a doctor. Anyone. The strange thing is, it’s always the same question.

    TOM: What is it?

    BRIAN: After five or ten minutes of conversation the question always arises.

    “Tell me, what made you want to do chiropody in the first place?”

    And it’s always asked with an accompanying look of genuine puzzlement. Buggers!

    Tom smiles and nods his head again.

    TOM: To be honest Brian, it was going to be my next question too.

    BRIAN: See! Bloody hell! You know, I must be the only one here tonight whose sole aim in life is to get through one working day without being someone’s source of amusement or whatever else they get out of asking the damn thing.

    TOM: Maybe pity now?

    BRIAN: Maybe it was always pity. But if it is pity it should be reserved for the new graduates and students. That's who I really feel sorry for - and their student loans. What if there's no jobs to pay them back? They've really been let down. Anyway....enough about chiropody, what of you? What adventures has life thrown at you? You said you were in law; what do you specialise in?

    TOM: Mostly trade union and contract law. Less of the latter in these times though – the trade unions have finally woken up to the fact that they are nearly extinct and they’ve decided to make one last stand. Should keep me busy until the next reunion methinks. Shall we mingle for a bit?

    Both men work the crowd. Music is blaring from the juke-box – Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody – the revelers know the words by heart. After a couple of hours the crowd starts to disperse, leaving a few diehards to prop up the bar and annoy Norman, the formidable bartender, and the handful of ‘regulars’. Tom spots Brian at the end of the bar. He is carefully counting the loose change from his pocket, calculating to the last the amount he needs to see himself safely home – and how much left he can spare for drinks. He has allowed himself twenty pounds for the evening – a luxury he can ill afford over the festive break what with the January pay check over six weeks away. But his wife had insisted. It would be good for him – it would buck him up a bit. It would be worth every penny, she said. In fact it was worth a turkey. They were having chicken roll from Bernard Matthews on Christmas Day instead. No great ‘festive fayre’ in that household then. Not of the edible kind anyhow!

    Brian looks up from his coppers and notices Tom staring at him. He realises in an instant what his friend is thinking and he blushes with embarrassment. Tom comes across and sits down beside him.


    TOM: If you like, I can drop you off. I mean, we’ve got an account with the black cabs – it’ll be no problem.

    BRIAN: Thanks and all that but I need to get the train. I couldn’t afford even to rent in London these days – I’m down in Sussex now. Thanks anyway.

    Tom orders another couple of drinks from Norman, who has a face like thunder. As he does so Brian’s gaze shifts to the pub doorway. Bagshot has entered and has removed his overcoat. A large pink handkerchief hangs from the breast pocket of his jacket. He stands for a minute, looking into one of the mirrors near the door. After a moment he extracts a small metal comb and runs it carefully through his bouffant grey hair. When he is satisfied, he turns and approaches the bar. He carries an air of aloof arrogance, impervious to the onlookers’ gaze. By now the whole bar is watching him. There is not a whisper from anyone.

    BAGSHOT: Yes, good evening. Can I have a glass of claret please?

    BARMAN: A claret? Would sir like any particular year – or chateau?

    BAGSHOT: Well as a matter of fact, I have a penchant for Pomerol ’62 or a Lafite ’76 at a push. Do you have them?

    BARMAN: As a matter of fact, I don’t. I’ve got our house red, which if you’re lucky might still register on the pH scale, but I wouldn’t want to bet on it though. Still, it’ll be nice and musky, just like a good claret. Not a Lafite though – that’s a Bordeaux. Do you want a pint or a half pint then squire?

    {muffled laughter from the regulars)

    BAGSHOT: No, no. I’ll have a sweet sherry then instead.

    BARMAN: Right. Good choice. One pickled fairy coming up.

    Bagshot collects his drink and waits patiently until Norman has written a receipt for the £1.75 he has handed over. Finally he makes his way over to a vacant table near a coat stand and sits down. Lifts up the glass and sniffs the bouquet with his eyes shut. This he does for nearly a minute, his nostrils flaring every few seconds. Finally he takes a sip and his eyes snap open with a look of disgust. Tom turns back to Brian.

    TOM: What a strange character and I’m sure I’ve seen him….……you okay Brian? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Do you know him?

    BRIAN: Sorry….Christ I certainly do! That’s the new Master – elect of the Society. You’ve probably seen his picture in the press recently. He’s usually on his hands and knees behind the Health Minister. Sometimes you see him peeking round the arse of his trousers for a look at what’s going on. The Labour party might have a poodle leading it. We had to have a ****z-zu!

    TOM: Bloody hell. That’s the one who sold you down the river then. Never mind old Davidson – why don’t we take him up Firth Street instead?

    BRIAN: No, don’t tempt me. It wouldn’t take much.

    As they talk another man enters the pub and sits down at the same table as Bagshot. He has greasy hair and shifty eyes. His dental health is poor – probably as a result of crunching numbers too long. He is grossly obese and his puffy face has strange feline characteristics. He does not approach the bar. Norman is, on the surface, nonplussed. Inside an atavistic rage begins to boil.

    TOM: That’s strange…

    BRIAN: What’s that?

    TOM: That chap that’s just come in….he’s the new chair of that quango that was formed the other month – the one that’s supposed to oversee all public sector appointments - the ones at board level. He used to be a client at our chambers – something to do with a dispute over his last platinum handshake. I wonder what he’s talking to your man about….?

    Tom, careful to remain unnoticed, stares intently at the newcomer for a few moments then raises his eyebrows in mild astonishment. Brian looks at him curiously.

    BRIAN: What are you doing?

    TOM: I can lip read. Learned about twelve years ago. Invaluable in this profession I can assure you! Hang on a sec…..

    Tom continues to look. After another pause he relates what he has been able to discern.

    TOM: Something about him being offered a Chief Executive or Chairman’s post in the New Year. In recognition of his cooperation. No bong just now…too sensitive…..maybe next year……but six figure salary with the new post. Lucky for some.

    BRIAN: Well someone from the profession might manage to get a ‘B’ pass then after all!

    TOM: Aye, but few others will though. If any. Never mind though, there’s one benefit that I can see coming.

    BRIAN: What’s that?

    TOM: Well if he’s appointed a management post in the NHS he can’t run the Society anymore. Maybe the new broom will sweep in a different direction – be more assiduous and assertive with the government.

    BRIAN: What do you mean he can’t run the Society? Of course he can.

    TOM: Not if he’s NHS management. You can’t have management sitting on a staff side trade union council. That would flaunt the founding ideology of trade unionism and make a mockery of the basic employment principles to boot! No trade union membership will allow that.

    BRIAN: That can’t be right. We’ve got loads of NHS managers sitting on our Council. Have you not heard the song that's in the charts right now….Council Members? The bit about vested interests?

    TOM: So that’s what that refers too! My God! I don’t believe it.

    BRIAN: I’m afraid it’s true. The thing is, few in the profession seem to think it’s a problem. Either that, they’re too scared of their jobs and are staying quiet.

    TOM: That's precisely the reason you can't have that set-up. No wonder you got shafted proper. Tell you what though…this is really interesting….maybe we can do something about it after all. I’ve got a client – an investigative reporter who does these in-depth exposés – you know, the Russian mafia, Afghan war lords. That kind of thing. You’ll have heard of him – McIntoes Undercover? Anyway, he owes me a favour or two. I think I’ll ask him to turn his gaze on our friend here – if he doesn’t make a documentary he can always send the tape to ‘You’ve been Framed’. It would make a mint! Give me your number before we leave and I’ll get Donald to give you a call….you can give him the whole picture.

    BRIAN: Yes sure.

    Suddenly Bagshot and his companion stand and make for the door. Bagshot hesitates, turns, and then makes his way back to the bar. Norman is at the far end near Tom and Brian. He ignores Bagshot completely. After a minute Bagshot makes his way to speak directly to him. He stands between Brian and Tom.

    BAGSHOT: Ahem.

    BARMAN: (snarling} What?

    BAGSHOT: I’ve left fifty pence for the service charge. I wonder if you would be so kind to get me a receipt. If you don’t mind.

    BARMAN: What service charge?

    BAGSHOT: You know, your tip? That’s what you do in these places, isn’t it?

    BARMAN: Tip! I’ll give you more than a tip. You’ll get the whole of my foot up your arse if you don’t get out of here, never mind the tip. You and your chateau lafite’s and sweet sherry and your stingy faced pal. Bugger off.

    Bagshot is unperturbed. If he is shocked at the onslaught, he does not show it. He has dealt with much worse before. What is a mere publican to him? Or his sordid regulars? Bagshot looks with disdain at Brian. Brian is smiling back.

    BRIAN: Hello there.

    Bagshot tilts his head back and looks down his nose at Brian. His look is even more scornful and it wipes the smile from Brian’s face. Bagshot turns and walks away and as he does, we hear a muttered {commoners} from his receding back. Once more at the pub door he hesitates. Turns to the table and lifts the 50p tip. Walks to the jukebox, slots the coin and makes a selection. He turns towards the bar once last time and leaves them with a sneer he reserves for special occasions. His eyes are fixed on Brian. As the door closes behind him, the music starts up with Art Gurfunkel on the vocals.

    {Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to talk to you again……}

    Only Brian makes the connection.

    BRIAN: Bloody hell!

    TOM: What?

    BRIAN: I didn’t think he recognised me then. I spoke to him at conference just a few weeks ago, but I thought he’d forgotten after the look he gave me just now. But he knew who I was all the time.

    TOM: How can you be sure.

    BRIAN: When I cornered him on the final day I mentioned to him there was never any response from himself or from most of his colleagues on the website…no-one knew what was happening until it was too late. I said something along the lines… “the only sound is silence.” The song he put on…..?

    TOM: Bloody hell indeed!

    BRIAN: You know that Donald you mentioned?

    TOM: Yes.

    BRIAN: Is it too late to call him tonight?

    They smile and make their final toasts. At the door they exchange their contact details and resolve to meet after the undercover McIntoes completes his initial investigation. More handshakes and warm words. As they head outside to the wet December night they both fail to see the back cab parked with its lights off, fifty yards down the road. In the distance, through the driving rain, we can make out Bagshot’s face peering into compact binoculars. As he watches the men leave he extracts a small black notebook from his overcoat pocket and scribbles a few words and underlines the last word three times. It says simply ‘TROUBLEMAKER’. Thank God for his intellect and his photographic memory. He needed them for all these clandestine activities. No wonder the Old Grandees wanted him in the Inner Sect as soon as possible. He was unstoppable. Providing he kept the troublemakers at bay. And that was his greatest skill.

    Slowly, as the mist sweeps in from the river on a southerly breeze, the taxi drives off into the night. It heads east, its tail lights casting an eerie red glow into the greying gloom. When it disappears at last, the night becomes discernibly darker.



    SCENE 9 EXT: TOWER BRIDGE ROAD: MORNING

    The bridge is busy with traffic and pedestrians on their way to work. It is snowing heavily and the large piles at the side of the pavement suggest that the weather has been inclement for several days. Beggars line the sides of the bridge, huddled together in small groups to keep the chill air at bay. Condensed breath hangs in miniature clouds above their heads. As we move past them we can see that some are no more than children, many with eastern-European features. But most are elderly people. At their feet are a row of placards proclaiming their plight. They read:

    “Give us some Chiropody for Christmas”

    “I lost my right foot at Dunkirk. Please help save my left one now.”

    “92 year-old; 6 stone; 12 inch toenails. Please give generously”

    “Save us from the cuts!”

    “NHS = National Health Service NOT National Hard-Ship”


    In front of the placards are some tin cans. The occasional passer-by slows and drops some coins into them. They all receive a gracious ‘thank-you’. After a while a white van appears and a television crew exit with their equipment. They disappear down Fellmonger’s Lane towards a shiny glass tower and wait patiently outside the front door. After a while another man joins them and they enter the building together. The pensioners on the bridge look on curiously. Several walk down Fellmonger’s Lane to see what is happening. Soon they are joined by others. A small, but growing crowd starts to form.

    SCENE 10 INT: FELLMONGER'S RECEPTION: MORNING

    McINTOES: Morning. We’ve an appointment to see the Master-Elect today at nine-thirty. The name is Finnegan from GTMV.

    RECEPTIONIST: Ah….let me just check…..yes here it is. You’re making a film about careers aren’t you? That’s right; Mr Bagshot was telling us about it yesterday. He’s really looking forward to this. I’ll let him know you’re here.

    McINTOES: Thanks.

    The receptionist turns and pulls a small lever on the wall behind him. In the distance we can hear a bell ring. Within a few seconds a door opens and Bagshot appears and beams an enormous (and rare) smile. Unused to such a position, his lips fissure at the corners causing him to grimace – but only for a second. Today is a special day. His debut on national television. He would stand naked in the middle of a raging fire in Hades to ensure it is successful. Painful lips are nothing to him. The smile grows even wider. He rushes over and extends his delicate, manicured hand to the reporter.

    BAGSHOT: Oh Mr Finnegan, can I say how wonderful it is to meet you at last. I don’t get much opportunity to watch daytime television nowadays, but a lot of my colleagues, who do enjoy a bit more leisure time than me, say that you are their favourite.

    McINTOES: That’s really good to hear sir. Please pass on my best wishes to them all.

    BAGSHOT: Oh I will, I will. I’m going to be writing about your visit in next month’s journal and I’ll make sure everyone reads it. We’ll have a photograph of you on the front cover too if you like?

    McINTOES: On the front cover of a chiropody magazine? Really?

    BAGSHOT: Oh yes – our covers are the talk of the printing world you know. No stuffy professional designs for our flagship rag. No! We have VIP’s, celebrities, film stars – all the beautiful people – on our cover. It was my idea you know. You can mention that if you like.

    McINTOES: Right, yes. I just might. Now where can we do this?

    BAGSHOT: Oh right…follow me.

    All exit through the inner door.


    SCENE 11 INT: THE CONFERENCE ROOM: MORNING

    The crew have just finished setting up. A make-up girl is applying compact to Bagshot’s nose. She is a buxom girl and her choice of low-cut tee-shirt was perhaps not the best choice for this morning. Not for our Peregrine anyhow! She is inches away from his face and his mouth twitches from the excitement of the moment, revealing the fissured corners.

    LUCY: Oh dear. Shall I get some Vaseline?

    BAGSHOT: Pardon?

    LUCY: For your lips. I’ve always found that Vaseline works best on painful cracks. Didn’t you know that?

    BAGSHOT: Certainly not. Vaseline you say?

    LUCY: Oh yeah. I use it on my cracks all the time. I get them every summer I do. Must be the warm weather. And the slingbacks of course! Just slap on the Vaseline at bedtime then wrap myself in some cling film. Just the job. You should try it you should!

    Bagshot’s eyes open wide at the thought.

    BAGSHOT: Yesss. Maybe I will…..

    The make-up girl finishes her administrations and packs her equipment away into a neat metal case. As she opens the lid a certificate attached to the inside cover catches Bagshot’s eye and he stoops to read it more closely. It is a Health Professions Council certificate with CHIROPODIST/PODIATRIST written under the girl’s name.

    BAGSHOT: Oh I didn’t know that you belonged to my fold too!

    LUCY: Well I don’t really….I mean I do the occasional manicure and pedicure as part of my job. So when I heard the other year that anyone could be a chiropodist I thought it would be a good idea to buy myself the certificate. Something to fall back on if the make-up business goes up the spout. And what’s sixty quid a year to the HPC? Good insurance I think. Anyway that’s you done. Good luck.

    BAGSHOT: Yesss. Right.

    The girl walks away leaving the Grandee at the head of a large table. In the far corner, McIntoes peruses the professional regalia. He is trying to look interested. He knows all that he needs to know about the Society and its Council. His file on the Grandee is almost an inch thick. He has spent the last few days in the hostelries of east London speaking to fellow Scots about their experiences at the hands of the Society. They painted a depressing picture. He turns towards Bagshot at the table and walks briskly over.

    McINTOES: Okay, are we ready? Good. Let’s start.

    (Lights snap on; the camera rolls.)

    {three, two, one…}

    McINTOES: Good morning. Today we’re at the elegant headquarters of the Society of Chiropodists and Podiatrists in London. The Society represents nearly nine thousand specialist clinicians all over Britain who work hard to keep the likes of you and me on our feet. Without chiropodists, this country would simply stagger to a painful ‘stop’. Sitting beside me is the Master-Elect of the Society, Peregrine Bagshot, and he’s kindly agreed to give us his pitch for a career that some of you are perhaps thinking of joining…….sir?

    BAGSHOT: Ahem. Yes……

    Bagshot launches into a detailed and eloquent description of the profession of podiatry. It is a speech he has consigned to memory. It is littered with words and phrases such as; ‘caring’, ‘dedicated’, ‘rewarding’, ‘secure’, ‘important and vital role’, ‘progressive’, ‘familial’, ‘community’, ‘open and transparent’ and ‘robust representation’. There is not a single mention of tea and crumpets, yet, just before he finishes, a door opens and four servants pull in trolleys laden with just that. Bagshot continues without interruption. McIntoes looks bemused. When Bagshot has finished he sits back in his chair, head and shoulders held high, and breathes slowly and deeply. A confident smile is set on his face.

    McINTOES: Thank you very much for that. Now, while we’re here….I wonder if I can ask you a few supplementary questions about the profession.

    BAGSHOT: Certainly. Ask away…

    McINTOES: I was just wondering why it is that a profession, one of such great importance as podiatry obviously is, is regarded with such disdain and ridicule almost, by most of the public and politicians today. Why do most of your members have to rely on Tax Credits to earn a decent income in the twenty first century?

    BAGSHOT: {looks as if he’s just sat on a 18g needle}
    Well…..ah…..I’m not quite sure what you mean. Disdain? Ridicule? Oh I don’t think so. We’re highly regarded by everyone. I got a Christmas card from Tony this year, you know? And a box of handkerchiefs – the right colour too! (pause) Tax Credits? What are they?

    McINTOES: Oh nothing much. Just something that half your membership need to stop them starving to death this winter. Nothing important. Now then…….can you also comment on why there’s been no public outcry about all our pensioners who have been removed from chiropody lists in the NHS over the last seven years? Why hasn’t the Society been fighting on their behalf? They stop the bus passes and there’s a national strike, but when they stop chiropody – and you can’t walk to the bus anymore– we hear nowt! How come?

    BAGSHOT: Oh…erm…..I’m not sure. Maybe not enough people read our magazine. There’s been one or two small but vigorous statements in there during the last couple of years. I think. But that’s really a question for our Fraternity of Health Service Managers; not me. I don’t bother with those sort of things. Would you like to see our magazine…it’s got a super cover this month…

    McINTOES: No thank you. What exactly does this ‘career’ offer the youngster of today? Can you explain the attraction of spending time and money at university, toiling to make a hard-earned degree, only to find yourself in the dustbin of the NHS, struggling to keep your head above the poverty line? Why take this road when you can do a correspondence course over three weeks and still have the same qualification?

    BAGSHOT: Well of course they can join an organisation like ours and have a lovely new home in London {he throws his arms around him}, with lovely views. Well I should add that it’s not really their home, but they can visit for an hour once a year. If they’re invited.

    McINTOES: So? The correspondence chiropodist can join as well, can’t they?

    BAGSHOT: Yesss, sort of. But only as an associate. For the moment anyhow. They get to visit every three years. If they’re lucky.

    McINTOES: So the reward for your studies and financial burdens is the joy and contentment of belonging as a full member to the Society. Is that right.

    BAGSHOT: Erm… yesss….I think so.

    McINTOES: Right. Fine. One last question. Do you have any concrete plans to move this profession away from its lowly status. Surely as an organisation you must constantly be looking at ways of improving the circumstances of the ordinary nail cutter. How are you going to achieve it?

    BAGSHOT: Well as a matter of fact you might be interested to see the new video I’ve had made. It’s called ‘My Way’ and it’ll tell you all you want to know. Would you like a copy?

    McINTOES: Yes that would be most useful. I’m sure we could use it. Thank you very much for your time.

    BAGSHOT: No, no…thank you. It was most enjoyable. (then quietly) I think.

    McIntoes smiles in response. The crew begin to dismantle their equipment whilst the Grandee rummages around in a filing cabinet. After a moment he extracts a videocassette and holds it aloft.

    BAGSHOT: Here it is.

    He takes the video over to McIntoes who is standing by a window looking out to the street below. A large crowd of pensioners has caught his attention. They are sitting down in the snow and slush, their shoes and socks removed. Long gryphotic toenails spiral skywards. The demonstrators’ mouths are taped closed with meefix. A large banner is unfurled in front of them. It says simply:

    ‘PLEASE HEAR US – HELP US WALK’

    McIntoes looks questioningly at Bagshot who in turn looks disinterested. The Grandee ushers him away from the window.

    BAGSHOT: Don’t mind them out there. Just ignore them. That’s the best way. It works for us. They’re just the dregs of society after all. The government should bring in compulsory euthanasia at sixty unless you’ve got a healthy bank balance. That would sort them out! Keep them under the streets instead of cluttering the top of them! That’s what I say. What?

    McIntoes looks astonished then realises that his lapel mike is still switched on. Bagshot is looking seriously at him then he breaks into another grin, opening the fissures once again.

    BAGSHOT: Just kidding! That fooled you…Ha! No we couldn’t do that now could we. No, we need them all for our practices we do. They’re our customers after all. What would we do without them? Mhmm?

    McINTOES: I don’t know. But maybe you’re going to find out sooner than you think.

    BAGSHOT: Mhmm….er…what? What was that?

    McINTOES: Nothing…it doesn’t matter. Anyway, thanks for your time and we can see ourselves out. Lovely crumpets and cakes too. Did yourselves proud, you did. Cheerio then…

    Bagshot remains in the Council room and watches the crew depart towards Tower Bridge. The videocassette is visible in McIntoes jacket pocket. As soon as they are out of sight Bagshot rushes downstairs to the basement and opens a heavy steel door, which leads to a long narrow room with a number of curtained cubicles. He flicks a light-switch and the room is illuminated.

    SCENE 12 INT: THE BASEMENT: LATE MORNING

    Bagshot has pulled on an old dirty-white nylon overcoat. Blood and pus stains the front and sleeves. The basement has been converted from a historical museum to a working surgery with minimal (or no) alterations or additions. Leather strops decorate the walls. There are no windows to the outside world but there is a trapdoor in the ceiling where coal was once dropped. A new loft ladder has been affixed to its underside. Bagshot walks over to the ladder and pauses. Takes deep breath, closes eyes, arches fingers and cracks the joints, then exhales slowly and with purpose. He is ready to begin.

    He opens the trapdoor and lowers the ladders. The trapdoor is directly in front of the crowd of pensioners. A telescopic pole is pushed up through the opening and secured to an old table leg. On the top of the pole a notice proclaims.


    TOENAILS TRIMMED; CORNS CUT.
    £5.00 PER FOOT
    BEST PRICE IN LONDON
    CASH ONLY
    ONLY VISIT A STATE REGISTERED CHIROPODIST


    Except STATE has now been scored out.

    Bagshot waits expectantly. There are nearly five hundred people outside. A thousand feet (maybe). Five thousand pounds and he could be finished them by late afternoon. Not bad for a days work. Bloody Tax Credits indeed! Anyway, he should be charging extra today. A new celebrity was about to ‘do their feet’. That was surely worth another pound a foot, wasn't it? He couldn’t wait to tell them all about his TV debut. He looks up in anticipation.


    BAGSHOT: Come on then….who’s first?


    SCENE 13: INT: BAGSHOT’S BEDROOM: NIGHT

    Two single beds. Mrs Bagshot is propped up in one, reading a Francis Gay Yearbook. On a bedside table sits the ornament of the glass monkeys that was gifted to her husband just a few days ago. A bulge under the sheets of Bagshot’s bed outlines the shape of a ceramic hot water piggy. Suddenly there is a resounding (crash) from the adjoining en-suite bathroom. Mrs Bagshot springs from the bed to investigate. She opens the door to the bathroom to find her husband close to death, on his hands and knees. He is wearing pink silk pyjamas with the Society's crest on the breast pocket, and a pair of white cotton bed-socks. Around his head is wrapped several layers of cling-film. The skin under the food wrap is tinged with a bluish-grey hue. Mrs Bagshot is a woman of practical means. Quickly she lifts a nearby loo brush and, without a moment’s hesitation, she rams the brush end through the PVC into his mouth, then pulls it out again. The sides are covered in Vaseline.

    There is a huge intake of air.


    MRS BAGSHOT: My God….what on earth are you doing?

    BAGSHOT: {gasping} I…I…I was trying to fix my mouth…and I must have passed out. Good God!

    MRS BAGSHOT: Fixing your mouth? With cling film? That’s a joke! Try using Duck-Tape next time – it might be more successful. Cling film – what rubbish! Go on now into bed. And I don’t want to hear another squeak out of you again tonight. God knows what you’ll get up to next. Men….who would have them?

    She marches her husband off to bed and tucks him in. She looks down forlornly as he drifts off to sleep. It was always the same. Great intellect – No common sense. She was grateful that he was a chiropodist and worked on his own. She couldn’t bear the worry if he was responsible for employing other people – it would surely be a disaster. Better that he was responsible only for himself. But even then she couldn’t be too careful. Cling film and Vaseline! Whatever next…..

    FADE TO BLACK

    ACT TWO - FESTIVE FULES (2004)

    SCENE 14: INT: BROADCASTING HOUSE: EVENING

    FADE FROM BLACK

    {subtitle} …eight months later….

    A huddle of men and women around a large circular table. Low lighting. VCRs and TV monitors strewn all around the floor.

    MCINTOES: Okay, tomorrow it is. We’ve got enough material here for a whole series never mind a fifty-minute exposé. Jeezy peeps, this is going to be good! Ten times better than the British Dental Association. You okay about it Lucy?

    LUCY: Yeah, it’ll be a scream Donal…. d’ya think he’ll recognise me from the last time?

    MCINTOES: I’m counting on it. There was definitely some chemistry there, especially when you were winding him up about the cling film and Vaseline. There are certainly hidden depths to this character, that’s for sure. We just gotta look in the right place, that’s all. But…..

    EDITOR: But what?

    MCINTOES: Well, it’d be better if we can get him to loosen up more. That way he’s liable to do anything…remember what Brian told us about the incident in the pub. A wee sip of sweet sherry and we could be in line for a RTS award with this one!

    EDITOR: But he’s hardly liable to drink during the day though, especially with the cameras there.

    MCINTOES: No…. more’s the pity. (pause) What?

    He looks across the table at Lucy who is grinning mischievously. She winks in response and the investigative reporter studies her face hard for some insight. She raises both eyebrows and shrugs her shoulders. The rest look on suspiciously.

    MCINTOES: Okay, we won’t ask. Right, let’s go over it one more time…..

    FADE TO BLACK

    FADE IN

    SCENE 15: INT: TOWER BRIDGE: DAY

    Peregrine Bagshot is walking briskly across the bridge towards Fellmongers. There is a spring in his step and although it’s a glorious summer’s afternoon, he wears a bowler hat and carries a black umbrella. As he turns into the Path a number of filthy, wretched pensioners reach out to him; the remnants of the protest at Christmas. Those who make it close get prodded sharply with the business end of the umbrella. He makes it to the door unscathed – as always.

    SCENE 16: INT: RECEPTION: DAY

    Lucy is sitting on a sofa reading a magazine as the Master enters the building. Beside her is a cardboard box – approx 12” square. A receptionist is typing away on a keyboard.

    BAGSHOT: Ah, the lovely make-up girl. Good afternoon to you….

    LUCY: You remembered then?

    BAGSHOT: Of course. You didn’t expect me to forget did you? How could I?

    He beams a broad smile and this time, the corner of his lips stay intact. Lucy stands and extends her hand. He holds her fingers gently then lifts them to his mouth and kisses the back of her hand with affection. She looks on bemused. Behind the desk the receptionist looks on in astonishment until he glances sideways and she quickly looks away. Bagshot ushers Lucy through a door and into the building proper and as she walks ahead of him she catches a sweet sickly smell and she realises that it is comes from the back of her hand…..

    SCENE 17: INT: BAGSHOT’S OFFICE SUITE: DAY

    Opulent décor. Heavy dark-red velvet curtains and matching carpet. Louis IV reproduction furniture. On the walls are a number of famous paintings – the Madonna dell Granduca, the nymph Galatea, La Belle Jardinère and St George fighting the Dragon – all mounted in heavy gilt frames. In the far corner, behind the desk, an elegant Victorian changing screen partially obscures a leather chaise longe. Lucy is agog.

    LUCY: My goodness, this is fabulous. I mean it looks so different….

    BAGSHOT: Yessss.

    LUCY: It must have cost an absolute…

    BAGSHOT: Yessss.

    LUCY: It’s fabulous and all in, what, eight months?

    BAGSHOT: Yessss.

    LUCY: You don’t waste any time do you? Gosh, it’s unbelievable!

    Lucy walks around admiring the paintings. Bagshot watches her intently, a huge smile lighting up his face.

    LUCY: Italian Renaissance? Leonardo da Vinci?

    Bagshot opens his mouth to reply just as the door to his office opens and the receptionist enters, carrying the box Lucy left on the sofa. Bagshot turns on her with a fury.

    BAGSHOT: How many times have you to be told? You knock and wait. Never enter until I say so.

    RECEPTIONIST: But…

    BAGSHOT: No buts. No excuses. Get out of here. (turns to Lucy) I’m terribly sorry….

    LUCY: Actually it’s my fault. (walks over to the trembling girl) I left this in reception by mistake. It’s a present for you; a sort of belated congratulations for your coronation…..sorry, I forgot all about it in my excitement.….

    She takes the box from the receptionist and thanks her. Bagshot is coming back from the edge of an apoplectic fit {huge intake of air} Dismisses the receptionist with a wave of his hand (muttering ‘last chance’ under his breath). His face softens and he takes the box from Lucy when it’s offered. He is immediately calm and chivalrous.

    BAGSHOT: Why this is so kind…..oh, I say! I say!!

    Inside is a large, exquisitely decorated chocolate cake with a winged foot made of white marzipan delicately balanced on top of the letters SCP in the centre. All around the edge, in small gold icing, are the words, looking after our interests, enabling us to live more luxuriously……

    LUCY: I made it myself.

    BAGSHOT: Why thank you….it looks delicious.

    LUCY: I remembered the lovely spread you laid on for us the last time. The crumpets were out of this world. But I thought you’d appreciate some home baking for a change.

    BAGSHOT: Oh yes. Tell you what; we’ll have it at the council meeting this afternoon. There’ll be plenty to go around.

    LUCY: Council meeting?

    BAGSHOT: Uh huh. Didn’t I mention it on the telephone?

    LUCY: No I don’t think you did. I thought you were going to show me round the offices then we’d film the interview later on when Mr McIn….I mean, Mr Finnegan comes with his crew.

    BAGSHOT: Well if it’s going to be a problem I can just send them home. They won’t mind you know; they get their expenses and plenty more besides! (winks conspiratorially) Keep them sweet and you can get anything you want. That’s the secret.

    LUCY: I’ll bet. No it won’t be a problem. What time does it start?

    He looks surprised.

    BAGSHOT: My dear girl, when I’m ready, of course. Shall we…?

    He leads her out of his office, breathing deeply, chest puffed out.

    SCENE 18: INT: ANTE-ROOM: DAY

    (cut to)

    In a small ante-room next to his office, Bagshot punches a seven-digit number into a key-pad concealed behind a plastic rubber-plant. Immediately a mirrored wall slides away to reveal a heavily reinforced steel door with another numeric keypad. He punches in another code and the door swings seamlessly open and he walks slowly inside.

    SCENE 19 INT: THE INNER SANCTUM: DAY

    (cut to)

    The twenty-four members of the Council sit in silence around a large circular board-room table. In front of each one is a yellow legal pad and pencil; a cup and saucer; and a large plate with fork and knife. As soon as Bagshot enters the room the assembled group stand and bow their heads. Bagshot walks slowly to his chair – a step-up black leather Hinders-Leslie, complete with extendable leg-rests – and sits down.

    BAGSHOT: Ready? After three…..

    They all take a step back and kick off their right shoe. A tape recorder is switched on and a string quartet plays ‘Clemintine’. On ‘three’ the entire group raise their right legs straight out and start to sing in unison…..

    COUNCIL: Pods of Britain, Pods of Ireland
    Pods of every land and clime
    Be assured we’re here to serve you
    And we do that task just fine

    Council members are united
    We shall serve both true and strong
    Never fear that vested interests
    Will conspire to get it wrong

    Do not listen to the doubters
    Pay no heed to what they say
    Council members are quite certain
    That there can be no other way

    The Promised Land is coming closer
    Bountiful its riches be
    Not in money for the masses
    But for us with cakes and tea

    For that day you all must labour
    Work hard and have no fear
    We will lead you to greater glory
    Trust the Council of the S.C.P.

    Do not worry at the silence
    Council members they know best
    Send your thanks and hard-earned money
    These good chaps will do the rest

    Pods of Britain, Pods of Ireland
    Pods of every land and clime
    Be assured we’re here to serve you
    And we do that task just fine.

    Bagshot is breathing deeply, eyes closed. Suddenly they snap open and he nods his head in appreciation. The council members look on anxiously.

    BAGSHOT: Good. Very good. Now sit.

    Smiles all around as they take their seats. {Quiet chatter, building….}

    BAGSHOT: Silence! Now to business. Right, you all remember Lucy here….

    He waves her across from the doorway where she has been standing, looking on in absolute astonishment.

    LUCY: Hi.

    BAGSHOT: The BBC are coming back later today to finish their filming for the documentary on the Society and I thought I’d invite Lucy here along to see how I do things at Fellmongers before the production team bring their inevitable chaos. And a good thing too! Look what she’s brought….

    He shows them the chocolate cake and an excited murmur fills the room.

    BAGSHOT: If you’re good, only if you’re good….

    Hungry hands clatter cutlery and plates.

    BAGSHOT: Enough. We’ve got some business to attend to first. Now then Lucy, you sit over there beside one of our new members from the Fraternity of Managers. (quietly) Just watch his hands.

    He points towards a timid looking middle-aged man who is wearing a large badge on his lapel with ‘New Boy’ emblazoned in red letters. She sits down and as she does she notices a half-bottle of cheap brandy protruding from his pocket.

    BAGSHOT: Now then, first on the agenda today is the strategic plan. You all know I’ve been working day and night to devise the road map for the profession over the next ten years. This is vital if podiatry is to take its rightful place on the medical stage. With that in mind, you’ll be pleased to know it’s coming along just fine and you needn’t ask anything about it again. A letter is being sent to the members to tell them the same. Right; next on the agenda is Income Generation (rubs hands together). Well I can now tell you what we’ve decided.

    He leans forward and presses a button underneath the table and a door to the rear of the room opens. A well-dressed man with silver-white hair walks into the room carrying a perspex box.

    BAGSHOT: For those who are forever ignorant or stupid, this is Dr Kim Pine-Martin, one of the finest podiatric surgeons this country has ever seen. Dr Pine-Martin has been working with the Society on a top-secret project for nearly ten years. Now, I’m excited to say, that project has reached fruition and we are all about to reap the dividend. Well some of us anyway. Dr Pine-Martin…

    DrPM: Thank you Master. Right, you’ve possibly heard a rumour over the past few years of an incredible new discovery some of us top pods have made. It’s a new form of bio-mechanics or as it’s now being called, Calibrated Resonance Articular Protocol. You might also have heard that the Americans are pursuing their own research too, in an attempt to steal our thunder, but they’re way behind with their work. Their system, is fatally flawed; even its name is a loser…Schematic Horizontal Integration and Tensioning Equation. Quite a mouthful mhmm? And not very pleasant either.

    BAGSHOT: Yes quite. Get on with it.

    DrPM: Sorry. Yes, right; well the end result is this…..

    He opens the box, removes a set of carbon-graphite orthoses and places them flat on the table.

    DrPM: These are called Bunny-Orthotics and they have a unique patented prescription. See here, look how they lean into each other. That’s because of a fifteen degrees lateral heel wedge. There’s a cut-out first ray which ensures forefoot adduction and also restricts the windlass effect and…..

    LUCY: Sorry, I’m not technically minded…..

    BAGSHOT: Don’t worry, neither is anyone else.

    DrPM: Well it’s like this. They’re absolutely guaranteed to produce a condition called Hallux Abducto Valgus for whoever wears them. They way the big toe lies when you have a bunion.

    NEW BOY: What, they’re going to give the wearer bunions?

    DrPM: No son, hallux valgus. There is a difference you know. Bunions come after….
    .
    NEW BOY: Oh, right.

    LUCY: Why would you want to make a deformity though? Surely you want to prevent it?

    BAGSHOT: Ah….that’s what you’d think, wouldn’t you? But you see straight toes are the problem nowadays. Especially for you girls. Just think of all the nice shoes you could wear if your toes were the same shape as the toe-box. It would prevent corns you know. Why fight fashion when you can embrace it with comfort and style. These patented devices will do just that. And if you get bunions in later life then that’s all the better for our members, isn’t it? The surgeons especially!

    DrPM: You can throw away your Hotter’s and Ecco’s. You’ll be wearing Jimmy Choo’s all the way to the coffin. And the smile will never leave your face for a moment.

    A small beady woman with a calculator puts her hand up to ask a question.

    BAGSHOT: Yes Mrs Kipper?

    MRS KIPPER: As dean of the Fraternity of Health Service Managers I would like to know what the cost of these insoles are to the NHS.

    The Master glares at her and she shrinks back into her chair whilst hiding the calculator under the table.

    BAGSHOT: Why don’t you concentrate on your service redesign Mavis? I’m sure there are still some pensioners getting free chiropody in your district. Don’t you think your time would be better used trying to weed them out? Anyhow they’re NOT insoles, they’re ORTHOTICS. God, will they never learn! The point is this. The Society is part owner of the patent. These devices will make a fortune if they’re marketed properly.

    MRS KIPPER: (quietly) I don’t do service redesign anymore. I’ve been seconded to the HPC for the time being.

    COUNCIL: (in unison) Oooooooooooooo! The H. P. C.!! Whoopee!! (Mavis blushes)

    NEW BOY: (helpfully) But who is going to make them for us? Do you think Tx-Labs will be interested? I went to the summer school this year and it was really good.

    DrPM: Don’t be stupid. Tx? Are you mad?

    BAGSHOT: Keep your suggestions to yourself in future. Unless you’re asked. Got it?

    NEW BOY: Yes Master. Sorry.

    BAGSHOT: For your information we’re manufacturing the devices ourselves. That way it keeps the costs down and maximises the profits. Are you listening Mavis? Good. Dr Pine-Martin has set up a laboratory in his garage and we’re sending some of the admin staff to work the grinders. Cheaper than Chinese, so it is. Anyway that’s the future as far as income is concerned. Thank you Dr Pine-Martin. Close the door as you leave.

    MRS KIPPER: What about the new members you promised earlier in the year? You know, the quacks. That should have brought in quite a bit of money by now.

    BAGSHOT: Yes, well it’s in hand Mavis. Just a slight delay, that’s all.

    MRS KIPPER: What’s the problem?

    NEW BOY: (To Mrs Kipper) Sshh! That’s the thing we’re not supposed to mention – remember? Do you not read the website?

    MRS KIPPER: What website?

    NEW BOY: The Society’s website ….the Forum ?

    MRS KIPPER: What’s he talking about?

    BAGSHOT: Rubbish Mavis; just ignore him. Everyone else will…. sooner or later…..

    The Master fixes the new boy with a hard stare then he turns his attention back to the cake. He removes a large fish-belly fixed-blade scalpel from his pocket and quickly slices the cake into twenty-four pieces. One by one the council members line up with their plates.

    FADE TO BLACK

    SCENE 20: EXT: FELLMONGERS PATH: LATER

    Lucy standing outside the offices, a mobile telephone pressed to her ear.

    LUCY: Yes, about forty-five minutes. An hour at the most. I’ve gotta go….


    SCENE 21: INT: THE INNER SANCTUM: LATER

    Lucy re-enters the fortified room just as the Council members are finishing the last crumbs of cake. A trolley has arrived beside Bagshot. It is covered in hundreds of crumpets and freshly whipped cream. Bagshot beckons her in….

    BAGSHOT: Come in, come in. You find the little girls room alright?

    LUCY: Yes thanks. Right next door to the big boys room, just like you said.

    BAGSHOT: Good. I must say, your home baking was wonderful. Isn’t that right people?

    COUNCIL: (collectively) Yes Master…thank you Lucy.

    LUCY: (flushing with embarrassment) Thank you, you’re most welcome.

    BAGSHOT: We already ordered those from Fortnum and Mason (pointing to the crumpets). We might not manage them now but I’ll keep them here anyway. Helps to concentrate their minds. Right now; back to business.

    Lucy takes her seat again. A strong smell of alcohol makes her turn and look at the New Boy sitting beside her. She notices a length of flexible rubber tubing protruding from the collar of his jacket. When she looks down she can see the other end in the neck of the brandy bottle. He smiles lecherously at her……

    BAGSHOT: Right now; last thing on the agenda before the film crew arrives, is my proposal for a new Council structure – or as I would like it to be referred to from now on - the House of Depravities. (questioning glances around the table) The way it works is like this. Members from all over the country will be putting their name forward to sit at a trial assembly next year. We’ll pay their bus fare from the benevolent fund – it’s rarely used nowadays – and they’ll spend the day at a conference centre listening to some of our distinguished senior members talk about professional obligations and commitment to the Society.

    MRS KIPPER: Conference centre? That’ll cost a fortune!

    BAGSHOT: No actually Mavis. Once again it pays to get your facts right before you open that rancid mouth of yours. We’ve hired Battersea Picture House for the day, alright?

    MRS KIPPER: Battersea Picture House. But I didn't think that was open anymore.

    BAGSHOT: So what?. That’s why it’s only costing twenty quid. Dearie me; can I continue? Anymore of this and I’ll have to get the duck-tape out again. You’re worse than the members! Right now where was I….Oh yes, the speakers. We’ve got Alister Dumpling giving a two-hour talk on how to fill in a NHS Travel Claim properly – without being found out; the Reverend Pamela Sogone on the by-laws of the Health Professions Council; and the Chief Executive will speak about the importance of ledger accounting. Good huh?

    {silence}

    Well, what do you think?

    NEW BOY: Can you repeat the quesh-ton?

    BAGSHOT: What?

    NEW BOY: ……forgotten what I shaid.

    BAGSHOT: Do you know the one thing about you northerners that I cannot stand?

    NEW BOY: Whashat?

    BAGSHOT: Your smell. Now be quiet.

    {muffled laughter}The New Boy sits back in his seat trying to work out what the Master has said. After a minute he lifts the collar of his jacket and sucks hard on the material.

    MRS KIPPER: Well if you pardon me, I must say that it doesn’t appear to be terribly exciting. If you think members will come down to London for the day – even paying their bus fares – for that programme, you’re badly mistaken.

    {stunned silence}

    BAGSHOT: Really Mrs Kipper. That’s precisely the reaction from membership that we want! In fact we won’t even book Battersea Picture House because it was knocked down three years ago. Nobody will come. Which is precisely what we want! Good God woman, have you no sense at all? Do you think we want members taking part in the affairs of the Society? Do you? If we allow that it’ll be the beginning of the end; it’ll be anarchy! These famous offices will be populated with corn-cutters and pedicurists and we’ll be the laughing stock of the medical establishment. HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT THAT MAVIS? OBVIOUSLY NOT! Besides, I’ve already chosen the lucky members who will be serving on the committee. They were selected in keeping with the Society’s policy of open democracy.

    MRS KIPPER: How’s that?

    BAGSHOT: They successfully completed a questionnaire I sent out the other month. Those with the highest scores were the lucky ones.

    MRS KIPPER: What questions did you ask?

    BAGSHOT: (angrily) Oh, this and that. The questions weren’t important; it was the answers that counted. Those with the most number of ‘yeses’ came top. Have you finished?

    Everyone around the table has shrunk down into their seats during the tantrum, with the exception of Lucy, who has a small digital recorder in her right hand. Even the New Boy looks sober after the outburst.

    BAGSHOT: (exasperated) Oh, I don’t know why I bother anymore. Each time we make a little progress, some fool comes along and before you know it we’re back at square one. Why do I bother? (Rolls eyes upwards and slumps back in the chair)

    LUCY: Because it’s worth it?

    BAGSHOT: Pardon?

    LUCY: Because it’s important and the profession is worth all the effort. That’s why you bother, isn’t it? That’s why all of you bother.

    BAGSHOT: (sitting up) What do you mean?

    LUCY: Well it always struck me, that the profession that kept homo-sapiens upright and mobile has got to be more important than the profession that gives you a nice smile. Isn’t that obvious? And if you’re more important then you should be rewarded more for what you do. Isn’t that the whole point of what the Society stands for? Making things better for its members?

    BAGSHOT: Well yes, of course. I hadn’t thought about it like that before, but I suppose you’re right……

    Council members exchange surprised looks with each other. Lucy stands.

    LUCY: Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but having read all the research that the BBC has done on podiatry, it strikes me that you really could be on the threshold of something quite big here. I mean, what other business has the advantages that podiatry has to offer? You’ve got guaranteed custom from an increasing sector of society and there’s all the work that’s been done with children. I’m not sure about Dr Pine-Martin’s philosophy, but if you can stop people getting painful knees and hips when they get older, then I think you’re onto something really special.

    BAGSHOT: You do?

    LUCY: Yes of course. For the last few months we’ve been filming podiatrists at their work all over the country, and it’s been a tremendous opportunity to hear what they have to say. They’ve got some wonderful ideas and it wouldn’t be amiss if you spent some time listening to their proposals for a change.

    MRS KIPPER: What’s the point? All they moan about is more money or poor conditions.

    LUCY: Yes, well if you were in their shoes, you’d be moaning and complaining too. The NHS podiatrists are the most underprivileged of the lot. Poor pay, no prospects, grumpy managers – not a very enjoyable environment is it? More than that they’re worried about their jobs. Perhaps you need to think about how you make life better for them. A sympathetic ear would be a good start.

    MRS KIPPER: As long as they don’t get more than me!

    LUCY: Why not? They’re the most important people in the health service after all. They look after the patients. What do you do?

    MRS KIPPER: Well, I…I…I…go to meetings and sign their expense forms and now I discipline them. So there!

    LUCY: My point exactly. For what it’s worth, it’s the ordinary podiatrist you should be supporting and encouraging. (looks directly at Bagshot) Keep them sweet and you might just see things happening in podiatry – more than you ever imagined.

    BAGSHOT: (suspiciously) Yessss, but they’ll get all the credit.

    LUCY: Not necessarily. I read something somewhere when I was researching the profession, hold on.

    Lucy rummages in her pockets and pulls out a neatly folded sheet of A4 paper and opens it. She reads it to complete silence.

    LUCY: It’s a quote that I thought was very apt. It says;

    Leadership is power governed by principle, directed towards raising people to the highest levels of personal motive and social morality. Power manipulates people as they are; Leadership as they could be. Power impacts; Leadership engages. Power tends to corrupt; Leadership creates.

    Lucy folds the paper and returns it to her pocket. There is a look of confusion on the faces of the Council members – except that of the New Boy who is lying slumped, comatose, in his chair.

    BAGSHOT: Yes, well very eloquent. But what has that got to do with anything?

    LUCY: I think it was something that one of your members wrote. Maybe they were trying to tell you something?

    BAGSHOT: (sarcastically) Yesss, I can imagine.

    LUCY: No, really. For what it’s worth, everyone we spoke to wants the Society to do well – you lot included. It’s just that they feel they never get listened to; that their voices fall on deaf ears. I mean this business about the Picture House is a good case and point. Mrs Kipper is right; they won’t come down and participate because they can see right through what it is you’re trying to do. They don’t like being ignored. Would you?

    BAGSHOT: I’m never ignored.

    LUCY: Really? I wouldn’t be so sure about that.

    She stops speaking and looks down at the New Boy to her right. He is sound asleep and snoring gently, head tilted over to one side – the tubing from his lapel, still between his lips.

    BAGSHOT: Hmmmm! So what do you suggest?

    LUCY: Well…….I’ve been thinking. The most important thing any organisation like the Society could do, is to make sure it is communicating effectively with all its members. That means opening the doors to all suggestions and listening carefully when they come in. But you’ve first got to get your message across – that you’re willing to listen - that you’ve turned over a new leaf.

    BAGSHOT: What? Admit we’re wrong you mean?

    LUCY: No! You shouldn’t be so defensive all the time. We all make mistakes. I’m sure most of your members do as well. But humility can be seen as a great strength, especially in leadership. Listen, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you do this?

    With the exception of the New Boy (who cannot be roused) the Council pull in their chairs and listen carefully to what Lucy has to say.

    FADE TO BLACK

    SCENE 22: EXT: FELLMONGERS: LATER

    Three dark-blue transit vans with BBC emblazoned on the side. A huddle of people. In the middle Lucy is holding court.

    LUCY: So that’s what we’re going to do. Another fifteen minutes should do it. They were really getting into it when I left.

    MCINTOES: That’s brilliant. Bloody brilliant. But how did you manage it?

    LUCY: That was the easy bit. I just added a secret ingredient to the chocolate cake. Half an ounce of Nepalese Hash! (looks at her watch) It should be kicking in right about now…….

    FADE TO BLACK (AND STARS…..!)

    ACT THREE - FESTIVE FROLICS 2005

    SCENE 23: INT: WOMEN’S INSTITUTE MEETING: DAY

    Mrs Bagshot holds court with several formidable ladies

    DORIS: Oh, that sounds very exciting Gertrude. Peregrine on television. Will he be doing someone’s feet?

    MRS BAGSHOT: No I don’t think so. He’ll just be talking about it I suppose. That’s all he ever does now.

    DORIS: But it must be terribly exciting all the same. You must be really proud of him.

    MRS BAGSHOT: Mhmm. Anxious might be a better way of putting it.

    DORIS: Oh, I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s very eloquent you know.

    BARBARA: Well I hope he still has time to do my corns next week. I’m off to Lourdes for another sabbatical and I don’t want to be limping to the Lord with my corns!

    MRS BAGSHOT: Oh I’m sure he’ll fit you in before you go Barbara. He still likes to keep his hand in, if you get my meaning.

    BARBARA: Thank goodness for that. What would we do without people like Peregrine? He’s just a saint! And now he’s going to be on the telly. Gosh….just think, married to a celebrity. How wonderful Gertrude. Your life is about to change for ever!

    MRS BAGSHOT: (quietly) That’s what I’m afraid of……

    SCENE 24: INT: FELLMONGERS: THEN

    The assembled BBC crew approach the closed door of the Inner Sanctum, McIntoes and Lucy lead the way followed by a clutch of cameramen, sound technicians and the director. When they reach the door McIntoes turns and gives the nod and the crew begin to record. He opens the door……

    SCENE 25: INT: THE INNER SANCTUM: THEN

    …..to a vista of unimaginable perversity of Hogarthian proportions! Everyone inside is engaged in a multitude of depravities. Mrs Mavis Kipper, Dean of the Fraternity of Health Service Managers, has shed her inhibitions - and much of her clothes - her ample bosoms covered in crumpets and cream. In front of her kneels the New Boy, eyes closed, hands tied behind his back with the rubber tubing from the bottle he was concealing earlier. Mavis is feeding him crumpet, piece by piece, shrieking with laughter as she does.

    In the corner are a handful of surgeons congregating around Dr Pine-Martin who, with the assistance of Dr Dick Dumfries (Dean of the Fraternity of Surgical Surgeons), is drilling holes in the Council table with a Black and Decker drill. His face is fixed in a rictus grin and his eyes bulge manically as he demonstrates a new surgical procedure to the encouragement of all.

    Standing on the middle of the table is Bagshot, who appears oblivious to the mayhem around him. He is naked except for his boxer shorts and socks (both displaying the Society Crest) and his pink handkerchief, which is tied in knots around his head. In front of him lie two empty pots of Vaseline, the contents smeared over his skin. He is engaged in the process of wrapping himself form head to toe in cling film.

    Against the back wall, underneath photographs of past-Masters, a weasely, bespectacled man with a bald head poses incongruously, muttering, “I’m next, I’m next, I’m next…” over and over again to no-one in particular, which is just as well as no-one is paying him any attention……

    The remainder of Council sit in squalid decadence, stuffing their faces with crumpets as fast as they can manage, washed down with liberal amounts of tea and sugary coffee. Everyone is shouting and screeching with laughter and remain ignorant of the visitors from the BBC who file quietly into the bedlam.


    McINTOES: Bloody hell! Lucy……?

    LUCY: (stunned) Wow! Wow….!

    PRODUCER: (to the technicians) Christ Almighty. Get a live feed, quick. News 24…

    Bagshot looks up with a puzzled expression then his eyes open wide .

    BAGSHOT: (over the raucous laughter) Arrrrggghhhh….Holygomolie, it’s Finnegan! Well blow me down, hullo there, come and join……Oh my goodness gracious Gertrude (he looks around the room, then at the top of his voice)…….QUIET!!!!!

    An eerie silence falls over the proceedings, punctuated only by the sounds of repeated flatulence from Mrs Kipper’s direction

    BAGSHOT: Mavis…!

    MRS KIPPER: (giggling) Sorry.

    Dr PM: (quietly) That’s the most sensible thing she’s had to say all year!

    More giggling and laughter

    BAGSHOT: Be quiet, all of you! Mr Finnegan; a pleasure as always……I think…..

    McINTOES: Actually, it’s McIntoes. Donal McIntoes.

    BAGSHOT: Who? What?

    McINTOES: Donal McIntoes, from McIntoes Undercover.

    BAGSHOT: Really. Galloping gumboils! You must be the twin of someone else I know…..hang on, you can’t be….

    McINTOES: No I’m not. We’re one and the same, I’m afraid.

    BAGSHOT: What, a split personality?

    McINTOES: Something like that. Mr Bagshot, we’re doing an exposé of the Society and the way it manages the podiatry profession. You claim to be looking after the interests of your members and helping them to practise more effectively. Is this how you normally conduct your, um, business at Council?

    BAGSHOT: Yesssss……I mean no, not really. Aaarrrggghhh! What’s the score here? What’s next?

    This jolt of reality has the effect of rapidly intensifying his ‘trip’, causing Bagshot to hyperventilate and hallucinate to an exceptional degree. Now fully encased in yards of PVC and Vaseline, Bagshot turns bright pink, matching the colour of the handkerchief on his head, and starts to sweat profusely. He tries to take a step forward but forgets he has wrapped the cling film around both legs and he falls head-long straight into the crumpet and cream smeared bosom of Mrs Kipper.{splosh}

    FADE TO BLACK

    SCENE 26: INT: THE CABINET OFFICE 10 DOWNING ST: THEN

    Another gathering of petulant adolescents, less perverted and intoxicated than the ones we have just left, but excitable and animated all the same. A menacing and edgy atmosphere prevails over a bohemian air. There is no table here (hitherto removed and locked in storage), but a collection of sofas and beanbags strategically placed around the room for the babes and bruisers to rest their anxious bottoms upon.

    In one corner, resplendent in his Paisley silk housecoat, is the Prime Minister, Toby Bliar, surrounded by a gaggle of gorgeous babes, tousling his hair and applying his daily foundation and mascara, as he lies atop a purple and pink leather bean-bag. At his feet kneels Karol Kaftan, his personal guru and reflexologist, hard at work kneading a mixture of coconut butter and sunflower seeds between his baby-soft toes, whilst his wife, the hideous Cherry, looks on from his side. She is unable to speak as her mouth is being stretched wide by surgical retractors, but occasionally she utters little squeals of appreciation as she surveys and approves the babes’ work.

    In the opposing corner, sitting uncomfortably on a worn corduroy sofa, is the hulking-sulking Chancellor, Gorgon Zola. He sits alone; banned from bringing his entourage and playthings into the Cabinet Office for fear they will upset the girls. Instead he occupies himself with his calculator, occasionally picking at some pieces of fried egg that has dried and smeared on his woollen cardigan and gabardine trousers. He is, as usual in a grumpy mood and his fidgety fat fingers fiercely poke the buttons, whilst he looks out from under his bushy, unkempt eyebrows with barely disguised malice at the scene playing before him.

    Other Ministers are here too. Standing behind Toby is the Secretary of State for Health, the Rt. Hon Mary Hinge, holding a first aid box in which she keeps her briefing papers. She is engaged in a shallow conversation with the Education Minister, the Rt. Hon Betty Swollox about a new initiative of teaching nursery school children the perils of unsafe sex.

    Ms Kaftan finishes applying the therapeutic mix to Toby’s toes (concluding with an avocado and vanilla rub for his heels) and wraps his feet in silver foil. It is a signal for the meeting to begin.


    TOBY: All right, all right, listen up everyone. What are we going to talk about today? I think we need to discuss the provision of swings in our playparks. Only yesterday, Cherry and I were taking little Virgo for a walk in Hyde Park and you know, what a noise these rusty old swings were making. They woke little Virgo up from his afternoon slumber and it took ages to get him settled again. Gorgon, how much money do we have in the bank this month? Cherry has seen some nice new platinum and diamanté swings in Pharaoh’s Palace in Kensington High Street, and they’re a snip at a couple of billion each. And we get two percent off for cash, so you can’t complain there!

    GORGON: Yer spending nae mair money oan crap like that. Git yer priorities sorted oot man. Besides, that Egyptian bugger owes me a fortune in back-tax, so we’re pitin’ nae mair cash in his direction ‘till he settles his accoont.

    TOBY: Oh, that’s terribly unfair. You’re such a bully, isn’t he darlings.

    BABES: (in unison) Yes he is, smelly-old Gorgon spoilsport!

    GORGON: Say whit ye like but Ah’m no bothered a bit. Unlike some folk oot there…….

    TOBY: Why…..who do you mean?

    GORGON: Hiv ye no seen the news lately or ir ye still watchin’ repeats o’ the jacuzzi scene in Big Brother?

    TOBY: Well it is more exciting than the news, you have to admit. What’s happened, not more firecrackers in Baghdad surely?

    GORGON: Naw. Just an auld-folks revolt that’s all. Did ye no hear a clackity-clack noise when ye were oot fir yer walk the ither day?

    TOBY: Well……yes. But that was the flock of Peruvian woodpeckers we bought last year, wasn’t it?

    GORGON: Naw it wisnae. That wis the noise o’ pensh’ners oan the march. That wis their toenails ye heard, clackity-clackin’ oan the pavements, aw ower the country.

    BABES: (in unison) Oooooeeeeee. Toenails, how disgusting!

    GORGON: Aye it’s disgustin’ - espeshly as thir aw aboot ten inches lang and caekit in blood and pus.

    KAFTAN: Oh come-on now, that really is too much. I’ve gone all queasy and faint.

    GORGON: Well, why no go fir a walk aroon some estate agents then? Ye might be needin’ a new pad in the awfy near future ya useless nutcase.

    TOBY: Gorgon, that’s quite enough! Just you remember that I’ve changed my mind about our secret little deal once already and I can just as easily change it again! Karol’s been a great help to Cherry and I in recent months. For the first time we both have matching and coordinated lingerie and make-up, so watch your uneducated Pictish tongue for once, otherwise…….

    GORGON: Well, what ir ye gaun tae dae aboot the auld folks’ taes then?

    TOBY: Oh, let me think. Mary darling, what am I going to do about these senior citizens? That’s your department isn’t it?

    MARY HINGE: I think so. What part of the body is that again? I didn’t quite catch what Gorgon was saying…….

    TOBY: You and a million others, Mary. It’s the toes. At the end of the feet.

    MARY HINGE: Yes, yes. Let me see now. That must be the responsibility of one of the new professions we’ve created….I’m just not sure which one. Tell you what, I’ll just ‘phone old slippery-Seal at the Health Professions Chamber and we’ll see what he recommends……

    GORGON: In the name o’ God, it’s the job o’ chiropodists or whatever they’re ca’d noo. Oh, Ah dinnae ken…Health Secretary? Last week she thought a caesarean section wis a piece o’ salad! Podiatrists, that’s whit thir ca’d….they dae pow-dia-try!

    BETTY SWOLLOX: Oh, yes that’s right. Podiatry! We’re teaching that subject at primary school now. A pre-teen degree in corn-cutting and curettage. In ten-years time we’ll have an army of scalpel-wielding specialist-generic-assistant-lay-abouts to take care of that particular problem.

    GORGON: That’s nae bloody use. In ten-year’s time we’ll hae twenty million Fakirs oan the penshun. Nae use at a’!

    TOBY: Well it won’t be our problem then, will it? What’s all the fuss about?

    GORGON: It micht no be your problem darlin’, but it’ll probably be mine.

    TOBY: I wouldn’t bet on that Gorgon. You’ll more than likely be back in your cave under the Forth Road Bridge, right where you belong.

    GORGON: I micht need tae be, if they auld-folk git oany angrier.

    MARY HINGE: Hang on a minute; I think I’ve got some correspondence from the Society - the chiropodists’ union - somewhere. (looks in her first-aid box) Oh, yes, here it is. Ah, it’s just another grovelling letter about the quality of crumpets from Fortnum & Mason we send them from time to time. Nothing of much interest or help, I’m afraid.

    BETTY SWOLLOX: I seem to recall you met with the Master of the Society a few months back, Toby. What was his name again? Bag****e or something?

    TOBY: Oh, that’s right. Bagshot. Peregrine Bagshot. Lovely chap and very eloquent too. Didn’t we give him a gong last Christmas?

    MARY HINGE: No, I don’t think so. We ran out after you gave them to the Spice Girls instead.

    TOBY: Oh right. Never mind, send him another box of crumpets and make sure they’re still within their sell-by date this time. That should keep him sweet ‘till next year.

    Just at that, a junior staffer comes into the room pushing a television atop a aluminium trolley from Ikea.

    STAFFER: Prime Minister…..there’s something you should see. It’s…it’s…. quite bizarre really.

    He switches on the television and changes the channel from CBeebies to BBC News 24. It is a live feed from the Council Chamber at the Society.

    SCENE 27: INT: THE BBC LIVE BROADCAST: THEN:

    Bagshot is coming down from another fit of hallucinogenic apoplexy and is being restrained by most of the other Council members, who are having great difficulty in holding him due to the slipperiness of the Vaseline and sweat mix that covers his body. Rolls and rolls of cling film cover the Council table, mixed up with crumpets and cream and gallons of spilt tea and coffee. Everyone is helping with the exception of Mrs Kipper who is now utterly beyond redemption. She lies semi-naked amongst the mess on the table, helpless with laughter which simply serves to fuel her constant – and very loud – flatulence, much to the concern of the crew from the BBC who are worried about the rising levels of methane in such an enclosed and air-tight space. Bagshot is being encouraged to breathe deep and slow and eventually he begins to recover – for now. McIntoes moves in with his microphone…..

    McINTOES: Mr Bagshot. Across the country people are in a distressing state because of the condition of their feet. What are you going to do about it?

    BAGSHOT: What do you mean? What can I do about it? It’s got nothing to do with me!

    McINTOES: But you’re the Master of the Society – in charge of the profession that looks after our feet. It absolutely has everything to do with you. All across the country people are being abandoned by the NHS and many of them cannot afford the private fees. As a result many private practitioners have had to cut their charges just so people wouldn’t lose their legs, but now they’re being forced into bankruptcy as a result and that’s just made the situation worse. I ask you again, what are you going to do about it?

    BAGSHOT: I don’t know. I don’t know. What do you suggest?

    McINTOES: Why haven’t you highlighted the situation before now, before it’s got to this stage. Why aren’t you spelling out what’s happening in the NHS and getting the public on your side?

    BAGSHOT: Well I can’t because Mavis will get really annoyed with me.

    McINTOES: Who’s Mavis?

    Bagshot turns and points to the hapless figure beside him on the Council table.

    BAGSHOT: That’s Mavis. She’s the Dean of the Fraternity of Health Service Managers. She’s the one who started discharging the patients in the first place. She said there’s no more money to treat them. That’s why they had to go.

    McINTOES: And you let her get away with it? Why didn’t you raise the problem with the Government years ago, when the difficulties first arose?

    BAGSHOT: I did, I did! I mentioned it when I met the Prime Minister last year.

    McINTOES: Oh, you did? And what did he say?

    BAGSHOT: He said he understood and not to worry. He was planning to train a new workforce to help address the problems. But we had to be patient in the meantime. These changes take time you know. He called it down-streaming.

    McINTOES: Down-streaming?

    BAGSHOT: Yes, down-streaming. We had to sell the idea to the membership and that’s why we had a pay cut last year. Sacrifices have to be made you know. Times are tough.

    McINTOES: Not as tough as they are for your patients though. Wait a minute. Down-streaming you said? Are you sure it wasn’t down-sizing?

    BAGSHOT: No, no, no. He definitely said down-streaming. That’s what we had to sell to our members……

    McINTOES: (shaking his head slowly) Don’t you understand what he was really meaning?

    BAGSHOT: No, what?

    The reporter points out of the window at the fast flowing murky waters of the River Thames

    McINTOES: The answer was in front of you all the time. Mr Bliar was telling you to sell your members down the river. And that’s just what you’ve done. You’ve sacrificed this skilful and respected profession for a cheaper and untrained alternative. And the poor people of this country are suffering as a result – not to mention thousands of your members. What do you have to say about that?

    BAGSHOT: You’re wrong, you’re wrong. We always put our members first. We take our responsibilities very seriously you know.

    McINTOES: (Looking around the squalor) Yes, I can see that Mr Bagshot. I really can. This is all rather, um, kinky, don’t you think? Let me ask you one more question. Tell me, what’s your opinion on shrimping?

    Bagshot is truly puzzled at the question but doesn’t want to look ignorant

    BAGSHOT: Shrimping? Well, I don’t really like shrimps myself, but I guess it’s a fairly harmless activity. Yes, no problem with shrimping at all.

    SCENE 28:INT: THE CABINET OFFICE 10 DOWNING STREET: THEN:

    Everyone is sitting in stunned silence, transfixed by the pictures on the television. Eventually the Prime Minister speaks…

    TOBY: Well, that looks like fun doesn’t it? Maybe we should try something like that here. Next time Gorgon goes on holiday perhaps? But whatever did that reporter chappie mean by shrimping? What a strange question to ask Bagshot. What do shrimps have to do with feet?

    KAFTAN: Oh Toby, you are so innocent at times. You’re such a luvvie! Cherry, show that darling husband what shrimping is all about….

    Cherry Bliar removes the surgical retractors from her mouth whilst Kaftan unwraps the foil from around the Prime Minister’s feet. When she is ready, Cherry positions herself in front of her husband, opens her cavernous jaws and slips her lips over his foot, sliding it easily up to the ankle. The foot doesn’t even touch the sides. Noisily, she slurps the goo from between his toes and around the heels until she is satisfied then she removes the foot from her mouth and licks her ample lips.

    CHERRY: Mhmmm. Yummy. That’s shrimping honey.

    TOBY: Wow, that was some experience. No wonder Bagshot doesn’t have a problem with it. I’m beginning to see podiatry in a new light. Lucky sods!

    MARY HINGE: Wait a minute, look at that……

    Everyone turns and looks at the television again.

    SCENE 29: EXT: BBC BROADCAST: THEN:

    An overhead shot of Tower Bridge. The anchorman is speaking…

    SHUG EDWARDS: We interrupt the interview with Bagshot at the Society Headquarters to bring you some remarkable pictures from around the country. This is live from London…..

    A view from a helicopter. Down below, tens of thousands of people are marching towards Tower Bridge Road. The throng extends for miles, up the Embankment, past the West End and even as far as Heathrow. At the head of the procession are a few hundred men and women in white coats. They are surrounded by people of all ages, but mostly pensioners with extremely long toenails. In front of the group is a brass band and as we move closer we can see that they are playing. The helicopter moves closer…… In the background we can hear the Prime Minister’s voice. He says:

    TOBY: Hang on a mo. I know that tune. That’s the Lumberjack Song from Monty Python. It’s one of my favourites….

    The broadcast switches between a camera adjacent to the procession and the one in the helicopter. They focus on the group of men and women in the white coats. They are carrying black attaché cases and they are wearing serious looks on their faces. At the front of the group we see Brian and his wife. Suddenly they burst into song, accompanied by all the thousands of people around them.

    PODIATRISTS:

    We’re podiatrists and we’re okay
    We work day and night for a meagre pay

    CROWD

    They’re podiatrists and they’re okay
    They work day and night for a meagre pay

    PODIATRISTS

    We cut your corns, we trim your nails
    We treat your verrucas too
    We even make orthotics
    That fit inside your shoes

    CROWD

    They cut our corns, they trim our nails
    They treat our verrucas too
    They even make orthotics
    That fit inside our shoes

    EVERYONE TOGETHER

    We (They’re) Podiatrists and we’re (they’re) okay
    We (They) work day and night for a meagre pay

    PODIATRISTS

    We’d like to treat you better
    To keep you on your toes
    Why no-one is prepared to help us
    Heaven only knows

    CROWD

    They’d like to treat us better
    To keep us on our toes
    Why no-one is prepared to help them
    Heaven only knows

    EVERYONE TOGETHER

    We (They’re) Podiatrists and we’re (they’re) okay
    We (They) work day and night for a meagre pay

    PODIATRISTS

    We’re sick and tired of waiting
    So this is what we’re going to do
    We’re commandeering the Society
    And opening its doors for you

    An enormous roar erupts from the crowd and reverberates around the city and around the country too. They sing a final chorus together and head purposely towards the Society HQ

    SCENE 30: INT: THE INNER SANCTUM: THEN

    Bagshot is having another drug-induced seizure and one of the surgeons thinks it is best if he was wrapped up in cling film again. Eventually he calms down and is given a white coat to look more respectable. McIntoes is aware the live feed has been cut and is waiting patiently for a signal from the producer to restart the interview. But when one of the surgeons passes by to go to the lavatory, McIntoes tries his luck…

    McINTOES: What do you make of this debacle? Have you any solution to the crisis?

    The surgeon walks by seemingly oblivious to the reporter’s presence. A few seconds later McIntoes tries again when the surgeon returns

    McINTOES: Excuse me. Do you have any thoughts about what’s happening to the old peoples’ feet? Or what’s happening to the profession?

    Again the surgeon walks by and takes his seat near the toolbox in the corner. The weasely, bald man comes over to McIntoes and whispers in his ear.

    WEASELY MAN: You won’t get an answer out of the surgeons, especially that one. You’ve got to be a fully paid up member of the Fraternity before they even acknowledge - never mind answer you.

    McINTOES: I see. What a delightful bunch!

    A roaring noise is heard and everyone looks up. Then the sound of a brass band and singing and a helicopter. Everyone strains to hear, even Mrs Kipper who is fumbling in her handbag just behind Bagshot. The New Boy is standing at the window. Suddenly he points towards Tower Bridge and shouts…

    NEW BOY: Look over there; something’s happening on the bridge.

    Everyone runs, stumbles and slides over to the window to see what the New Boy has spotted, with the exception of Mrs Kipper, who has found what she is looking for. It is her cigarettes and lighter. She sits up in the middle of the Council table, dripping crumpets and cream and fumbles with the lighter. Bubbles of methane rupture around her enormous bottom. Lucy turns around and sees her and shouts…..

    LUCY: NO!!! Get down everyone………

    {Boom}
    CUT TO

    SCENE 31: INT: BBC BROADCAST: THEN

    An overhead shot of the crowd on Tower bridge looking east down the river. Suddenly there’s a bright flash from a building near to the south bank and a plume of smoke spirals upwards. The crowd points and stares.

    SHUG EDWARDS: There seems to have been some kind of explosion close to the Society Headquarters……actually it looks like the Society Headquarters….yes, yes it is - it’s all very confusing…..and maybe we, hang on, I think we can go back now to Donal McIntoes who’s in the Society building…….Donal, Donal, hullo? Are you okay?

    The picture changes to a smoke filled room. Smouldering debris can bee seen everywhere. McIntoes and Lucy come into shot, both covered in soot and gore.

    McINTOES: Hello Shug, we’re okay, I think, just a little shaken. Not certain what happened just now but I think everybody is okay

    SHUG EDWARDS: Donal, are you aware that people are marching towards the Society’s Headquarters. There must be a hundred-thousand people marching in London alone and it’s phenomenon that’s repeated throughout the country in every town and village and city. They’re taking over all the NHS clinics. It’s like a revolution……a walking revolution!

    McINTOES: No, we just heard some singing and cheering a moment ago, but we’ll go out the front and see what we can find out. We have to get out of here, the smell is really toxic……Wait a minute what on earth is THAT?

    FADE TO BLACK

    SCENE 32: INT: WOMEN’S INSTITUTE MEETING: THEN

    FADE IN

    Mrs Bagshot is lying unconscious atop a trestle table having fainted when the broadcast started. Barbara is busy checking the Yellow Pages for another chiropodist but is becoming increasingly confused by all the entries. Doris is sitting n the corner looking stunned, whilst the other ladies run around gossiping and clucking their disapproval.

    BARBARA: What on earth does FHP stand for? Is it something to do with shrimping? Must be Fiery Hot Prawns or something…..Gertrude? Gertrude?

    FADE TO BLACK

    SCENE 33: INT: THE CABINET OFFICE 10 DOWNING ST: THEN

    The Prime Minister has succumbed to the pleasures of the flesh and is having his tootsies on his other foot sucked and licked by his eager wife, encouraged and assisted by their personal guru, Karol Kaftan. With the exception of the Chancellor, the entire Cabinet display their appreciation by tickling each other’s feet. The whole scene is degenerating rapidly into an orgy of pedal decadence not dissimilar to the one at the Society HQ

    Gorgon Zola, however, ignores the degeneracy around him and concentrates his attention on the television broadcast. As we follow his gaze into the television we return once more to……


    SCENE 34: INT: BBC BROADCAST: THEN

    …….to the environs of the Society Headquarters where the large crowd has gathered outside the main entrance. At the head of the thronging mass stands the podiatrists in their starched white coats. Brian moves forward, pushes the door open and they move inside.

    Back in the Inner Sanctum the smoke begins to clear and we can see everyone staring at something just out of camera shot. Slowly the camera pans around and we see what has caught their attention.


    SCENE 35: INT: THE INNER SANCTUM: THEN

    The force of the blast has knocked down a partition wall where the photographs of past-Masters once hung, revealing a small but luxurious secondary chamber framed in tapestry and silk. Inside, lying on chenille and velvet Louis XV giltwood chaise longues are several bloated grandees, sipping on Dom Perignon whilst nibbling canapés and caviar. Partly because of their age and partly because of their stupor, they are slow to realise what has happened until one of them turns around. It is the old grandee that gave Bagshot his precious ornament of the three monkeys all those months ago when he was Master-elect.

    The BBC cameraman moves in for a closer shot. Around him, several Council members look on inquisitively, with puzzled looks on their faces.


    OLD GRANDEE: What the……..who the hell are you? Get out of here. All of you. Get out!

    The rest of the grandees turn and stare menacingly at the onlookers, snorting and grunting and waving their fists.

    OLD GRANDEE: Bagshot. Bagshot! What in damnation is going on here? Bagshot!

    Bagshot pushes his way to the front, cling film sliding off under his stained white coat.

    BAGSHOT: (timidly) I can explain…….I think.

    OLD GRANDEE: (incredulously) You’d better! What the bloody hell is going on here man? What in the name of God are you wearing? And what’s that disgusting smell?

    Just then, there is the sound of breaking glass and a huge roar shakes the building. Lucy is standing in the doorway.

    LUCY: It’s coming from the front of the building. The crowd is trying to get in…

    BAGSHOT: What? What? No…..keep them out! The Society must be defended at any cost.

    LUCY: But I thought you said that the Society belonged to its members. There’s a lot of people out there in white coats. Defended from whom?

    Bagshot pushes Lucy out of the way and slithers out of the Inner Sanctum and makes his way to the front of the building. From his office he surveys the masses below him. The rest of Council and the BBC crew follow in behind. The crowd is beginning to chant

    {Bagshot Out! Bagshot out! Bagshot Out! Bagshot Out!…….}

    BAGSHOT: What?? Why me?? Get away from here!

    He shakes his fist at the crowd as he partially hides behind one of the drapes. McIntoes steps forward holding a small tape recorder. He nods to the camera-man and the editor, indicating the broadcast is live.

    McINTOES: You don’t have much time for them Mr Bagshot, do you?

    BAGSHOT: What? What do you mean? Can’t you see these are deranged people outside. Why should I have time for them? They’re nothing, just low-life that’s all. Good god, what’s this country coming to?

    McINTOES: Mr Bagshot, these are your members. You call them low-life?

    BAGSHOT: Members you say? What are they doing here? There must be some mistake. They’re not allowed to visit except by invitation.

    McINTOES: I think you might find they’ve just invited themselves.

    BAGSHOT: This is ridiculous, they can’t do that. And look at all those old people. We don’t have that many on the retired role.

    McINTOES: No I don’t suppose you have. Those are your members’ patients – the general public. They’ve been protesting for months now. Don’t you remember?

    BAGSHOT: Remember what?

    McINTOES: What you said about them the last time we met.

    McIntoes holds the tape recorder aloft.

    {Don’t mind them out there. Just ignore them. That’s the best way. It works for us. They’re just the dregs of society after all. The government should bring in compulsory euthanasia at sixty unless you’ve got a healthy bank balance. That would sort them out. Keep them under the streets instead of cluttering the top of them! That’s what I say.}

    A collective gasp from the crowd below, some of whom are listening to the broadcast on transistor radios. Just then an elderly pensioner looks up at Bagshot’s window and points a crooked finger.

    OLD DEAR: There he is……

    The crowd roars louder and becomes extremely animated. The noise brings the old grandee into the room. He walks up beside Bagshot and surveys the crowd.

    GRANDEE: (dryly) Looks like you’re in a spot of bother here Bagshot. Just who are these horrid people anyhow? Why are some wearing white coats?

    BAGSHOT: I think they could be some of our members.

    GRANDEE: Members? Members? Well get rid of them Bagshot. Threaten them with conduct or something. Bloody hell man, we can’t have members here. This is our Society, not theirs. And what about all those old people; who are they?

    McINTOES: Oh I wouldn’t worry about them; they’re just the dregs of society after all. Isn’t that right Mr Bagshot?

    BAGSHOT: What? Yes! I mean no. I mean that was just a joke.

    GRANDEE: It’s not the only joke around here. Show some authority Bagshot. Tell them to leave now.

    Baghot throws open the window and sticks his head outside

    BAGHOT: Right you lot. Listen here!

    The crowd falls silent.

    BAGSHOT: I don’t know what you think you’re up to but it’s time to leave now. Go home. This is private property and your trespassing, not to mention disturbing the peace. Go away now or I’ll have to call the police.

    OLD DEAR: Get lost you crusty old fart. It ain’t the police, it’s the bleedin’ ambulance you’ll be needin’ by the time we’ve finished with you.

    {huge roar}

    BAGSHOT: What? What have I done?

    BRIAN: It’s what you haven’t done that’s the problem, Mr Bagshot.

    BAGSHOT: What do you mean?

    BRIAN: What do I mean? Just look around you; what do you see? Look what’s happened to our profession and our patients. For the last ten years our patients have been denied our care – care that they depend on to keep them mobile. Our colleagues are overworked and underpaid, even more so now that they’ve had to endure a pay cut. And what have you done about it? You’re the people we elect to keep the profession strong – to make sure government understands how important we are, and to make sure our patients can benefit from our expertise. Have you done any of that?

    BAGSHOT: Of course we have. We’ve just welcomed all the unregistered into our ranks and now we’re training assistants. We’ll double the membership in a year’s time. The profession’s going from strength to strength!

    Brian shakes his head.

    BRIAN: You’ve not done any of that – maybe just as well. That was the government’s agenda – not yours. What’s your agenda Mr Bagshot? What’s your great vision for podiatry? Is this it?

    He throws his arms wide, gesturing at the crowd.

    BAGSHOT: My vision? Why should I tell you my vision? What does it matter to you?

    BRIAN: It matters to all of your members, not just me. It matters because that’s what you were elected for – your vision. You weren’t elected to gorge yourself on tea and crumpets or conduct fact finding tours of Bali’s footcare service. You were elected to give leadership to the profession so that we all could reach our potential. We should be up there with the dentists and have state of the art surgeries so we can treat all of these people. Instead we work in dingy cupboards with dirty equipment and rusty instruments. And for a pittance! The Health Service, Mr Bagshot, is crippling us as well as our patients. And what have you done about it?

    BAGSHOT: Well the Health Service isn’t really my area. You’d have to ask Mrs Kipper about that. But, err, you can’t ask her just at the moment.

    BRIAN: Oh I see. A gagging order is it?

    BAGSHOT: Yesss. Gagging, sort of.

    A menacing growl rumbles through the crowd.

    BRIAN: Right Mr Bagshot, time’s up. Listen very carefully. We, the members, are serving notice on you to depart forthwith, these offices of the Society and to cease, with immediate effect, any further representation on our behalf. In other words, you’re fired! And the same goes for all your cronies on Council. We’re taking over these offices and turning them into an emergency treatment centre, so that all these old people can get the care they need at last. You’ve all let us down. All of you. You’re yesterday’s people with yesterday’s answers to yesterday’s problems. And now it’s time for you to leave.

    BAGSHOT: You…you….insolent imbecile! How dare you talk to me like that! Don’t you know who I am? Have you no respect? Take over the Society? My Society! Over my dead body!

    The crowd erupts and let’s forth a huge roar. Suddenly all the old ladies throw their handbags towards Bagshot, who retreats back into his office, closing the window as he does. The handbags clatter against the glass until one breaks through and shatters glass over the floor. Bagshot, in his bare feet, tiptoes nimbly towards the door.

    There is an massive {crash} from downstairs and the crowd spill into reception with an angry roar.


    BAGSHOT: (delirious) Get out! Get out of here!

    OLD DEAR: He’s upstairs. Let’s get him…..

    Bagshot is standing rigid, staring at the massing throng when, all of a sudden he is yanked away by the old grandee and is propelled back into the Inner Sanctum. He is just in time to see the other grandees and council members departing through a concealed fire exit and down a steep stairwell to the riverside below. Bagshot hesitates.

    GRANDEE: Hurry up man. As much as I would like to leave you to your fate. Hurry up!

    BAGSHOT: But we can’t. I mean I’m the Master…what about my legacy?

    GRANDEE: You’re legacy is already here Bagshot. The first Master in our history who forgot the membership as well ignoring them. And look where it’s got you! Run!

    Another crash, this time against the locked door of the Inner Sanctum. Fists beat against the other side, building to a crescendo. Reality finally dawns on Bagshot and he turn and runs out the exit post haste.

    CUT TO

    SCENE 36 EXT: TOWER BRIGE: THEN

    An overhead shot. We see Bagshot running towards the river bank where all his colleagues have assembled. Bagshot waves them on and they run towards the bridge, quickly climbing the steps to the main road. Here they mingle and are absorbed in an instant. Bagshot chases after them but we can see that the cling film has begun to unravel from underneath his white coat and is trailing after him. He mounts the steps two at a time and rushes into the crowd and heads north, away from the Society offices. He bounds six enormous steps then falls flat on his face when the cling film is yanked tight.

    There is a commotion, then a disturbance followed by some pushing and shoving. As we close in we see Bagshot being accosted by a woman with extremely neglected feet and a small, but sturdy handbag. She pushes him into one of the stanchion platforms on the west side of the bridge and corners him against the stone wall. The crowd gathers around. There is no escape.


    WOMAN: I know you. You’re the one they’re after. Bagshot, isn’t it? You used to do my feet once, and then you told me not to come back. Now look at me.

    She points to her feet then raises a foot slowly. Bagshot looks down and recoils in horror. Instinctively, he jumps onto the stone wall and tries to run around the side, but the crowd is here too. He stands and faces them. There is fear in his eyes. Slowly the crowd begin to chant and clap their hands in time.

    Bag-shot…..Bag-shot….. Bag-shot…Bag-shot…

    Bagshot turns and glances down into the fast flowing murky waters below. He nearly falls but steadies himself, then looks into the crowd once more. Standing across the road he sees the grandees, some of them waving placards and chanting with the crowd. To the side, the old grandee is standing alone, wearing an angry, stern look across his ancient features.

    Bagshot looks for some support, some help, but there is none. Instead the old grandee turns away and shakes his head. The betrayal hits Bagshot like a bullet and he struggles to hold himself. His right foot slips and he tumbles backwards [IN SLOW MOTION] down, down, down towards the inky black water below.


    Bag-shot! Bag-shot! Bag-shot! Bag-shot!

    { Aaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhh! SPLASH}

    DISOLVE SLOWLY AND FADE

    Bag-shot! Bag-shot! Bag-shot! Bag-shot!

    SCENE 37: INT: BAGSHOT’S BEDROOM: MORNING

    FADE IN

    Bagshot! Bagshot! Bagshot! For heaven’s sake Bagshot. Wake up!

    A scene of domestic chaos. We are looking down onto a barely recognisable bed. The mattress has been upended, and a struggling figure can be seen, tightly cocooned in bed-sheets and blankets, trying to escape from underneath. An empty water jug has spilled its contents over the figure and lies discarded near a piggy water bottle on the floor. Mrs Bagshot, fully dressed and wearing an apron, is standing in the doorways, hands on hips and a face flushed with anger.

    MRS BAGSHOT: In the name of goodness Bagshot. Will you shut up and stop struggling. Goodness gracious. Wait a minute man!

    BAGSHOT: No….no….no…..no….no!

    MRS BAGSHOT: Bagshot! Enough!

    She leans forward and slaps him hard where she thinks his head is

    BAGSHOT: Ow! What’s going on….what’s happening? Where are they?

    Mrs Bagshot works the sheets away until Bagshot’s head appears. He is soaked in sweat and his face is the colour of plum. He tries to stand but the sheets are wrapped tightly around his legs and he falls back onto the bed with a clatter. He looks in shock.

    BAGSHOT: My God…..My God…..Oh My God! Gertrude, darling, oh my GOD! You have no idea……..I thought, I thought I was dead!

    MRS BAGSHOT: Dead? You almost were…at least half a dozen times last night. Have you any idea what kind of, of, experience I’ve been through in the last eight hours. Good God man. I’ve had roaring, chanting, kicking, screaming and singing. Singing from the very one who insists on humming in the church every Sunday. And what was I serenaded with in the small hours of the morning? Onward Christian Soldiers for one. Then Clementime for Gods Sake! I was waiting for Handel’s Messiah in B Flat at six in the morning, but was let down by a breathless rendition of some infantile tune from Monty Python. It’s been an altogether rather disappointing night Bagshot. And quite avoidable too. If only you’d listened to what I said.

    BAGSHOT: (Still looking in a daze) What do you mean? What did you say?

    MRS BAGSHOT: I told you not to eat too much of Lucy’s cake. You know chocolate always gives you nighmares. You scoffed the lot after I had gone to bed. And had a bottle of wine too. No wonder you’re in the state you’re in.

    BAGSHOT: Who? Lucy?

    MRS BAGSHOT: Lucy! Your niece. She’s just back from trekking in Nepal, remember? She came round last night to show you her photos. Yes? Hello….earth to Bagshot. Is there anyone in today?

    BAGSHOT: Oh yessss. Lucy. Yessss. How strange….how strange….

    MRS BAGSHOT: Strange? Being a touch reflective dear? Do you think you can strange yourself up a bit and get ready. Have you forgotten you’ve a Council meeting in an hour’s time? Don’t you think you’d better get dressed?

    FADE TO BLACK

    FADE IN

    SCENE 38: INT: BAGSHOT’S KITCHEN: LATER

    Bagshot comes into the room dressed in a three piece suit with a large pink handkerchief in the jacket pocket. He strides over to the table and sits down. Mrs Bagshot passes him a plate which he takes slowly, looking down at the shrimps on toast with widening eyes.

    MRS BAGSHOT: Come on now, no dilly-dallying. Would you like a sandwich for the train?

    She picks up a roll of cling film from the kitchen worktop. Bagshot chokes on his tea, spluttering it across the table in an arc.

    BAGSHOT: No…no. It’s quite alright. I’m not hungry at all. I have to go…..

    He stands and picks up his leather satchel, crammed full of papers, and heads for the door. He is about to open it when he stops and picks up an empty wine bottle near the waste bin. He inspects the label. It is a bottle of Chateau Lafite 1983. Bagshot hesitates.

    BAGSHOT: What’s this?

    MRS BAGSHOT: That was the bottle of wine you drank last night with Lucy. After I’d gone to bed. You would think you’d have more sense at your age.

    BAGSHOT: Yesss, but I don’t remember buying this. Where did you get it?

    MRS BAGSHOT: It was left at the door the other morning. Must have been from one of your patients. Why do you ask?

    Bagshot doesn’t answer, but instead slowly exists the door, a faraway look in his eyes. Mrs Bagshot calls after him…

    MRS BAGSHOT: And don’t be late tonight. You promised Barbara you’d do her corns before she went to Lourdes.

    But it was too late; he had gone.

    DISOLVE AND FADE

    FADE IN

    SCENE 39: EXT: EN ROUTE TO THE SOCIETY: LATER

    Bagshot is sitting on a train, buildings speeding past. Opposite him are two expensively-dressed men deep in conversation.

    1st MAN: You going to the BDA conference next month? Rumour has it the PM’s going to make an appearance. Going to offer us a new contract, so it seems. It’ll better be good!

    2nd MAN: He’ll have to double my current salary and offer twice the holidays for a start. No I’ll not be there. Going to try out the new yacht round the Canaries. Just got her last month. You should see her, she’s a beaut!

    We focus on Bagshot as the voices fade. He is deep in thought

    CUT TO:

    Bagshot is coming out of Tower Bridge Station and makes his way down to the bridge, passing the Tower to his right. As we follow him we pass underneath huge banners hanging from the lampposts. They are advertising an exhibition of pre-Raphaelite paintings in the National Gallery. On one we see the Madonna dell Granduca; another, the Nymph Galatea; another La Belle Jardinère; and another, St George fighting the Dragon.

    Bagshot stares up at them wearing a puzzled and slightly troubled expression.


    CUT TO

    Crossing Tower Bridge. Bagshot stops by the stanchion platform and looks over the side. After a moment he stands up and looks up the river in the direction of Parliament. As we close in we see he is deep in thought. After a few minutes he moves off with a purposeful stride in the direction of Fellmongers.

    FADE TO BLACK

    FADE IN

    SCENE 40: INT: COUNCIL CHAMBERS: LATER

    Twenty-six people sitting around the table. All of them are familiar, including Mrs Kipper, resplendent in her NHS tunic and matching trousers. The table is heavy with papers. There is friendly chatter and some quiet laughter. The air of a pleasant gathering.

    The door opens and Bagshot walks in and walks slowly to the head of the table. There are a few ‘hello’s’ and a few nods, but generally the conversation continues as before.

    After a while, Bagshot removes the pile of papers from his satchel and places them in front of him. He takes his glasses from his pocket and cleans them with his pink handkerchief, then focuses his attention to the first paper in the bundle.


    BAGSHOT: Ahem! Thank you…thank you all for coming today and it’s good to see we’ve a full house for a change. Ah….you’ve all been sent the papers in advance, and you will have noticed that we have a pretty full agenda to get through. But, ah…

    He takes a sip of water then slowly stands and holds the agenda aloft.

    BAGSHOT: But I was thinking on the way here this morning, just whose agenda have we to get through? Is it ours?

    He looks around the table. There is complete silence although several Council members exchange questioning glances.

    MRS KIPPER: What do you mean Peregrine? Of course it’s our agenda.

    BAGSHOT: Is it? Is it really? Look at all the items – response to government consultation, response to Medicine Committee, response to changes in regulation. Response, response, response! We’re always responding and never leading. Government should be responding to us! Not the other way around.

    It’s strange isn’t it? You start out with a big idea and great ambitions, but the whole system is such that after a while you become so bogged down in all the bureaucracy that you lose sight of what you started out with. The vision! All these papers in front of you today have been generated elsewhere, by people who have nothing to do with podiatry, and who very probably don’t care a damn about us or our patients. This is not our agenda at all. Nor should it be.

    All eyes are on Bagshot, quite a few of them disbelieving. He pauses for a moment and looks at each Council member in turn.

    BAGSHOT: Today, ladies and gentlemen, colleagues and friends; today, we are going to do something different. What I would like you to do is first to turn your papers over so that the blank piece of paper is facing you. Then pick up your pens.

    He turns around and picks up an ink marker and writes in the whiteboard in large capital letters:

    AIMS & OBJECTIVES

    STRATEGY

    TIMELINE


    Bagshot turns back to the room and pauses.

    BAGSHOT: This is something we’ve neglected for too long now. But not any more.

    MRS KIPPER: What’s got into you Peregrine? I’ve never seen you like this before. Are you alright?

    He looks at her, smiles and nods his head.

    BAGSHOT: Oh yes, I’m fine. In fact I’ve never felt better. You see, Mavis…….. I’ve had a dream. A most amazing dream…….

    DISOLVE AND FADE

    THE END


    ROLL THE CREDITS
     
    Last edited: Dec 26, 2005
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