Act I

Boris1-1 (2)

Pere Ubu: Shitter!
Mere Ubu: Fuck, you talk with your tongue in your hoop. You really are a fat cunt Boris.
Pere Ubu: Why don’t I pluck your pheasant, Margaret?
Mere Ubu: I’ve taken the edge of your heft, I need a few more inches
Pere Ubu: This oxtail soup soup has no ox in it.
Mere Ubu: Well tell me Boris without a zippo did you ever start a flame with that little red clipper?
Pere Ubu: By my pink oboe, Madame, I tell you I am content. I could be content with less; I’m a Conservative MP, I’m personal friends with Eric Bristow, I’ve got an up to date fire safety certificate and I’m friends with Louis Walsh on Facebook; what more do you want?
Mere Ubu: When you’re Mayor of London the Evening Standard will show Ken and the redmen with their loose hands like vulvas eating themselves. You’d be PM by now if it wasn’t for that ridiculous haircut
Pere Ubu: Mmm, Maragaret? It sounds like you’re gargling with Bovril.
Mere Ubu: You’re thicker than Prescot
Pere Ubu: By my Egg McMuffin, Ken is still very much alive; and even supposing he dies, hasn’t he got hundreds of newts?
Mere Ubu: Who’s stopping you meeting some Arabs and kicking up some shit, you could step in as a father figure?
Pere Ubu: Oh Margaret you insult me, and you’ll find yourself wrapped around this Thighmaster in a minute.
Mere Ubu: You gastric stickleback, you’re a frog with its spawn inside. Who’d wipe your arse if it wasn’t me?
Pere Ubu: Well, what of it? Clegg gave me a back, sac and crack. I’m as smooth as a jar of pickled eggs.
Mere Ubu: If I were you I’d keep my arse clean for Newsnight, if Paxman ever gets his nose near it we’ll both be happy. We could both get oversized sausage suits and become national treasures!
Pere Ubu: If I were mayor, I’d get a giant Charles II wig made like that bastard Vorderman stole off me in Morecambe when she was pissed on Snowballs.
Mere Ubu: You could get one of those wax-green jackets the unemployed wear, the kind you can stuff a dead hare in the back of! You could have a ski-hat with flap-down ears!
Pere Ubu: Ah, she deals in anagrams, the cnut. If ever I meet her at the Pride of Britain awards she’ll go through a bad 30 seconds.
Mere Ubu: That’s better Boris, I felt a fudge of wet for a second
Pere Ubu: Oh no, though! I, a champion masseuse, misalign the queen of detox’s chakra or dampen the mayor’s spleen? I’d rather go without shea butter!
Mere Ubu (aside): Fuck, shitter! (Aloud): Then are you going to be no better than a chav with an ISA Boris?
Pere Ubu: Gadzooks, by my gargantuan pecker, I prefer to be as poor as Ainsley than as rich as Oliver.
Mere Ubu: And that wax-green jacket? The ski-hat?
Pere Ubu: And the leapordskin thong? What of them, Margaret?
(He goes off banging the door)
Mere Ubu: Trouser-sigh, shitter, that albino slug is slower than the DLR; trouser-sigh, shitter, I’m getting into his ridiculous bonce now, he’ll come round. I’ll email the wives of a few whips, this time next week I’ll be the wife of the Mayor of London

Scene 2
The scene represents a room in Pere Ubu’s house, where a magnificent meal is prepared.
Mere Ubu: Huh! Joe Pasquale’s car must have broken down again.
Pere Ubu: He’s as unstable as a strap-on. I’ve got the horn today woman, the horn supreme, is it because we’ve got visitors?
Mere Ubu: (shrugging her shoulders) More like a coat hook than a hat stand.
Pere Ubu: (seizing the Thighmaster) Look I’ve got the horn woman, this machine is almost as good to me as the real thing
Mere Ubu: What are you doing you ass? Don’t you know why Cliff Richard never married?
Pere Ubu: Don’t worry, I won’t be giving Walliams the come-on again. Go to the window while I put some new batteries in this thing
Mere Ubu: (going over) Aled Jones has pissed on the gnomes again. I’m going to have to get Wogan to have a word.

(In the meantime Pere Ubu is using the Thighmaster)

Mere Ubu: Ah here come Ant and Dec. What are you doing Pere Ubu, get off that thing!
Pere Ubu: I’m going for the burn. I’m not having Philip Schofield say I’ve got cellulite again.
Mere Ubu: Oh you’ll send your spoor all over the toad-in-the hole. How can you eat a chicken drumstick while you’re doing that?
Pere Ubu: By my throbbing Bontempi, I’ll sign you up for Takeshi’s Castle if you carry on!

(The door opens).

Ant+Dec1 (2)

Scene 3

Pere Ubu, Mere Ubu, Ant and Dec

Mere Ubu: Ah boys, hello, we thought you’d been eaten by crocodiles! Come in, take a seat
Ant: Alreet pet? Sorry we’re late. Sting called over last night with a tantric sex DVD. Where’s that fat bastard got to?
Pere Ubu: Overe here, I’ve got my Gentleman of the House trapped in the Thighmaster. And don’t laugh, I know you’re thinking ‘how will  anyone will take his cycle scheme seriously with an arse like the end of a Routemaster’
(They all sit down.)
Ant: Calm down, Boris. Come and sit on this beanbag. I’ve got some bushtucker trial leftovers for you.
Pere Ubu: Hope they’re not Bristow’s.
Ant: Where are the Scotch eggs?
Mere Ubu: You’re all in luck, I’m trying out a few things from the new Jamie.
Ant: Turkey twizzlers?
Mere Ubu: Sauvignon blanc chicken stuffed with fizz bombs, potato rostis, ox ears in a red wine jus, mini praline tartlets in the shape of Holly Willoughby’s nipples.
Pere Ubu: Huh! Waitrose now, is it? Who do you think we are entertaining? The staff of the Poetry Library?
Mere Ubu (continuing): fennel seed kulfis, pumpkin borscht, a carafe of sweet potato chips,  risotto a la shitter.
Pere Ubu: What’s so bad about Aldi? You can get fleeces there now, you know. And power tools.
Mere Ubu: Ignore him he’s thick as polenta.
Pere Ubu: Ah! I’ll crack your pine nuts for pesto.
Mere Ubu: Fill the only hole you can satisfy Pere Ubu, here’s a todge of sushi.
Pere Ubu: I wondered what had happened to the goldfish.
Ant: This reminds me of that Greasy Spoon on the Tyne.
Mere Ubu: Wankers. What do you expect? Ferrero Rocher arranged in a pyramid?

Pere Ubu (striking his forehead): I’ve just been struck with another Boris brain-strobe! I’ll be back in a second.
Mere Ubu: Gentlemen, please help yourselves to a Pepperami Firestick. They’re a bit of an animal, although I’m not sure which animal. Or which part. (to herself) Actually, I do know which part.
Dec: Spotty dog. I’m done man.
Mere Ubu: Now for the 50 piece Indian Chicken Platter from Iceland. Pity the oven is broken, but you’ll just have to chew a bit harder.
Ant: Top drawer! Thanks Margaret.
All: Long live Queen Kerry Katona!
Pere Ubu (coming back): Won’t be long til my first four year stretch in City Hall (he has a toilet brush in his hand and throws it onto the festive board).
Mere Ubu: Blockhead! Now there’s mechanically recovered fish all over the bristles! We’ll never get clean right under the rim!
Pere Ubu: Wrap your tongues around that

(Some of the guests taste it and are poisoned)

Pere Ubu: Margaret, pass me another chicken Kiev. I dropped the last one down my trousers and heaven knows if I’ll see that again.
Mere Ubu: Get yourself outside of these.
Pere Ubu: Everybody piss off out. I want to show Ant my new wig. I got it off Ebay. It used to belong to Andy Warhol. It’s signed by him, although it turns out the idiot couldn’t even spell his own name.
The others: Pass us the Foreman grill, we’re Hank Marvin.
Pere Ubu: You can’t grill a sausage on a ukulele. Now bugger off. This Byker Grove VHS won’t sign itself.

(no one budges)

Pere Ubu: You’re all still here and my razorclam’s not had so much as a squeeze of lemon, here, have a wasabi

(he begins to throw them)

All: Aaargh! Defend yourselves! It’s like the Third Reich themed pyjama party all over again!
Pere Ubu: Shitter, Shitter, Shitter! Outside, you lot aren’t even worthy of a Nando’s loyalty card.
All: Every man from himself! Bastard Boris! We haven’t even had our baked chocolate flavoured cheesecake on a chocolate flavoured digestive biscuit base, topped with morello cherries in a brandy and cherry flavoured sauce, decorated with brandy cream mousse swirls and dark chocolate flakes.
Pere Ubu: Thank fuck they’ve gone I can take a breather. Could still do with a wrangle though, come on Ant and Dec

(They go out with Mere Ubu)

Scene 4
(Pere Ubu, Mere Ubu, Ant & Dec)

Pere Ubu: Well, chaps, did you enjoy the Double Pepperoni Rising Dough Pizza with twice the pepperoni for twice the flavour? With lots of gooey mozzarella cheese and tangy tomato sauce to make a simple but effective taste sensation?
Ant: Top nosh apart from the shitter
Pere Ubu: Huh! It was fine with a spot of HP.
Mere Ubu: His pallette’s gone rank from the bushtucker
Pere Ubu: Ant, I’ve decided to make you and Dec the presenters of Newsnight. You don’t have the gravitas at the moment, but Noel Edmonds owes me a favour.
Dec: Get out man, I earn more from a Gameboy ad than you get in a year
Pere Ubu: Perhaps, but in a few days I will be Mayor of this city and my M & S chargecard will once again be active after that misunderstanding about the Percy Pigs.
Ant: Are you going to spin a saga for the Standard on Red Ken?
Pere Ubu: This cheeky chappy is no fool. He must have read my column in The Sport.

Dec: I’m well up for writing Ken off, I still owe a congestion charge from that night out with Jimmy Nail and Kevin Keegan; anyway he’s like a ferrett with fourteen strap-ons and there’ll be more manouevre at parties for me and Ant if he’s off the scene.
Pere Ubu: (throwing himself on him and kissing him): Oh, I’ve always liked you, Ant! I even watched Red or Black.
Dec: Jesus Boris, you smell like you’ve just swam up the old Fleet River, like Carol Thatcher in that Bushtucker Trial;  a blast of Lynx Africa wouldn’t go amiss.
Pere Ubu: What’s wrong with Hai Karate?
Mere Ubu: He once shared a Puerto  Rican with Peter Mandelson.
Pere Ubu: I’ll roast your parnsips.
Mere Ubu: Colossal shitter!
Pere Ubu: Well, Ant, I believe that concludes our business but I swear on my royal Thighmaster that I will make you presenter of Newsnight. That turd Paxman will find himself glued to his toilet seat one of these days,
Mere Ubu: Gargantuan shitter!
Pere Ubu: Hush, my little deep fried milk ball.

(they go out)

Scene 5
Pere Ubu, Mere Ubu, William Hague disguised in a sausage suit

Pere Ubu: I thought you were Ant down there for a second, not you, what do you want?
William Hague: Ken has just sent you a direct message on Twitter.
Pere Ubu: Oh big shitter, wonky bollocks! By my Tuesday dildo I’m rumbled, I’m losing the plot!
Mere Ubu: What a feeble man. He gets pissed on liqueur chocolates. And there isn’t much time.
Pere Ubu: I’ve got an idea, I’ll blame it on Ant and Dec.
Mere Ubu: Oh, you fat bastard. They’re national treasures!
Pere Ubu: Mmm, I prefer Dermot O’ Leary.

(He goes out)

Mere Ubu: (running after him) Hey, Boris! Boris! I’ll give you some king prawn ring with a seafood sauce for dipping!

(She goes out): Shitter, you’re like a maggot in a Wizard video.

Scene 6

Ken Livingstone surrounded by officials; Ant and Dec; Boleslas (Dale Winton), Ladislas (Pat Sharpe, without the twins), Bougrelas (Peter Mandelson), Pere Ubu

Pere Ubu: (entering) Oh, you know it wasn’t me. It was Cannon and Ball.
Ken Livingstone: What’s your beef Boris?
Ant: He’s had too much White Lightning.
Ken Livingstone: Looks like he’s been in the Betsy Trotwood with that Tim Wells lot til 5am this morning.
Pere Ubu: Yes, I’m bombed. I should had some coffee in that Irish coffee.
Ken Livingstone: Boris, what you’ve done for the image of the Tories is inestimable, you’re now taken seriously, even by UKIP.
Pere Ubu: Oh, Ken. I haven’t felt so honoured since Willie Whitelaw picked up my car keys at Norman Lamont’s vicars and tarts party.
Ken Livingstone: I’ve heard you’ll be at Number 10 tomorrow for Cameron’s breakfast debrief, don’t let your sugar puffs go soggy (aside) My God he looks like a mutant sugar puff.
Pere Ubu: I’ll be there, but I have a gift for you. Please accept these. They were worn by Alan Clarke.

(He reaches into his pocket and hands Ken a pair of y-fronts with the words “BANG TIDY” emblazoned in gold on the waistband.)
Ken Livingstone: What do you want me to do with these? I’ll give them to Mandy, might help him grow a pair.
Mandelson: I’ll never fit my portfolio in there.
Pere Ubu: I’ve had enough of this, he’s the political equivalent to what Ringo was to the Beatles…

(As he turns round he falls down)

Shit! I’ve split my kecks and squashed my 100% boneless white meat! (He takes a flattened KFC from his trouser pocket and regards it mournfully.)

Ken Livingstone (picking him up): Are you fucked for life by any chance Boris?
Pere Ubu: I am. (sobbing)   Who will pay off my tab at Harry Ramsden’s? Margaret will never raise £8000!
Ken Livingstone: She can work for me and sometimes even do some work for me.
Pere Ubu: Top bollocks, Ken. (he goes out) But you’ll still end up as limp as Lionel Blair’s sandwich.

Scene 7
Ubu’s House
3 Iron Pile, Pere Ubu, Mere Ubu, Conspirators, soldiers, Ant and Dec

Pere Ubu: Well, my friends. It’s time to discuss our plans to send Ken to the graveyard shift on Talk Sport. Let’s hear what you’ve got in mind. But first, let me tell you what I’ve cooked up.
Ant: Fire away Boris.
Pere Ubu: Well then, my friends. I suggest we put Viagra in Ken’s cheese and pickle. I’ve got some here (he rummages in his Spice Girls bumbag). Oh, that’s Night Nurse.
All: What a morally vacuous manifestation of Jim Henson’s mind you are.
Pere Ubu: Twats. Well then, let Ant say what’s in that little Geordie brain of his. Maybe he could give Mark Knopfler a text.
Ant: I reckon we give him a Geordie Smile, it’s like a Glaswegian Smile only you use a butter knife.
All: Yes, let’s drown the bastard in Flora Pro-Activ.
Pere Ubu: And what if he gets in again and makes you pickle his herrings so he can feed them to you under the table at the next Commisioner’s Review? If I had any sense I’d get on the blower to Max Clifford and tell him you’ve all been putting expense claims in for your subscriptions to Dancingbear.com
Mere Ubu: Oh, the snake. He’s as gutless as Cable.
All: Let’s cut off his golden locks…
Pere Ubu; Hey, boys, keep quiet if you don’t want to end up on an over-80s cruise with Paul Potts. Anyway, I agree to expose myself to you. (He fumbles with his flies) So you, Ant, take responsibility for fixing it so that Ken get the shits so bad he’ll think his arse is a doughnut. With jam.
Ant: Wouldn’t it be better if we hired a tank from the army and got Sam Fox to get topless and wave a Vote Boris flag, at least then we’d get The Sun on our side.
Pere Ubu: OK, here’s the masterplan. He’s on Question Time next week. I’ll force my way in and get out my member of the Bullingdon club. In the mayhem, Ant will get Ken with this (he reaches inside his open flies and pulls out a two foot long chorizo). Dec, if Dimblebey starts, kick him in the nuts.
Mere Ubu: If Starkey’s on the panel again we can put a hijab on Ken and let the crazy historian finish him off.
Ant: If Ken gets away, Dec and me will hunt him down on our mobility scooters. Ken Barlow gave us a great price. He normally only sells to Druids.
Pere Ubu: Take Mandy with you, in a crash helmet he looks like an orange on a toothpick.
Pere Ubu: (running after them and making them come back) We have forgotten the most important thing. Swear an oath on this (he produces a copy of Take A Break). It’s got a Loose Women pull out.
Dec: No can do, we’ve just signed a contract for our cheeky mugs to go on the cover of the Christmas TV Times.
Pere Ubu: That will do. Here: place your hands over this picture of Eamon Holmes.

All: Eamon Holmes, a slim and lucid man beside you Boris!

Pere Ubu: So you swear on the florid brow of the stand in presenter of ITV’s popular and long running This Morning to fuck Ken over?

All: We swear Boris, we’ll make you more presentable than Eamon!

Act II

Scene 1
City Hall, Ken Livingstone, Carol Vorderman, Boleslas (Dale Winton), Ladislas (Pat Sharpe, without the twins), Peter Mandelson,  (Bolugrelas)

Ken: Mandy, you were well harsh to Ubu this morning. Don’t you know he’s on intimate terms with Joe Pasquale and at least two of the Grumbleweeds? I’m banning you from the piss up at Dale’s house tonight.
Vorderman: But Ken why should he listen to you,  even when you were in Dictionary Corner on Countdown your family and friends all tuned in to Homes Under the Hammer on BBC 1.
Ken: Madame, I never go back on my word. You weary me with your talk of detox and debt consolidation loans.
Mandelson: Whatever you say, Top Spinman within the M25 circle
Vorderman: So are you going to Dale’s after all? I hear he’s bought a Walls Vienetta and a catering tub of Dairylea.
Ken: Too right, though I’m taking my own breadsticks after what happened last time.
Vorderman: But I’ve had terrible visions of Question Time beforehand. I foresee Boris smiting you with a giant meat product whilst a diminutive Geordie gives Dimbleby one in the sweetbreads. 
Ken: And I suppose your advice would be to give him one on the bottom and another five anywhere else?
Vorderman: And I see him taking your place, playing his Level 42 mix tape on Dick Whittington’s Walkman and laughing whilst stuffing his fat face with jellied eels.
Ken Livingstone: My face? Boris! Nonsense smonsense. Monsieur Boris is a ponsing splodge of over-ounced podge who longs for my todge.
Vorderman and Mandleson: What a fool Ken is. He thinks he’s David Essex.
Ken: Button it Mandy. And you, Numbers, to prove that Boris is about as fearsome to me as Les Dennis buttered-up with shea I’ll go to Question Time on my own, I won’t even take that Little Book of Dinnerparty Jokes.
Vorderman: Fatal error. Boris will club him and he’ll go down like Ronaldo.
Ken: Come on Pat, I’ve had enough of this – let’s give the twins a call, come on Dale, you can nip to the Booze Buster for us

(They go out, Vorderman and Mandelson go to the window)

Vorderman and Mandleson: God and Simon Cowell save you.
Vorderman: Mandy, do you think you could get me a sponsor for a maths book aimed at better than intelligent German Shepherds?

Scene 2
The Question Time studio
The panel (Jason Orange, Barry Chuckle, Lembit Opik, Lorraine Kelly) plus David Dimbleby; Ken Livingstone; Pat Sharpe; Pere Ubu; Ant and Dec and their men: Jimmy Nail, Sting and Alan Shearer.

Ken: Come Boris. Bring your fat arse over here and have a chipstick.
Pere Ubu: (to Ant and Dec) Get the sausage ready! (To Ken) Coming Ken, what flavour, are they s and v?
(Ant, Dec, Jimmy Nail, Sting and Alan Shearer surround Ken).
Ken: (looking out into the audience) Ah! There’s the North Devon anarcho-syndicalists. They make those legwarmers themselves, you know.
Pere Ubu: Do you think so? Looks like they’ve got Primark written all over them. Look at that one (points at member of audience). Dimbleby, hand him the mic later, ask him where he got those legwarmers.
Ken: Primark? They’ve got their own alpaca! What are you on, Boris? 
Pere Ubu: This! (He twists Ken’s nipple through his shirt)
Ken: Bastard! That’s my pierced one!
Pere Ubu: Shitter, Dimbleby’s onto me. Come on Ant and Dec!
Ant & Dec: Get ready to rumble! 

(They pull the meat product on Ken)

Ken: Oh fuck, not the long meat!
Winton (to Pat Sharpe): Did he say “long meat”?
Pere Ubu: Now he knows what we mean by “shitter”. Let’s fire off some one-way tripe to public questions and I’ll be lorded through the streets of Bethnal like that fox Galloway
Ant & Dec: What us wreck the mic! Psych!

(Dale Winton, Pat Sharpe and Peter Mandelson flee : alll pursue them).

Scene 3

Carol Vorderman and Peter Mandelson

Vorderman: You know, we can learn a lot about canine life from Fermat’s Last Theorem.
Mandelson: I’d be nothing without my dachshund, Fernando. He’s the only one who truly understands me. (He wipes away a tear.) And he has such a flexible tongue. (A frightful din is heard outside) What this! Boris is chasing Sharpe and Winton with a giant sausage! And here come Ant and Dec on mobility scooters! 
Vorderman: OMG, this reminds me of when my morning sickness led to me missing the private screening of The Hobbit
Mandleson: And here come Jason Orange, Barry Chuckle, Lembit Opik, Lorraine Kelly and Dimbleby! They’ve hijacked a milk float! Dimbleby’s covered in yogurt! At least I think it’s yogurt. But where is Ken?
Vorderman: He’s having a debrief with Dale – his head’s gone, he’s just lost the Great Getaway slot to. Paddy McGuinness
Mandelson: Hey, Pat Sharpe! Watch your back! Carol Decker from T’Pau won’t save you now!
Vorderman: Oh! Dale’s necking down the advocaat
Mandelson: He’s screwed. Ant has flattened him with a shopping trolley full of National Lottery scratchcards! 
Vorderman: Holy Pythagaros, this is going off like a carousel of zombies

(The noise increases. Vorderman and Mandleson drop to their knees. Mandelson run his finger along the skirting board.)
Mandelson: Ooh, look at the muck in here!

Scene 4
The same. The door is broken down. Pere Ubu and his madmen enter.

Pere Ubu: Did I ever mention, Mandy, that my mother gave birth to me in an abattoir?
Mandelson: Well, Vorders has a black belt in sudoko. Bring it, you fat twat. I’ll scratch your eyes out.
Pere Ubu: Mandy no, don’t turn that sausage talk against me, I’m touching cloth as it is and you can’t get jockey a juggernaut past a central line tube
A soldier (Rodney Bewes): (advancing): Drop the sausage, Thelma
Young Mandelson: You always thought you were better than Terry, down the social scale and into the earth with you

(He splits his skull)

Vorderman: Stand firm. If they come any closer I’ll brain them with this Detox Bible

Several (advancing): Mandy, you make it hard for us to flame you with your garish pink sweater
Mandelson: Garish? Craig Revel Horwood knitted this for me! Die, darlings!

(he produces a day-glo majorette baton and clubs them to death)

Pere Ubu: Wicked! Mandy’s dead. I feel top-notch, these Wellman tablets are the bollocks!
Mandelson: You’ll never kill the Prince of Darkness. Vorders – there’s a secret passage behind the safe where Ken keeps his Krankies memorabilia. Get your Rear of the Year (2011) down there!
Vorderman: In a way, you know, I think of the whole nation as my children, I’ve rekindled life below the Farah-line of most of the over-Sixties.
Mandelson: Flee! Here comes Tim Healy and Little Billy Fane! I’ll follow.
Pere Ubu: Vorders has left me dangling. Mandy you’ll have to do…
(He advances towards Mandelson)
Mandelson: You’re a big man, but you’re in bad shape. (He kicks Ubu in the testicles then winces) Bigger than I thought. Vorders, I’m coming! (he limps down the secret staircase

 

Scene 5
A cave in the mountains
Mandelson enters, followed by Vorderman

Mandelson: This is cosy as The Secret Place Tony and I used to go to
Vorderman: I used to come down here to play Postman’s Knock with Gyles Brandreth. Look – that badger is wearing one of his jumpers. (she falls down into the snow)
Mandelson: Your words run like honey down my gymslip! Would you play Mother to the Bates in me?
Vorderman: I’ve told you about hanging around showers. But Mandy, I am ill. These leather hotpants don’t keep out the cold. I might as well give you them back
Mandelson: Well I’ve got the spare pair on and my swingers are in no danger of crossing the floor of the house.
Vorderman: (glancing downwards) They certainly cover the key marginals. But Mandy, we are in a terrible state: Ken has been clubbed by a giant sausage, Dale has been mown down by a shopping trolley and Ant and Dec are roaming the land like a pair of particularly savage and well remunerated West Highland terriers. And you and I Mandy, reduced to cowering in a cave where Gyles Brandreth once bored me senseless with his Private Member’s Bill.
Mandelson: And who’s to blame, that distended jelly bean in an albino’s glamwig, Pere Ubu? Like a bacteria with an Audi shell there’s no reserved permit he won’t jockey over with his Clapton playlist maxed.  And to think my father’s pomposity made me a teenage Trotskyite for my career to be thwarted by this waterlogged fagend
Vorderman: How sweet life was before I ever clapped eyes on that bellend. The first time I saw him I thought he was advertising Dulux, especially when he cocked his leg up a lamppost.
Mandelson: We must hope that Murdoch backs our plight and that he runs that piece in Friday’s Standard, between the Sudoku and London’s Top Places to Rut.
Vorderman: There’s still hope for you, Mandy. You could always take that mushy peas endorsement. But I fear I will never take two big ones and four small ones again.
Mandelson: Now don’t cry, if you go you know that Richard Whiteley sits very close to God up there, he even let’s him make bad puns every day around 4pm. Her heel is lodged in a disused can of Red Bull! O God, we’ll never experience those ceaseless 30 seconds of bliss again! Can it be possible that we’ve lost the Rear of the Year (2011), another victim of Pere Ubu?
(he hides his face in his hands and weeps)
Oh dearie me! What a bitch it is to be so sensitive. I even cry at Crufts! And tears make my eyes go so puffy! I look like Tony Hadley after a night on the Lambrini.
(he falls prey to the most violent despair)

(Meanwhile the souls of Ken Livingstone, Dale Winton and Carol Vorderman enter the grotto, their ancestors accompany them and fill the cave. The oldest of them [Dale Winton] approaches Mandelson and gently awakens him):

Mandelson: Ah, my eyes are playing tricks, it’s like that time I was spiked with peyote at Mardi Gras…Ken, Dale, Vorders, is this really you, my only family?
The shade (the late Bob Monkhouse): Mandy, in my lifetime, I was presenter of the Golden Shot, Celebrity Squares and Wipeout, which even now is visible via the portal to the other world you call “Challenge TV”. I also invented the Fake Bake and the hog roast and danced naked in 10 Downing Street whilst Margaret Thatcher looked on approvingly. I leave you to avenge Ken, Dale and that woman from the Daily Mail sidebar.
(he hands him a large book of jokes)
This was stolen from me in 1995. Let these occasionally mildly racist punchlines be your weapons. Destroy Boris with gags about nymphomaniacs and milkmen.
(he disappears, leaving Mandelson alone and trembling)

Mandelson_01

Scene 6
City Hall
Pere Ubu, Mere Ubu, Ant and Dec

Pere Ubu: No, I don’t want to! Do you want to make me look like some kind of blubbering buffoon in need of a short back and sides?
Ant: But Boris. You promised a 12″ pepperoni deep pan with optional coleslaw for every pensioner. You can’t back out now.
Mere Ubu: If you don’t distribute some meat and bling real Londoners like Chas and Dave are going to go snooker loopy
Pere Ubu: David Dickinson’s getting me some fake Rolexes. Plus, I’ve ordered two tonnes of Shiphams. Let them eat paste!
Mere Ubu: Animal! You’re like a bear that walked head first into a Psychedelic Toupe Emporium
Pere Ubu: I want to get rich. How else will I sort out these split ends?
Mere Ubu: And will you really put Croydon before the Monarchy as worthy of City Status?
Ant: Dec found a load of Tamagotchis in a cupboard downstairs. We could drive through the streets dressed as samurai and give them out.
Pere Ubu: Bastard! That was my idea…
Ant: If you don’t show a little generosity, they’ll never pay the tax on underpants you’re going to introduce.
Pere Ubu: Not even for those sexy, what is it, Kevin Clown ones?
Mere Ubu: You idiot. You mean Tony Hilfinger.
Pere Ubu: Oh yeh. If the sexy underpants are under threat then I agree to everything. Let’s throw another dinner party only this time we’ll invite the whole of London. Are Iceland doing home deliveries yet? I fancy a platter of frozen sandwiches

(They go out)

Scene 7
Beneath the London Eye, full of people. Pere Ubu, wearing a baseball cap bearing the legend “I’m too sexy for this hat”; Mere Ubu; Ant and Dec; lacqueys (Cannon and Ball, Little and Large, Robson and Jerome, Hale and Pace, Keith Harris and Orville) carrying pizzas.

People: Here comes the fat bastard now!
Pere Ubu: (throwing slices of pizza) Here you go, this is for you! It doesn’t amuse me to be sharing the goo like this, even if it is Pizza Hut Twosday. It was Mere Ubu’s idea, though at least I talked her out of the stuffed crust. (Aside) The American Hot with extra jalapenos should lead to a nice levy in follow-throughs inside the cotton of taxable underpants. (To crowd): Eat up! Eat up!
All: Onion rings! Onion rings!
Dec: Look Mere Ubu, they’ll do anything for midweek sodium glutamate. We even saved on the stuffed crust!
Mere Ubu: It’s horrible. Look – that one’s covered in Thousand Island Dressing.
Pere Ubu: What a wonderful sight! Give Dominos a call, ask for the Family Feast with the free flagon of cream soda
Ant: Let’s get them to breakdance for chips.
Pere Ubu: Yes, that’s an idea (to the people). My friends, if you like all this pizza before you then take off your underpants. I will then pledge to convert the whole of Croydon into a Pizza Hut. To give you a taste of the future’s rewards here’s a 14 inch Hawaiian, when I wave these speedos I’ve just disbanded the first to arrive can take the whole of this sweetened ham topping. The rest of you can share my doughballs.
All: Long live Boris! Ken never even gave us a sausage on stick!
Pere Ubu (joyfully to Mere Ubu): Listen to that, I rock! (Does the dance of MC Hammer)
(All the people go and line up beneath the London Eye)
One, two, three, are you ready?
All: U can’t touch this!
Pere Ubu: Hammer time!
(They start off, tripping over each other, still trying to eat pizza as they go. Cries and uproar, melted cheese around mouths, up nostrils).
Ant: Isn’t that Eric Pickles? (he points to a large man in lederhosen) I’ve never seen anyone else swallow a foot long steak and cheese baguette without chewing.
Pere Ubu: He’s gaining ground on Chris Moyles
Ant: Oh! Moyles has slipped in that puddle of Pepsi Max. Pickles is going to win. Oh, there was no need for that. Not right in the austerity package.
Mere Ubu: Moyles has just thrown his last scotch egg at him
(the one who was second gets in first)
All: Come and cut our essential services!
Grant Mitchell: Blood-ties Boris, you have the backing of this handsome hardman!
Pere Ubu: Well, I’d prefer Ray Mears, but you’ll have to do. Take this as a token of our esteem. (he hands him a voucher for a KFC Gladiator box meal).
All: Long live Grant Mitchell! Long live Boris Johnson!
Pere Ubu: And you, my people, come and dine at my table. Help yourselves to mini-beef wellingtons. (aside) Nobody will miss a Blue Peter pet or two.

All: Let’s board the London Eye with this savoury bounty! Long live Boris, the apple-stuffed sausage!

(They enter the London Eye. The noise of the orgy, which goes on all night, can be heard across Lambeth. The curtain falls).

Act III

Scene 1
The Mansion House
Pere Ubu, Mere Ubu

Pere Ubu: Well, here I am, the Mayor of London and I’ve already got the galloping shits. And they’re just about to bring me my ceremonial mink jock strap.
Mere Ubu: Hasn’t that Imodium firmed you up yet? Perhaps you should switch from the speedos to those pink bermuda shorts I got you at Centre Parcs last year?
Pere Ubu: Ah yes, the budgie smugglers. They certainly cleared the infinity pool.
Mere Ubu: Come here you fat bastard, give me a squeeze
Pere Ubu: Let’s slip into the press room and be utterly, utterly appalling
Mere Ubu: Maybe we should invite And and Dec, to show our gratitude
Pere Ubu: Who? Those Geordie fuckwits? Haven’t they pissed off to the jungle yet?
Mere Ubu: You are very wrong Pere Ubu, I saw them sharing a Twix just half an hour ago
Pere Ubu: Well, we don’t need them now. I wouldn’t even give them the nuts off my Cornetto.
Mere Ubu: What about that time with the Cornetto on your nuts?
Pere Ubu: That was just a misunderstanding with an usherette. And put that little meerkat Mandleson out of your mind. He couldn’t bust a grape in a food fight.
Mere Ubu: Do you think Ant and Dec could have him in a celebrity cage fight?
Pere Ubu: That’s not a bad idea. I bet Dave would sponsor it. We could capture Ed Balls, dress him as a Roman and make him fight a komodo dragon. We need to recoup some of the money you made me waste on pizza. And why did I let you talk me into buying 10,000 gallons of Sprite Zero?
Mere Ubu: Listen to me Boris, remember that time Mandy got pissed from just being in the lift with Charles Kennedy? This Sprite Zero will have him cutting shapes to Rihanna in full view of the public eye
Pere Ubu: I’m not wasting good carbonated water, citric acid, natural lemon and lime flavourings, sweeteners (aspartame, acesulfame-K), preservative (E211) and acidity regulator (E331) on that little shit. Just relax about Mandelson. He’s probably gone off to Filey to live in that caravan of his with the fully functional chemical toilet
Mere Ubu: Please yourself Boris but don’t be surprised if you end up with a flagging whip
Pere Ubu: Flagging whip? Try this for party discipline!
(he drops his trousers and pursues Mere Ubu)
 

 

Scene 2
In Pere Ubu’s living room in the mansion house. Pere Ubu, Mere Ubu, whips and civil servants. Jimmy Nail, Sting and Alan Shearer. Chief Executives of Subway eateries (Nobles in Chains), Seb Coe, John Bercow, Ann Robinson

Pere Ubu: Bring me a footlong steak and cheese (melted), a footlong Italian, a footlong Meatball Marinara and a footlong whatever-the-sub-of-the-day is. All on honey oat with chipotle southwest
(Chief Executives of Subway are brought in looking grief stricken)
Mere Ubu: Boris! Restrain yourself! Remember the time at the Toby Carvery when you had to get your stomach pumped.
Pere Ubu: For the good of all Londoners I’m going to have these Executives neutered and the meatballs in the marinara replaced with their custard-storers
Chief Executives of Subway: Help! Next it’ll be the donuts, available in larger stores!
Pere Ubu: Bring the first executive and tell him to put his foot long away. If I find him guilty of depriving the citizens of this city of their free upgrade cookies I’m going to give him a nipple-pinching he’ll remember. In fact I’ll do it in the room where I keep my Noel Edmonds mask and stacks of unspent euros. (To the executive). Name yourself laughing boy.
Executive: My name is Bruno Brookes. I am a British radio presenter who became prominent in the 1980s. I was the second man in north Staffordshire to have a mullet and the first to wear a stonewashed denim jacket with rolled up sleeves. Since my sacking from Radio 1 in 1995 I have re-invented myself as part of the management structure of the popular sandwich chain, Subway. You may have seen me on Through the Keyhole in the late 1990s.
Pere Ubu: What’s your income?
Executive: I get money off at DFS.
Pere Ubu: A definite nipple-pinching!
(Grabs Bruno Brookes and is taken to the Noel Edmonds suite)
Mere Ubu: Didn’t know he had any.
Pere Ubu: Second Subway executive, who are you?
(The executive doesn’t answer)
Are you choking on Italian rye? Answer dickweed!
The executive: My name is Gary Davies. I too was a Radio 1 DJ and introduced the Bit in the Middle to the nation. I also teamed ice white socks with loafers consistently for a period of 18 months in the 1980s as a style decision. I have worked at Subway since my show on Century Radio was terminated by mutual consent in 2008.
Pere Ubu: Excellent! Excellent! I remember you were the first to introduce me to Brother Beyond. However I also remember your awful game Willy on the Plonker. Take him to the Edmonds Suite! Third Executive, have you got a name for that assemblage of extremeties you no doubt call a face?
The executive: I am Mike ‘Smitty’ Smith. I too was a Radio 1 DJ. I presented Live Aid in 1985 where Phil Collins and two members of Status Quo urinated on my silk bomber jacket as an act of friendship.
Pere Ubu: That’s the best you can do? You were the padded urinal for the man who over-acted through playing himself in Buster? For a couple of flailing cock-rockers?
The Executive: I crashed my helicopter.
Pere Ubu: Go and spend some time looking at the Edmonds Mask, smell the well-groomed testosterone of success! Fourth executive, with the sweetcorn round your mouth – sorry, they’re your teeth – who are you?
The executive: I am Peter Powell. I too was a regular on the Nation’s Favourite. I was coaxed back into the limelight in 2006 to host a six part show on Garrison FM called Peter Powell’s Popsicle. The series charted the history of British pop music and included a quiz called Pull Peter’s Plonker.
Pere Ubu: Mmm, another over-compensating sexual inadequacy with unasked for phallic punnilingus.
The executive: Anthea Turner ruined me. She took my self-respect and most of my taxidermy collection.
Pere Ubu: There’s too many X’s in your response, go and sniff the beard. Fifth executive reveal yourself!
The executive: I am Simon Bates, creator of Our Tune. It is a little known fact that I am also a qualified exorcist and coaxed five malign spirits from the body of Judith Chalmers using only Ambre Solaire and a candid pencil sketch of Frank Bough.
Pere Ubu: What factor of Ambre Solaire did you use?
The executive: Factor 15 was enough for Chalmers. Cliff Michelmore is another story.
Pere Ubu: O well, that’s better than the sunblock that Chris Tarrant used on me. Still, it’s down to see the Great Noel for you. What’s trilling your bird Mere Ubu?
Mere Ubu: You need to calm down, Pere Ubu. You’ve destroyed four pairs of slacks already this week. Not that they’re slack on that enormous arse of yours. It’s like two prize pigs rutting in a duvet cover.
Pere Ubu: Huh, don’t you know I’ve lost three ounces on the Thighmaster this month alone? I’ll be toned as Peter Andre by Christmas. Ann Robinson what do you think of my arse?
Clerk: Disgusting.
Pere Ubu: It’s far from my weakest link, give more details woman!
Clerk: Very well. You now own the following that previously belonged to Ken: 2 tickets for the Lion King musical; a voucher for kalamata olives at any branch of Cafe Rouge before 10 AM; a Group On discount for eyebrow threading; a place on Lenny Henry’s after dinner speaking masterclass; a ride in Bobby Davro’s hot air balloon. You also have access to the official Wowcher account and are currently bidding for a signed photograph of Jason Donovan on Ebay.
Pere Ubu: Wicked, am I still leading that bid?
Clerk: (checks phone). No. Looks like you’re losing out to Jason Donovan.
Pere Ubu: How are the rest of my bids doing? Am I still first up for Cliff Richards’ bundle of used shower loofers?
Clerk: Unfortunately, no. They’ve been withdrawn. He just uses his bare hands now.
Pere Ubu: Not even a sponge and a Matey sailor? That’s it, you Subway Executives are going to be nipple-pinched until you hand over your high-street stores to showcase my puppet collection. (The executives are shoved into the Noel Edmonds Suite). Get a move on, I’m going to lose my deposit in this mink jockstrap any second.
Several: I wish I was Stevie Wonder.
Pere Ubu: First I’m going to get to tear the derrier out of this footlong then I’m going to prepare my puppets for the highstreet.
Magistrates (Foggy, Compo and Clegg from Last of the Summer Wine, plus Russ Abbot): Get in this bath and we’ll push you down a hill with hilarious consequences.
Pere Ubu: Shitter! Is it true, you mossy trio, that Samuel Beckett wrote your first ever episode whilst playing cricket with a banana?
Magistrates: No, that’s an urban myth. It was Harold Pinter after too much blue Stilton. But what will become of us?
Pere Ubu: You will be condemned to eternal reruns on the Gold channel. No one will remember Russ Abbot’s appearance as former milkman-turned-secret-agent “Hobbo” Hobdyke. Your attempts at over-ripened sex will fail and Nora Batty will end up playing midfield for Leeds. Your most avid viewers will be the Royal Family.
Magistrate 1: (Clegg). That won’t even keep Gromit in Wensleydale. Or Compo in amyl nitrate.
Magistrate 2: (Foggy): Cuntyballs!
Magistrate 3: (Compo) Do you reckon I’m in love with Mrs. Batty, or is it just sex?
Magistrate 4: (Russ Abbott): See you Jimmy!
All: Did we need all these bandages? Or were we just looking for sympathy?
Pere Ubu: Commit this failed cast of Waiting for Godot to the Edmonds Emporium! (They struggle in vain)
Mere Ubu: What are you doing, you ludicrous lard arse? Who will warm my cockles now? (aside) They’ve been stone cold since Bognor.
Pere Ubu: I can still spit like a cockle Margaret.
Mere Ubu: More like a winkle.
Pere Ubu: It’s not the size of the wave Margaret it’s the motion of the ocean. At least that’s what Oliver Letwin told me. Here come the Financiers
Financiers (Seb Coe, John Bercow and Piers Morgan): (singing) Here come the girls!
Pere Ubu: Gentleman, will you play Hemingway to my Scott Fitzgerland (drops trousers). This is slightly more than a classical statue wouldn’t you say?
Financiers: Not what we’d call a great American novel.
Pere Ubu: Gentleman I am going to divide this city into areas representing the Subway menu; Southwark will be the the BLT; Dagenham and Redbridge the steak and cheese; Westminster will be Turkey Club and Chelsea the tuna melt. I will then have Chipotle Southwest sauce squirted by helicopter upon every community.
First financier (John Bercow): You’ll never have a big enough nozzle.
Second Financier (Seb Coe): Chipotle southwest is far too calorific
Third financier (Piers Morgan): Do you want me to go through Kenny Lynch’s bins?
Pere Ubu: I know I might look like a young Roger Cook but do you think I’d stoop that low? Into the Noel Edmonds Suite with the lot of you (Financiers pushed away)
Mere Ubu: Why did you do that? He’d promised me Rick Astley’s fax number.
Pere Ubu: Oh Shitter!
Mere Ubu: Now we’ll never get invited to Simon le Bon’s motor home.
Pere Ubu: Don’t you worry my sugar-doused lilly-petal, I’ll don a baseball cap and work the Croydon branch of Subway myself

 

Scene 3
House of reformed boy band East 17, a house in the environs of Walthamstow. The band and some local youths are assembled all wearing oversized white hooded coats as in the video for “Stay Another Day”.

Tony Mortimer (entering): Listen to this, we seem to have fused a boy band style that’s unique, occasionally blending rap and pop in songs such as “House of Love”, “Steam” and “Let It Rain”. In additon to that I’ve just heard that Ken Livingstone is dead and Mandy and Vorderman had fled to the mountains. Boris Johnson’s now Mayor of London
Brian Harvey: We’ve gotta change this world to a world of love. Mother Earth she’s on overload. One more war and she might explode. I’ve heard he’s going to break wind in every Italian restaurant in Hampstead as a demonstration of his power.
All: This is all going to end in an episode with a car exhaust with black tears streaming into the gutter. Boris is a margarine-coloured Godzilla and his family are also bipedal mutant dinosaurs
Tony Mortimer: Who’s that knocking 1 to the 2 to the 3 on the door?
A Voice (off stage, clearly that of Pere Ubu, attempt at rapping)
Teen drinking is very bad.
Yo I got a fake ID though.
Yeeah, yeeah, yeeah, yo, 2 step with me, 2 step with me
So yo show me your underpants
If soiled I want your filthy tax-es
(The door is broken is broken down and Ubu comes in followed by hordes of tax collectors)
Pere Ubu: Which of you is the lead singer? (Mortimer and Harvey both step forward) Ah, inseparable. Just like Upsy-Daisy and Iggle Piggle.
Brian Harvey: He’s just gizzards man, I’m free range corn fed talent.
Pere Ubu: Well then, listen up or I’ll steam your goujons. You won’t be free to roam and perch then.
Brian Harvey: Inside these Chaplinesque strides are the fighter’s legs of a Van Damme, bring it on suet-ball.
Pere Ubu: I’m here to tell you to hand over the royalties from your collaboration with Wyclef Jean, whoever she is, or it’s into the jungle with a wallaby’s testes for lunch for you, my lad. Come on, my Lords of light entertainment, bring forth the conveyance. (enter The Grumbleweeds and The Barron Knights pushing a hostess trolley).
Tony Mortimer: The Barron Knights, the members of East 17 lay their hats down to you. By adapting your act to each new wave of emerging performers you were able to survive longer than your more conventional contemporaries, and even today can still be regularly found in cabaret or performing a seaside summer season.
Pere Ubu: That’s all fine and dandy, but I don’t see any of you on the The Cube celebrity special. I’m going to sack off the lot of you and put on Pudsey and Ashleigh at the O2 Arena. I’ll be rich. Then I’ll give everyone Chinese burns and tell them to fuck off to Lidl.
East 17: Boris, hold your horses, we’re in the Top Ten of both Noddy Holder’s and Brian Blessed’s Best Ever Christmas Songs!
Pere Ubu: You’ll never be a patch on Celine Dion. I hid under the stage in Preston for six hours to meet that heavenly woman in 1993. I’ve still got the dry ice scars on my manhood to prove it.
East 17: Ah, that explains your Neanderthal waddle Boris. Bring back Mandelson, the only Minister of our Interiors.
Pere Ubu: That little gnome has gone fishing for good. Give me some money or I’ll get Mere Ubu to run you through with that giant sized Toblerone. She might have bladder problems but she can still piss all over you.
(A struggle takes place, the house of East 17 is destroyed, Tony Mortimer and Brian Harvey run away across Epping Forest. Ubu stays to collect their soiled underwear).

Scene 5

The old analogue archives of ITV. Ant and Dec are held captive by Pere Ubu, who holds videos of Byker Grove as leverage
Pere Ubu: So, PJ and Duncan, you troll me on Mumsnet and see where it gets you.
Ant: Go easy Boris, in the five days since you’ve been Mayor you’ve turned this city into a bad night at The Other Room. Your voice may be on tannoy on the top decks of buses but everyone has novelty Ken figurines on their keyrings.
Pere Ubu: All that maximum hold mousse has addled your brain. There is no such thing as a bad night at The Other Room. I know if you got out you’d be on the Daybreak sofa stroking Kate Garraway’s golden locks before I could say Luxury Boneless Basted Pork Loin Crackling Joint. But no-one has ever escaped from this place. Look over there. (he points to Angela Rippon bound and gagged with lengths of film). You thought she was just enjoying retirement, didn’t you? Come, Diddymen, and bolt the doors (he goes out. Ken Dodd’s Diddymen bolt the doors).

Scene 6
Number 10 Downing Street. Cameron and Cabinet in conversation with Ant and Dec

Cameron: Was it you two curious butplugs (who have placated the nation through recession with your abilities to appear remoulded and yet still the same yappy little bastards) who took part in the murder of Red Ken?
Ant: I have to admit it was me who dealt the blow. But it was Boris who put the sausage in my hand.
Cameron: I read in the Metro that it was your sausage in Boris’s hand. Anyway, what do you two Moshi Monsters actually want here?
Ant: We escaped from the ITV archives by the skin of our teeth. Dec was nearly killed when Richard O’Sullivan clocked him with a Le Creuset crockpot. I sustained severe lacerations to my buttocks when I was surprised by Alan Titchmarsh with a lawn scarifier. Boris’ goons hunted us cross country and it was nearly curtains for the nation’s favourite cheeky Geordie duo when we were ambushed by the Diddymen in Whitehall with a water cannon and a giant tickling stick. We are here to beg for sanctuary. I hear any old idiot can get in here these days.
Cameron: You would need to ask Letwin about that path. How do you plan to get out of here when the country’s forgotten light entertainers want to vent their frustration stored from years of watching make their own kind eating mollusc anus in the outback? Keith Chegwin is waiting outside disguised as a dalek, though his beef is that you’ve never asked him on the show, even after he broke an arm on Dancing on Ice.
Ant: Sir, we bring you these as tokens of our fealty (they present Cameron with a copy of Ooh! What a Lovely Pair: Our Story by Ant and Dec and the sausage used to kill Ken Livingstone, sliced and made into sandwiches)
Cameron: (Glances at the first page): May I ask if you boys received a proper, or – shall we say – standard education?
Ant: Why aye, man. Shearer taught wor English. He done a great job. But boss: we’ve got to find Mandleson. That little show pony is the best chance we’ve got.
Cameron: Very well, I’m looking for a couple of energetic whips to keep an eye on Eric Pickles’ grocery expenses. If we can make the savings I envisage you’ll have served me well.
Ant: Got to be easier than managing Boris’ charge card at Ann Summers.
Cameron: Good. Take the back door on the way out, you may see Hunter from Gladiators, he works for me now.
(Ant and Dec leave).

Scene 7
A Toby Carvery.
Pere Ubu, Mere Ubu, Pere Ubu’s financial advisers (Jim Davidson: Roy Chubby Brown; Jim Bowen; Stan Boardman)

Pere Ubu: Come to Boris. (he picks up the gravy boat and drinks from it) Now, we need to talk about money. We’re strapped for cash, but never fear. I’ve got a contact at Wonga.com who can give me mates’ rates and I’ve also found Vorderman’s private collection of Black and White Minstrels Betamax tapes. I’ll be taking those down Cash Converters first thing.
Jim Bowen: Can’t imagine you’ll get more than BFH for them.
Mere Ubu: He’s about as much use as a speedboat in Wolverhampton.
Pere Ubu: Mademoisselle of the shithouse, you give me a feeling in my stomach reminiscent of the time Jocky Wilson was on the Bullseye Christmas special and left it to the public imagination whether or not he was wearing anything under his kilt. I must tell you that as far as the Boris Bullybeef is concerned all is well in these polyester thermals. I’m so in touch with the needs of my body the rest of you remind me of viagra-fuelled mannequins. I sense the whole city struggling to sleep under the weight of my image.
Jim Bowen: And the scheme to raise money by auctioning off pictures of you in your PVC onesie? How’s that going?
Mere Ubu: Ha, some of my finest moments have been spent watching your thwarted desire in that thing Boris, like a baby narwhal landlocked in a binbag.
Pere Ubu: Madame, I’ll have you know one of those pictures was re-tweeted 3 times and favourited by Bradley Walsh. But I’m a bit peckish. Where did I put those cashews? Davidson, have you seen my nuts? (bursts of laughter) Oh, you put me off with your chauffeur costume and comedy West Indian accent. (a messenger, Shane Richie, enters) What this, the fucking doorstep challenge? Didn’t they melt you down to make Michael McIntyre?
Mere Ubu: Your apposite analogy has made him flee you fool, don’t you know he’s rumoured to have slept with over one thousand women at a number of Butlins holiday camps. I could have lost my deposit there. But look he’s dropped a blackberry on the mat, let’s raid his inbox.
Pere Ubu: Let’s have a look. There might be some pictures of Coleen Nolan on there.
Mere Ubu: (picks up blackberry) How do you use these things, they make my thumbs turn to fitting seals….Hang on a minute, there’s a text here to Mandy saying that he only came round to sprinkle some fart powder over your cornflakes before this evening’s Newsnight. That Mandy would come off looking good and your ludicrous short-lived run as Mayor would be in tatters.
Pere Ubu: Shitter! And I ate four bowls! I’ll be blowing like Pompeii and blast Paxman out of his chair! Now I’ll never get to give Emily Maitlis my finger of Fudge. (he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a bent Cadbury’s Fudge, weeps and sobs).
Mere Ubu: There’s only one way out Boris.
Pere Ubu: Wind-eze?
Mere Ubu: Pig Goes Pop the Gameshow!
All: What does pork make? Prizes!
Pere Ubu: Let’s raid Newsnight and turn it into an extended pork-themed gameshow!
Jim Bowen: Tony Green’s got some sausage suits. I’ll page him when he gets back from Ayia Napa.
Stan Boardman: Watch out for dem small shrivelled German ones.
Roy Chubby Brown: Flaps!
Jim Davidson: This is like that time I got shedloads of money for telling some jokes to the troops.
Pere Ubu: Well, I’m not paying you a penny. I’ve got a payday loan to cover and I’ve used up all my Nectar points on luxury yogurt and wet wipes. We’ll do the game show, but only if we find sponsors. How about Danepak? Or the Police Federation? I’d look great in riot gear. I’ve got the legs for it.
All: Pip Goes Pop The Gameshow, let’s rock!

Scene 8
Newnight studio converted to the set of a gameshow

Producer: Okay Boris, and action!
Pere Ubu: Hello, good evening and welcome to Pig Goes Pop, the show that puts the sizzle in your sausage and the pork in your…er…er.. pig. Shitter! This isn’t as easy as Paddy McGuinness makes it look.
Mere Ubu: Just be yourself Boris, you’re too ridiculuous for the Ted Rogers straightman routine.
Pere Ubu: I saw Marco Pierre White on QVC selling saucepans once. Perhaps I should copy his style (he removes his tie and fastens in around his head) Oh no, it’s no good. I look like Bjorn Borg on magic mushrooms.
Cameraman: Boris, can you please step back a bit I’m having trouble fitting you into the lens.
Pere Ubu: You impudent little shit. I’ve lost 2 lbs on the Ron Atkinson diet.
Mere Ubu: He might look round but he’s as solid as an Autumn pumpkin on the outside. His body’s quite firm too.
Pere Ubu: I’ll show you how virile I am. Gentleman, bring forth the mechanical pig. I’ll give you a masterclass in how to ride an animal.
Mere Ubu: Boris don’t, the mechanical horse was last ridden by Lee Majors in a trailer for the Fall Guy in 1981. At least that’s what it said on ebay.
Pere Ubu: Then I won’t touch it. That contraption would never withstand the iron grip of my stupendous thighs and the sheer weight of my First Lord of the Treasury.
(Mere Ubu blushes and drops her eyes).
Someone bring me a new steed. You won’t catch Boris riding the Six Million Dollar Man’s sloppy seconds.
(an enormous space hopper is brought)
I’ll soon tame this beast. (the space hopper rolls away)
Come back here, you naughty girl. I’ll strain my groin and that will be no fun for anyone.
Mere Ubu: He really is an imbecile. Ah, he’s flouncing on that thing like an obese fraggle on benzedrine. Now the fat fuck’s fallen off in front of the producer.
Pere Ubu: Bollocks! My pants are ripped. If these boys escape from the barracks it’ll take a sink plunger and a catering tub of Utterly Butterly to bring them to order. Anyone who laughs at me will get one right in the Henley regatta and two in the vintage wine cellar.
Mere Ubu: More like a trial-size punnet of Flora.
Pere Ubu: Can I take this opportunity to say that, should I die a hero’s death like Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic or Mr. Stay Puft at the end of Ghostbusters, I leave my estate to you. All except the novelty teapots and the vintage bongo mags. I’ve promised those to Michael Howard.
Mere Ubu: Goodbye Boris, politics is the only gameshow for you. Next time you’re up close and personal with Cameron give him a big kiss on the Millenium Dome from me.
Pere Ubu: You bet. Right on the big white elephant’s tusk.
(Pere Ubu leaves, accompanied by a marching band of majorettes playing the theme from Bergerac on kazoos)

Mere Ubu: Now that human beehive has left I’m going on a month-long detox, then we’ll have Mandelson killed. After that I’ll jump the Ryanair to Tenerife courtesy of Boris’s ISAs.

Act IV

Scene 1
Madame Tussauds Chamber of Horrors.

Mere Ubu: If those top secret documents I found behind the mayoral commode are correct, Ken’s Amex card has got to be around here somewhere. But I counted 13 steps after Haigh the acid bath murderer and there’s no sign. This floorboard sounds squeaky, though. Up it goes. Ah, there it is.I’ll use the length of baling twine I keep in my handbag to fish it out. This is even better than I thought. As well as the Amex there’s a complete loyalty card for Frankie and Benny’s, a genuine diamonique penis ring and six bottles of Shloer. But what’s that noise? My imagination is running away with me. I thought Dr. Crippen just made a sexually inappropriate comment. Not, it’s nothing. Into the handbag with the lot of it. Let’s put the floorboard back. But there’s a noise again. I’m getting out of here. I’ll come back for the Shloer tomorrow and bring Tebbit with me.
A Voice (coming from the waxwork of Freddy Mercury, sustained notes redolent of Live Aid): Heeeeyyyyyyy, Hooooooooohhhhhhhh!
(Mere Ubu runs away terrified, taking the Amex card, loyalty card for Frankie and Benny’s, and genuine diamonique penis ring)

Scene 2
Jamie Oliver’s Fifteen Restaurant, London N1
Mandelson advising fifteen apprentice chefs on future career possibilities under the auspices of New Labour

Mandelson: You know, this will give you all a terrific skills base. When you leave here you’ll be able to make a perfect skinny cappuchino in even the most trying of circumstances, like me in the kitchenette of Airforce 1 when dear old George W was forcefully making the case for invasion whilst bashing his bible inches from my face, We will march on the mayoral palace, stuff Boris’s olives then start a pop up shop selling £10 sandwiches to idiots.
Trainee chefs: We’ll serve our rostis to the masses!
Mandelson: And we will serve canapes to all! This, boys, is democracy in action!
Trainee chefs: Let’s pitch ourselves outside number 10 and knock up an al fresco omelette in the name of Mandelson!
Mandelson: Look! There’s Mere Ubu getting thrown out of the restaurant along with Duncan “chase me” Norvelle, Roger de Courcey and Nookie Bear. They must have been hustling for salmon en croute again.
Mere Ubu: What are you after, you throstling nest of hotties? Oh, it’s Mandelson.
(The crowd throws garlic mushrooms)
First guard (Roger de Courcey): Bloody hell. It’s like the Glasgow Empire with breadcrumbs.
Second (Nookie Bear): Help! I’m not a stuffed dummie!
Third (Duncan “chase me” Norvelle): Life begins on the other side of despair.
Mandelson: Okay, flash-fry another batch of garlic mushrooms boys, and don’t forget to trim the stems as it makes for a more accurate pitch
Palotin Giron (Timmy Mallett): Utterly brilliant!
(he draws his giant foam mallet and rushes at them, producing terrifying carnage)
Mandelson: Ha, I once had a sleepover with Tommy Boyd, he told me your weakspot. You’re like Dame Edna Everage for children. Let’s have it!

(They fight)

Mallett: Bleeuurgh!
Mandelson: Victory, my friends! Now for Mere Ubu!
(Trumpets are heard)
Aha! The Chief Executives of Subway are arriving, let’s share an antipasto platter before that culinary hell begins!
All: She’ll do until we get our hands on that giant meatball processed in a plant that also processes nut containing products.

(Mere Ubu runs away pursued by the Subway executives. A hail of 6″ breakfast subs and 16oz dispensed drinks are thrown)

Scene 3
Pere Ubu with the England football team, visiting a children’s hospital in Essex

Pere Ubu: Fucksticks, OMG, what a bitch! These pleasantry sessions in hospitals will be the death of me. You, John Terry, you go and sing that Muslim man to sleep and you, Steven Gerrard, go and find some honeyed words for that bereaved family. Can’t you see I’m fucked
(Gerrard and Terry obey)
Ashley Cole: Hey Boris: what do you think has happened to Mandelson? I haven’t seen him since we were double booked for a leg wax before the Strictly final.
Pere Ubu: The greasy fledgling has legs like kerplunk sticks, he was never going to turn up. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s spoken to the Rt Hon Phillip Hammond and had our return train to the Smoke cancelled due to overheard wire theft. You know, when we’re back in London, by means of our knowledge of the constitution and aided by the learning of our counsellors, I’m going to have devised a huge pirate duck bus ship that can take us to these celebrity hospital bashes. It will be eco-friendly, powered by my flatulence, and capable of transporting the whole England team to the 2014 World Cup in Brazil. I’ll even wait around for a few days to bring you back.
Andy Carroll: Here comes Roy Hodgson. He seems to be in a hurry. Listen to the frenzied tip-tap-tip of his Cuban heels.
Pere Ubu: And what’s the excuse this time?
Roy Hodgson: All is lost, sire. John Terry was supposed to be man marking Mandelson, but Mandy distracted him with a torch and a mirror and gave him the slip. The Subway executives have risen up, Timmy Mallett’s mallet is where no mallet should be and Mere Ubu has commandeered a milk float and is making for the channel tunnel at a terrifying top speed of 2.5 miles per hour.
Pere Ubu: You remind me of the mystical jub-jub bird that disappears in ever-decreasing circles up its own arsehole! Have you been reading the Daily Mail? Whatever next! Mandelson’s behind this I warrant, where have you come from?
Roy Hodgson: From TK Max, my lord. I got these loafers in the sale.
Pere Ubu: Toadhole of a shitter, I’ll set the whole of the England team on you in a minute, Ashley Cole’s got new heels and he’s not afraid to use them. Did anyone ever tell you you look like an owl terrified by its dormouse supper? Off you go to the training field my son, that Red Bunch will soon be back with their subterfuge farting powder and handbags weighted-down with copies of Fifty Shades. If you can keep a clean sheet in your Y-fronts you’ll save yourself a surcharge in taxes.
John Motson: Sir, can’t you smell Mandelson and his army of chefs cooking up lobster bisque in the nearby woods? (shouting) What a time to score. 27 minutes!
Pere Ubu: It’s true, pesky Montenegro. A good run in the World Cup would take the eyes of this imbecilic city off this shitstorm. I was going to sit on the high point of Muswell Hill with a bottle of Prosecco looking down women’s tops as far away as Penge!
The England football team: Do we not like that!
Pere Ubu: Come on fellas, let’s ready ourselves for the oncoming red drizzle of Mandleson and co. Let’s eat as many borlotti beans as we can and sit on Muswell Hill facing North. As that unit of bombastic Lego men appear from Regents’ Park we’ll blast them back to Dover with our derrieres! You lot can circle me with fans, like mosquitoes wafting my high APR overdraft towards them. Come on, down those beans, have some haricots too. We’ll be blowing like the Armada in no time. This is sure to kill them a bit, especially Mandy, his stomach’s as weak as a Skoda airbag. I’ll give the Hairy Bikers a call and ask them to knock up a couple of giant lentil burgers, they can then get behind those wet reds and add some genuine North-east CFCs to the confusion. Let’s hide inside this converted Wetherspoons, mine’s a pint of Embittered Polecat, when our bladders are full we can piss all over this naked photo of Ken I’ve got on my phone. Our budget day boxes will be flying! Someone keep lookout while we get to work.
Officers (Gerrard, Terry and Lampard): No problem boss. We’ll scythe down Mandy with a cynical two footed lunge right in the nutsack.
Pere Ubu: That’s the way you Sturmabteilung cut-outs, order will soon be restored. What’s the time?
John Motson: Just one minute of overtime, so you can put the eggs on now if you like.
Pere Ubu: Well then, it’s a dozen hard-boiled free range for me, I need loosening up a little. Mandy won’t show when there’s a pan rattling. Hey you, Jools Holland, send a tweet to the chavs, tell them you’re going to put the Wurzles on live and get them to piss all over the leg of Chris de Burgh while he sings an acapella Lady in Red
(John Motson and Jools Holland go out)
England football team: All hail the great fat bastard! (singing) He ate all the pies. He ate all the pies…
Pere Ubu: Ah, the sound of a patriotic chant at the shores of the Country of Boris!
(Mandelson’s canon ball shatters the window of the Wetherspoons)
Shitter, I’ve followed through, I’ll have to pay my own taxes!

Scene 4
The same, Wayne Rooney, and then Mandelson’s army

Rooney (arriving): Boss, Mandelson’s shelling us with giant Krispy Kreme doughnuts. I put my head on one to clear it and now I’ve got strawberry gloss all over my hair weave.
Pere Ubu: So what chunkcake, what do you want me to do about it? I can see you could do with a spell on my Thighmaster, you wouldn’t make my Prime Minister’s Question Time 5-a-side squad by the looks of it. Nevertheless you’re here, if you’re quick enough to catch him then eat Mandy.
John Motson: Another giant doughnut! Not the first half you might have expected, even though the score might suggest that it was.
Pere Ubu: This is like manna from heaven, open wipe boys and gorge deep on Mandy’s Kristy Kreme!
(All take out buckets to catch the doughnuts. The battle has just begun. The England football team slides on a heap of chocolate dreamcake and butterscotch sundaes)
Michel Roux Jr (striking): Try this Soufflé Suissesse right in your bar and grill. It is a cheese soufflé baked on double cream to provide a counterpoint between sweet and savoury flavours and is, as I’m sure you are aware, one of my signature dishes.
Roy Hodgson: Complexity, ah! I am dead.
Pere Ubu: Forward! Hey you, Greg Wallace! What are you doing here? You’re an ingredients’ expert, not a chef and you’d eat your own foot if it was covered with chocolate parfait. And I bet that mozzarella and pesto panini you’re threatening me with isn’t even hot.
Greg Wallace: Huh, that’s what you think. This is proper fooood!

(He takes off his flat cap and fires hot mozzarella off the rim)

Pere Ubu: Ow! Ouch! You’ve burned off my pubic hair with molten cheese! It’s worse than that time I was cooking along with Nigella. Oh, but all the same! Ah! I’ve got him! (he takes out his phone and unfollows Greg Wallace on Twitter). There you are, are you going to start again with your buttery biscuit base?
John Motson: This is closer than at any other time this year that Boris is close to not being Mayor of London, apart from earlier this year when he wasn’t Mayor anyway.
Pere Ubu: I’m not so sure. My arse has got more bruises than Frank Spencer’s fruit bowl.
Young socialists: Huzzah! Make way for Mandy! (Mandelson arrives accompanied by Ant and Dec disguised as the two runners with moustaches from the 118 118 adverts)
David Coleman: He’s even smaller in real life than he is on the track.
Whispering Ted Lowe: For those of of you watching in black and white, he’s touching cloth.
Harry Carpenter: They said it would last two rounds – they were half right, it lasted four.
Dec: ‘ave it! One in the turkey-gullets for you Pete Waterman (kicks him, Waterman bends double). Look his toupe’s flown off! Anyone else wanna get in my way?
(he knees Gary Neville in the groin)

Pere Ubu: Come on, my friends! Catch that little shit in this! (he produces a football goal net from deep within his trousers) This was the net in which Emile Hesky scored his twelth and final England goal in a 4-0 win against Kazakhstan in June 2009. All hail the low scoring but admirably team oriented auxiliary striker!
All: Someone text Hesky, he’s a good man to have on your side when you’re behind!
Ant: By George and Mildred, we are fallen!
Pere Ubu (recognising Ant and Dec): Great Fires of London it’s you two Geordie smurfs! Ha, me and the England squad are going to make smoothies out of your swingers and down them for one of our 5-a-day! Ah, fuck (Krispy Kreme donut hits him on the head). Ah, it’s a donut, I’ll burn this off by lunch (takes donut off his head and starts to eat).
Ant: That’s not a genuine Krispy Kreme. We got a few from Gregg’s as psychological warfare.
Pere Ubu: Think that’s funny, then watch this (eats Gregg’s false Krispy Kreme in one go). Again! The cream might not be as good but the donut’s no enemy.
(In a frenzy starts to scoop as many donuts as he can find off the floor)
John Motson: Sir, Whispering Ted Lowe has captured Mandelson’s baggage train. It’s all Louis Vuitton. I’ll get Willie Thorne to take it down the market when he gets back from destroying the Thames flood barrier.
Pere Ubu: Mmm, not sure we should trust Willie with it; chronic gambler. I can’t take any more donuts, my counter-move has gone all dispepsic. I’ve hit the wall. Could you fetch me a large Sprite Motty?
John Motson: It looks like a one man show here, although there are two men involved.
Pere Ubu: Hm? Total shitter, looks like I’ll be needing a puncture repair kit for my inner tube. Don’t be backward Motty, just get the Sprite. Can it be I’ve gallantly demolished one of each Krispy Kreme in the entire range and there’ll be no carbonated water, citric acid, natural lemon and lime flavourings, sweeteners (aspartame, acesulfame-K), preservative (E211) and acidity regulator (E331) to follow? Bring me my Thighmaster, Nietzsche was right when he said “it’s got to be a loose fit”.
(David Cameron emerges from the donut debris, Ubu throws himself at him, bearhugs his waist)
An officer (George Osborne): Watch out, Dave. That fat bastard’s drooling all over your burgundy Sta-Prest.
Pere Ubu: Here you are! It’s true, you have in life the handsome forehead lauded by the Victorians. You are lean and overweight in a way that can only be described as human. Let Boris provide the raita for your fat free dip
(Ubu chases Cameron)
Holy Virgin of Oxbridge come back! These chains of desire are as Carl Lewis’s pony-tail to the Gold! The things I’m going to do to you, we’ll be like peddlars of stolen Armani in the ditch of our cologne! Bollocks, who put that rickshaw there, Courage Boris, forget about that time in Shangai!
(Boris and Cameron try to swerve but both end up in the back of a rickshaw peddled by Ronnie Corbett)
David Cameron: We’re in this together.
David Coleman: He just can’t believe what’s not happening to him!
Pere Ubu: (jumping out of the rickshaw) Take him down to Chinatown, Ronnie! And pick up some pork dumplings while you’re there. Oh, here come the England football squad. Rooney will beat the shit out of him. I told him Dave has been disrespecting him on his YouTube channel. And here comes big Sam Allardyce in his Beefeater costume and a bucket full of Scotch eggs. Suppose he must have just been passing. Of course, I’d get in there myself if it wasn’t for my prickly heat. I’ve got it all up my arm and my knackers are like raspberry bonbons. I’d have taken him out all the same if Corbett hadn’t swerved to avoid that group of nuns crossing the road. Ah, look! He’s ploughed the rickshaw into a greengrocer’s window. He’ll never get his head out of that watermelon. Thank god for my quick thinking in jumping out just in time. I’m still fleet of foot. I should be on Superstars. I could outrun Joe Bugner any day of the week. Oh, here comes UKIP.
(Nigel Farage and a group of badly dressed men rescue Cameron)
John Motson: It looks like a one man show here, although there are more than two men involved.
Pere Ubu: Now’s the time to make like a banana. There’s a 12″ stuffed crust with my name on it over at Jeremy Clarkson’s.

David Cameron: Clarkson has a habit of pulling it out when it matters most.

Pere Ubu: What a shower this lot are. Corbett has fallen through the window of that antiques shop and now they’re robbing it. What the fuck does Carlton Cole want with a copper warming pan? I’m trapped.(he is jostled) Hey! Watch your step or I’ll give you a Chinese burn you won’t forget. Ah, now my way is clear. I’ll make a break for it and hole up at Clarkson’s for a while. He’s got a subscription to Babestation. And I’ll leave Motty behind whilst he’s engrossed in that 1978 Rothman’s annual.

(he goes out, then David Cameron and UKIP are seen chasing the England football team)

Scene 5
A Little chef just outside Swansea. It is snowing. Pere Ubu with Sting and Alan Shearer.

Pere Ubu: What bitchy weather, it’s freezing like a motherbitch. I can’t extend my periscope out of the trench in weather like this.
Sting: So Boris – has that Tramadol and American cream soda calmed you down?
Pere Ubu: A bit, I’ve managed to apply a restraining order to my buttocks at least.
Shearer: (aside) He’s worse than Denis Wise.
Pere Ubu: Hey Shearer, I was always in admiration of your raised right-hand goal celebration, like a Nazi running for a bus. Where did you learn it?
Shearer: One of the Village People. I forget which. But I’m carrying an injury. Mandelson raked his studs down my shin then slapped me with his Filofax. Have you got a magic sponge?
Pere Ubu: Yes, we call it William Hague. You were always a drama queen, I’ve seen more bravado at the annual House of Lords Mischief Night. Why not follow my lead, not a single sliver of salted meat has passed my moist hatch today and I haven’t eaten either.
Shearer: Sting, what happened to Motty? The last I saw Eric Pickles had him in a full nelson and Osborne was pelting him with quails’ eggs.
Sting: I was watching every step he took then I got distracted by Mandy’s very fetching Louis Vuitton sweater.
Pere Ubu: Poor Motty. His famous sheepskin will be dusters by now, used to clean Osborne’s collection of contemptuous crystal figurines.
Sting and Shearer: Hey, Manwell!
The distant voice of Christopher Biggins: Turn again, Boris Johnson.
Shearer: You’re a big man Biggins.
Sting: Let’s adopt sex and music as our only religion!
Pere Ubu: I don’t care if he’s in panto with Basil Brush. If he comes near me I’ll make sure his Dick never appears in Plymouth again.

Scene 6
The same. Enter the Honey Monster.

Shearer: Boris, you never said you had a brother?
Pere Ubu: Is that Pudsey bear? He’s much more muscular in real life.
Sting: Look out Shearer, that luminescent yard-god will flair up your dodgy cartlidge!
Pere Ubu: Shit! It’s Charles Kennedy! He must have come about that dodgy sandwich toaster I sold him. He’s coming for me! No, it’s Shearer he’s after. Oh, thank god. (the Honey Monster throws itself on Shearer. Sting beats the Honey Monster with a fretless jazz bass guitar. Pere Ubu climbs onto a table).
Shearer: Sting, wade in! Ubu, if you bail me we can forget about that email incident!
Pere Ubu: Stick it, Roxanne. Get Puff Daddy to help you.
Sting: I’ve got the honey monster in a tantric sex hold, someone turn off the light!
Shearer: Hold him right there, Sting lad. He’s letting go. This reminds me of that night in Blackpool with Peter Schmeichel.
Pere Ubu: (adopts speech making voice): THE SANCTIFICATION OF WOMEN IN MY TUM.
Shearer: Here we go. It’ll be anecdotes about his booze cruise with Sister Wendy next.
Sting: Oh God, I’ve just bit my lip. My career will be in tatters!
Pere Ubu: FIAT PUNTO.
Shearer: You’re a fat cunt yourself!
Sting: Ah! I’ve got it in the kundalini!
(in the middle of the cries of the cast of Viva Forever, the Spice Girls musical, who are rehearsing on a nearby precipice, the Honey Monster swears profusely and Ubu continues to mumble)
Shearer: Hold on a sec while I sharpen me butterknife against this halfer.
Pere Ubu: HEY, MACARENA.
Sting: I’ve been holding this posture for twenty six years, not sure how much longer I can stay this upright.
Pere Ubu: JOE LE TAXI.
Shearer: Ahh, that’s the ticket!

(There is a loud squelching sound and the Honey Monster lies supine on the floor)

Sting and Shearer: Spiceworld!

Pere Ubu: SAID LIBERACE TO THE MOLE: OPEN. Is that thing still breathing? Can I play doppelganger to a corporate icon?
Sting (contemptuously): You’d take too much grooming.
Pere Ubu: (Coming down, addressing the Honey Monster): You’re like the Chewbacca version of Mick Hucknall, I’m not suprised to see you’ve been keeping a low profile in Swansea. Did I ever tell you what a disappointment your Choco Puffs were, like Coco Pops without the snap, crackle and pop. You owe it to Uncle Boris for giving you a start in showbiz, remember how I let you take my place in that local election and your confidence grew from that bespectacled furball to something approaching Asbo bouyancy in the space of weeks? You learnt from the best, especially in how to shower properly. Look how you’ve fallen, Shearer did you in with a butter-knife, now you’re choking on your own free gift and no limited edition pack of honey waffles can save you now.
Sting: Don’t stand so close to me.
Pere Ubu: There’ll be no more honeyed milk from me, your head’s as large as a prefabricated dog-kennel and that stomach’s seen more free dinners than Slavoj Zizek. The Elderly Tory Brigade could have taken their annual trip to Hastings aboard you and there’d still have been room for a small ox.
Sting: I’m starving. Where’s the pease pudding?
Shearer: Let’s eat the Honey Monster!
Pere Ubu: What? Didn’t you two share a Bombay Bad Boy not half an hour ago? I’m freezing. Let’s smash up the tables for firewood. This Economy 7 is just not the dope.
Sting: Let’s get naked and give each other a warming hug?
Pere Ubu: You couldn’t handle the shizzle in this nizzle. Look out there across the car park. There are a load of copies of Gnomes in that recycle bin. Go and fetch them.
(Sting goes off across the snow)
Shearer: Go on then Boris, go and find out if he’s really made of honey.
Pere Ubu: Oh no. I’ve got a very finely calibrated digestive system. If I touch any of that it’ll be 24 hours on the thunder mug, like when I had that vindaloo in Halifax with H from Steps. I’ll go and put C-Beebies on while you chop it up.
(Shearer begins to chop up the Honey Monster)
Pere Ubu: What out Alan, the bloody thing’s got an erection!
Shearer: No, sire. That’s just a spoon in its pocket.
Pere Ubu: That’s a pity, I just fancied something warm. I never eat Sugar Puffs with a spoon.
Shearer: (aside) It’s revolting. Smells of Pop Tarts and suppressed tears. (aloud) Give us a hand with him, Boris. I’ve seen the way you can carve up a Sunday roast, even if you do always crush your spuds.
Pere Ubu: That was back in the days when my gravy boat was a love boat.
Sting: (coming back) That snow is coming down faster than your dandruff, Boris and the sun’s setting. It’ll be as dark as Darth Vader’s sunglasses in an hour. Let’s get on and bring those limited editions poetry chapbooks inside.
Pere Ubu: Yes, come on Alan. Let’s make a spitroast out of that bees-made ball of fluff.
Sting: Oh! That’s really to much! You’ll have to work if you want to eat, you appallingly indolent blimp. Get in that kitchen and butter some rolls. Shearer found a cache of Warburton’s using his uncanny poacher’s instinct and a bent coat hanger.
Pere Ubu: I wouldn’t mind the Honey Monster’s right arse-cheek. Al dente would do. Just let me undo my Boris suit and climb inside him, I’m colder than Betty Boothroyd’s leftover frangipane.
Shearer: What do you reckon, Sting? If the man won’t make with the Utterly Butterly then he will starve. Or maybe we could give him one of the giblets to gnaw on. Strange how they’re already in a little plastic bag.
Sting: Looks like his wuzzle’s curling up like the witch’s shoes in The Wizard of Oz.
Pere Ubu: Ah, the Economy 7 is kicking in. That’s better. I’m as chilly as a yeti’s winkle in Farmfoods. But I can still see Cameron’s smooth but terrifying face glaring at me from inside Corbett’s rickshaw. What a day! Ah! (he falls asleep)
Shearer: I’d like to know if it’s true that Roy Hodgson would really put me in his Dream World XI. Also if Mere Ubu escaped those Subway execs.
Sting: Let’s crack open these Monster Munch and talk about it later.
Shearer: Don’t lay down a heavy bass when I’m in full flow man. (Puts on telephone voice). I think it would be a very good idea to enquire into the truth of this.
Sting: There are things we need to discuss. Should we stick with that absurd bag of ordure or leave him for Mandy to find and get mediaeval with? He really does get mediaeval as well. He’s got a jester’s costume and some stocks in the boot of his Cinquecento.
Shearer: This is true. Should we ditch Boris and hit Soho for some cocktails?
Sting: Yes, let’s slip away while Schnorbitz here is snoring. What do you dream of, Alan? Do you still have those nightmares about Arthur Mullard and Hilda Baker?

Scene 7
Pere Ubu (Talking in his sleep)

Ah, sir rustic lefty, leave me, put that thing away. Ah! There’s Ant and Dec, like koalas with scurvy. No, Mandy, leave me, I didn’t touch the Honey Monster! How big your muscles are Mandy, like giant whelks. Leave me, you know what happened last time, it’ll go off like a firecracker. Go away Mandy! Here’s Roy Hodgson and Cameron, his complexion like trout a la crème. Don’t do that, not with Mandy around! And Ma Ubu! Don’t pinch my downy gold slagheap, not the left one, you trollop, you’ve raided my ISAs, I was going to buy a pink speedboat with that. I feel like I’m dying in the Shakespearian sense, Mandy is killing me softly, I’m buried in the larder of a low-profit Subway in Hull. Now I’m in the Noel Edmonds Suite with Ant and Dec. There he is again, piss off Honey Monster, go and get a job. You’re just like me in the funny mirror, only less funny. Do you hear you bloated prairie dog, my god the cast of Hollyoaks are cutting off his little bags of potpourri and wearing them like ear-rings, now Uri Geller wants his spoon back…
(He falls silent and sleeps)

Act V

Scene 1

Night. Pere Ubu is asleep. Mere Ubu enters without seeing him. It is completely dark.

Mere Ubu: I’ve not been so glad to see a Little Chef since the night the escort agency sent over Frankie Detorri wearing nothing but an apron and a cheeky grin. What a journey. First, I’m chased from Madame Tussaud’s by the shade of flamboyant frontman Freddie Mercury and then almost killed by a barrage of now unfashionable hors d’oeuvres outside Jamie Oliver’s restaurant. And worse still I lose my most trusted lieutenant, Timmy Mallett, a TV presenter, broadcaster and artist, most notable for his striking visual style, involving loud shirts, colourful glasses and the giant pink foam mallet, labelled Mallett’s Mallet as well as his ‘utterly brilliant!’ and ‘blaaah!’ catchphrases. He had the hots for me and no mistake. I caught him looking at me more than once on that team building holiday to Center Parcs last year. He tried to get into my cabin late at night, saying he wanted to constructively analyse my strengths and weaknesses. He would have bent his almost eponymous mallet in two for me. The proof is that he took three garlic mushrooms full in the face for me. Mandy had laced them with a nitroglycerin and sorrel sauce. Bang, bang bang! Oh, I thought I should die. After that, then, I take to my heels, pursued by the enraged crowd. Luckily, Robin Askwith was passing on a milk float and I was able to distract him with a copy of Razzle. I left him by the side of the road with smoke blowing from his arse and headed for the coast. But they wouldn’t let the milk float through the Channel Tunnel, so I had to turn around and head here. It’s taken four days to reach south Wales. High winds on the Menai Bridge caused me to shed my cargo of natural yogurt. Then I was ambushed near Merthyr by The Flying Pickets, a British a cappella vocal group, who had a Christmas number one hit in 1983 in the UK Singles Chart with their cover of Yazoo’s track “Only You”. They took all of the gold top. And they’re not even Welsh. Still, here I am, saved. Ah! I’m dead with fatigue and cold. But I’d really like to know what happened to Boris, that over-creamed choux pastry. I rinsed him good and proper. He didn’t have much fun, poor devil, what with the chronic dyspepsia and sudden onset priapism blighting his social life. Alas, but I’ve left the Shloer in Madame Tussaud’s and anyone who likes can go and help themselves to a non-alcoholic soft drink containing mostly grape juice that is, unlike most soft drinks, marketed towards adults exclusively!
Pere Ubu (beginning to wake up): Catch Mere Ubu, tie her in a giant colostomy bag!
Mere Ubu: Oh God! Where am I? That Ginster’s pasty from the service station must be giving me strange visions. I should have had the steak slice.

By Milli and Vanilli
I can just apprehend
Mayor Boris Johnson
That colossal bell end

Let’s pretend to be nice. Well, my old fellow, did you sleep well? You look cute when you’re asleep, like a shaved giant panda in M &  S Y-fronts.
Pere Ubu: Like a custard-covered log. Dreams as rocky as a David Hasselhof YouTube film. The cast was as muddled as Seaside Special, but less literary. I’m left wondering if ‘I, Boris’ might be best submitted to SkyArts2, do you hear Mere Ubu?
Mere Ubu: What’s he burbling about? He’s obviously had a bang on the head and woken up intertextual. He’ll be experimenting with irony next.
Pere Ubu: Sting, Shearer, answer me you sack of shitters! Where are you? My brown eye is winking into polyester. Who spoke then, the Honey Monster? Shitter! Where are my Fisherman’s Friends? Oh! I lost them in the Battle of the Krispy Kremes.
Mere Ubu (aside): Let’s take advantage of the situation and of the night. I’ll cover myself in Sweet’N’Low and pretend to be a ghost. I’ll convince the old fool that GQ magazine has named him the most influential man of the year. He’ll be so full of himself he’ll soon forget that bit of jiggery pokery with the Shloer and the Diamonique penis ring.
Pere Ubu: By Richard Madeley’s navel, I swear I heard someone speaking! I’ll be fucked with a croquet mallet!
Mere Ubu: (amplifying her voice) Yes, Boris, someone is indeed speaking. Listen to this quavering voice and the hum of the conveyor belt. This is the ghost of of Larry Grayson, who cannot give other than good advice. Shut that door!
Pere Ubu: Ooh, I say!
Mere Ubu: Don’t interrupt me, you naughty boy, or I’ll fix it so that you never get your greasy hands on the fondue set. Ooh, this place is alive. That cockroach could tear off a postman’s trousers.
Pere Ubu: Oh for the sake of my metronomic giblets don’t mention the fondue set. Apologies, sponitifcate further Madame, you’re flowing like Jacob’s Creek.
Mere Ubu: I was saying Mister Ubu, that you are a somewhat overblown fellow and could do with an enema and a pair of Spanx, although not necessarily in that order.
Pere Ubu: Very overblown indeed, have you got any leeches for this? (reveals himself)
Mere Ubu: Ooh, common as muck!
Pere Ubu: She who smelt it dealt it!
Mere Ubu: (aside) And he who said the rhyme did the crime. Just ask Motion (continuing) Is there a special lady in your life, Pere Ubu, a Guinevere to your Lancelot, a Kim to your Kanye?
Pere Ubu: I’m rather taken with the Tory Virgin of late, you know who I mean, the Sister Wendy of the Houses.
Mere Ubu: Well, you know what they say: kiss a nun once, kiss a nun twice, but whatever you do, don’t get into the habit.
Pere Ubu: Getting into the habit is a part of the lure, like looking at French Fancies online.
Mere Ubu: You must approach her gently, Sire Ubu. Fine wines. Belgian chocolates. Becoming Prime Minister, Boris, is very much like making love to a beautiful woman: you flirt, you woo, you hold firm on Gibralter. And if all else fails, invite the fellow next door in for a threesome.
Pere Ubu: Well I know what it’s like to make love to Gibraltar, a restless night between two rocks and an arid dangly bit.
Mere Ubu: You are rambling, Pere Ubu. Sting must have put amphetamines in your Horlicks again. (aside) But we must hurry. The baleful yellow moon is sinking low over the Mumbles and the piper at the gates of dawn is pressing his trousers at the Travelodge. Your wife, Pere Ubu, is the perfect woman. She’s the only one who can perform the Heimlich manoeuvre on you effectively when you’ve had one too many individual fruit pies.
Pere Ubu: Yes, when we first met I knew you were the one by the way you opened that tin of pilchards with your teeth.
Mere Ubu: And she’s faithful to you. She even turned down Chris Tarrant.
Pere Ubu: Well his level of buffoonery is no more than Boris Lite. You could see that even after twelve cheeky vimtos.
Mere Ubu: And she doesn’t drink. Well, not before 10AM.
Pere Ubu: Well that’s going to change, I’ve hired the umpalumpas to man the minibar. She won’t be rinsing with sambuca anymore. Anyway she knows I’ve got a drink problem: I’ve only got one mouth.
Mere Ubu: She saves you money at Money Supermarket and you don’t even know it.
Pere Ubu: Any loose odds?
Mere Ubu: You can get a fake fake Rolex for £30. They get a copy of a Rolex and make a copy of it. The double negative makes it a real Rolex. It’s a grammatical loophole that hasn’t been spotted.
Pere Ubu: Could these be sold across Croydon to fill the defecit in my follow-through tax system? The failed Subway franchise? I fear my plans will be squashed like that packet of prawn Skips I was looking forward to and Eric Pickles accidentally sat on.
Mere Ubu: That was no accident. Cherish your wife, Pere Ubu. She is a paragon of virtue, whereas you have the morals of premier league footballer at a foam party.
Pere Ubu: What do you know about that footballer’s foam party? I genuinely dropped that soap. What choice have I got, my wife is looser than a mammoth’s ear.
Mere Ubu: Be careful, Pere Ubu, who lathers your loofah.
Pere Ubu: Sorry, yes, I forgot who I was talking to. Who else will tweezer my midriff.
Mere Ubu: Certainly not Ken. You killed him with a comic and, if I’m frank, entirely gratuitous sausage.
Pere Ubu: There’s nothing gratuitous about my sausage. In any case it was Ant and Dec, and Mere Ubu made them.
Mere Ubu: But you were responsible for the deaths of Dale Winton and Pat Sharpe. What a loss those two are to the male grooming industry. It’s no wonder there’s a recession.
Pere Ubu: Sod’s Law! They kept trying to touch me.
Mere Ubu: Pat Sharpe would touch anyone.He was a very tactile man. And you didn’t keep your promise to Ant and Dec to get them a gig presenting Newsnight. And then you killed the poor little shits, like a farmer drowning a brace of sickly calves.
Pere Ubu: I wanted to preside over the Little Chef franchise, starting just outside Swansea! Now we’ve all failed, no Paxman, no Paxo.
Mere Ubu: You’re wrongdoings have invoked the curse of Alan Khamun. He was Tutankhamun’s less famous younger brother, who died tragically when he fell off a pyramid and ripped his papyrus. There is only way for you to be pardoned your misdeeds.
Pere Ubu: What is it? I’m quite prepared to diet, trim my locks and become unregonisable from Ronan Keating. I won’t eat all of the Advent Calendar in one morning. I’ll flush after I wash, I mean wipe after I flush – whatever it is – Mere Ubu, just say..
Mere Ubu: You must forgive Mere Ubu for tampering with Ken’s penis ring at Madame Tussauds.
Pere Ubu: This is what I’ll do; I’ll forgive her for when she ordered me that inflatable swan from John Lewis online, and when she beat my eggs so firmly they start to float. Then if she gives me a piggyback to Stringfellows we can forget about it.
Mere Ubu: He’s crazy about swans ever since he heard they could break your arm. He’s obviously forgotten he’s barred from Stringfellow’s after trying to pay for a table dance with a Tesco Clubcard. But it’s getting light and I can see that pained, puzzled expression flickering in his eyes. He’s either starting to recognise me or he’s about to let a big one rip.
Pere Ubu: Now I know for sure that my beloved’s been on the fiddle, being the King of the Budgie Smugglers it won’t be the first time she’s been caught with her hands in the Trill. I’m so sure it might as well have been fedexed by Trevor MacDonald. I feel so good I might give Dennis Wise a call, he was sent from God you know. But Jo Brand’s spectre doesn’t say anymore, what can I offer her to cheer her up? Here comes the sun, I should really take off this leopard-skin thong and do some work. Oh by Red Rum’s sacred balls, it’s Mere Ubu.
Mere Ubu: (brazening it out) It’s not true. And I, the ghost of Larry Grayson, will use my influence with the still partially extant Bruce Forsyth to ensure that you never land that coveted slot on Strictly Come Dancing. You will never appear before the nation with a matador’s cape and you will have to continue to buy your own sequins.
Pere Ubu: Pah! You anal leech.
Mere Ubu: Ooh, what a sauce.
Pere Ubu: I’ll scald your hollandaise in a minute, you daft Mare Mere Ubu, I can see it’s you.
Mere Ubu: Timmy Mallet is dead and I was chased by the executives of Subway. I’m haunted by Timmy’s tragic face, still smiling beneath that crooked baseball cap, as they covered him in onions and taunted him with a bewildering array of breads and relishes.
Pere Ubu: Well it was those unreconstructed Scargelites that chased me out: Timmy has more braincells in his little pink mallet than they’ve got between them.
Mere Ubu: Arthur is more of a man than you’ll ever be. He took me for a ride around Barnsley in his Lada that I’ll never forget.
Pere Ubu: Then why don’t you try riding this (throws the Honey Monster at her).
Mere Ubu: (falling in a heap under the weight of the Honey Monster) Why didn’t you tell mummy about the honey? And you could have left its pyjamas on. You know I’m hypoallergenic.
Pere Ubu: It’s dead as your morals Mere Ubu, stop floundering like a soggy shredded wheat. OMG, its spoon rises again! It’s not dead at all, let’s make like the trees and leave (climbs onto the wardrobe) PALIN OWES ME QUIDS….
Mere Ubu: (extricating herself) Now where has he got to? This reminds me of the time Prince Harry chased me out of Buckingham Palace after I spurned his offer to share some Bachelor’s Super Noodles in the nude.
Pere Ubu: There she is again, she’s like the female equivalent of Mr Blobby with a beehive in her suit and the viscera on the outside. God, I should have been a poet. Is the Honey Monster dead yet?
Mere Ubu: Of course it is, you fat idiot. Look at the glucose-fructose syrup seeping from its nostrils.
Pere Ubu (confused): I don’t know, that looks like a pile of cottage cheese; I tried adding it to eat him when I saw we were out of milk.
Mere Ubu: Cottage cheese? What is all this about? His idea of a low fat diet is eating his fish and chips sitting on the floor.
Pere Ubu: What I say is the truth, and I’d eat you too Mere Ubu, your gutskins loaded with Danone, to ease the indigestion.
Mere Ubu: Tell me the story of your campaign, Pere Ubu. I heard tales of you gorging on airborne doughnuts with a load of sport commentators, some of whom were dead.
Pere Ubu: Oh God no Margaret, there’s too much to tell. All I know is that despite of my gargantuan flatulence I took on the cosh a goodly number of Krispy Kremes.
Mere Ubu: What about Roy Hodgson? Didn’t he save you by using his magic owl amulet? I heard Benny from Abba gave it to him while he was managing Halmstad between 1976 and 1980, winning the league championship in 1976 and 1979?
Pere Ubu: They shouted: Long live Ken and Mandy! I thought they wanted my quarter pound bag of chocolate fudge bombs. They were going nuts! Then they killed Roy Hodgson.
Mere Ubu: I couldn’t care less about Hodgson with his red-rimmed, haunted eyes and his Damart support socks. Did you know that Mandelson killed Timmy Mallett?
Pere Ubu: They’re both the same to me – Mandy does children’s presentations in his underpants –
then they killed John Motson.
Mere Ubu: I always preferred Brian Moore. I remember that night in Ipswich which lasted a full 120 minutes. It would have gone to sudden death had he not kept his composure to slot home in the final seconds.
Pere Ubu: Hang on you slur of a dictionary-deprived tongue, crawl into that cupboard and find me those Wallace and Gromit slippers you got me a few Christmas’s ago (she goes down on her knees to fetch the slippers). Now I’m going to give you more than a slipper up the arse!
Mere Ubu: Mercy, Boris! Think of my hemorrhoids! They’re up like kalamata olives!
Pere Ubu: Oh, what have you found in there? I’ve been looking for my collection of broken airfix planes since I was in utero. My God, you’ve found it all: the clumps of pulled-out hair, the lollipop sticks with jokes on, a box of those luminescent wibbly things that you put on the end of pencils that say I RULE, my spare high heels, a piece of Benny Hill’s left buttock, a limited edition Goat Oxo cube, not forgetting my Reggie Perrin swimming trunks; and look, there’s my consumable rosary beads with each bead replaced with a polo mint or swizzle, and the collected Jeffrey Archer bound in the blisters and callouses of Seb Coe’s feet. Here, give it all to me, chickenhead! (Begins grabbing the things from her).
Mere Ubu: Calm down, Boris! You’ll shit yourself again, like the time you met Cheryl Cole at the Royal Variety Performance.
(loud noises in the Little Chef car park)

Scene 2

The same, Mandelson rushing into the cave with a group of Socialists wearing Arthur Scargill masks

Mandelson: Forward brothers! I’m a fighter not a quitter!
Pere Ubu: Oh, hang on a minute, Mandy. Wait until I’ve sorted out this Meryl Streep lookalike.
Mandelson: (whips out handbag) Take that, cuddly, bulgy, mishaped muscleman!
Pere Ubu: (whips out rolled up copy of Nuts) Take that you strutting, preening, flouncing, prancing, spray tanned, fake baked, fish pedicured, waxed, plucked, vajazzled lapsed social democrat!
Mere Ubu (beating him with a stale Subway footlong): Cop for that too! Tiger-prawned, briny, ferret-scented, Kilroy-copying, nobbling, boy-actor! (The Socialists in Scargill masks fling themselves on the Ubus).
Pere Ubu: Aaargh! Antony Worrall Thompson just got me in the nuts with a lemon squeezer.
Mere Ubu: On our Trotters you pussies, here come the Scargelites.
Pere Ubu: You should never have closed all the pits, Margaret. They’re going to kill us. If only I had the giant sausage.
Mandelson: Hit them hotly with the stale footlong, hit them!
Voices off:       Giant steps are what you take
Walking on the moon
Alan’s got a hard boiled egg
And the Honey Monster’s spoon
Pere Ubu: Ah here they come, a troup of Young Conservatives all wearing Boris masks! Come forward boys, pledge your allegiance to a late virginity and repression of all your bodily yearnings, Boris will take your allowance…
(The Young Conservatives enter and throw themselves into the melee)               
Sting: Out you go, Scargillites. I’ll bamboozle you with distinct elements of jazz, reggae, classical, New Age, and worldbeat and destroy you with my mighty Amazonian fists.
Shearer: Ack, Boris, you shafted me just like Keegan that time. We all need to switch formation, drop a man behind the front two and hold a line ten yards further forward.
Pere Ubu: Haven’t you got some DIY that needs doing? It’s time for Boris to strategically withdraw, like that time in the Holiday Inn Express when the machine in the gents was out of order. Oh! Mandy’s got me below stairs with his handbag!
Mandelson: Oh God, the hook from the strap has caught me in the sub-commitees!
Tony Mortimer: It’s nothing, sire, just a minor amendment to the agenda.
Sting: All this exposure has surely done me good, not long now before a major label opens before its heavenly contracts.
Shearer: Do you think you could get me a deal for the drum and bass album I’ve just done with Mark Lawrenson?
Pere Ubu: Hellfire, I’ve just done a miniature cow-pat in my breeches. Get a move on you two, forget about the future of music, help me massacre these sentimental red men. Smack em, poke em, inflame their eczsema with pollen! Ah, it seems to be calming down…
Sting: I’ve stunned them with my lengthy jazz funk bass solo and Tantric sex diagrams.
Pere Ubu: (Killing them with blows from the Honey Monster): With a Hey Ho, Let’s Go! I should have brought my Ramones tshirt! Let’s put on our snorkels and hit a sushi bar, come on you lot, I’m so hungry I could eat Michael Hesletine’s scalp!

Scene 3
The beach at Margate. It is raining. Pere Ubu, Mere Ubu and their retinue are huddled inside a broken down Wallace Arnold coach.

Pere Ubu: Well, Mandy must have given up trying to catch us. He probably had to dash off to his Legs, Bums and Tums class.
Mere Ubu: Yes, Mandy said the tutor was a right fitty and disappeared.
Pere Ubu: I certainly don’t envy him that mayoral trip to Laser Quest that was in the diary. Last time I got captured by Ian Duncan Smith and he tortured me with his collection of moulds.
Mere Ubu: You’re not wrong there Boris, I’m still haunted by those money boxes in the shape of the Krankies (they disappear into the distance)

Scene 4
A boat from the 1980s, the words BULLY’S SPECIAL PRIZE across the side. Sailing close to Damien Hirst’s polka dot Tate boat on the Thames, Pere Ubu and all his gang

Richard Branson (Captain): What a lovely breeze, shame it’s so nippy: my left testicle’s as shrivelled as Sid James’s forehead.
Pere Ubu: Yes, we’re zipping along faster than nurse Gladys Emmanuel’s motor scooter. My god, I’d love that woman to give me a blanket bath. Such strong fingers.
Shearer: He’s thicker than Tony Adams’ winter long johns.
(A squall arrives, the boat heels over and the spray flies)
Pere Ubu: Help! We’ve capsized! It’s like Das Boot without the sexy beards!
Richard Branson: Everyone get online, I’ve just launched a sale on First Class seats between Preston and Edinburgh!
Pere Ubu: No way. The last time I went to Edinburgh I got arrested for playing Me So Horny on the harpsichord at Holyrood Palace. Alex Salmond locked me in a cellar at the Scottish Parliament and made me watch Braveheart on repeat. He painted his face and stripped to the waist and was dancing around a coal effect fire shouting “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our FREEDOM!!”. It was actually very erotic.  I was there for six days until Malcolm Rifkind paid the ransom. He wanted £6.99 to buy an imitation claymore.
Richard Branson: No regrets!
Pere Ubu: What’s taking so long? This voyage is more protracted and overblown than the deluxe edition of Tubular Bells. You may be everyone’s favourite venture capitalist Branson, but you’ll never make an able seaman. Move over, Rover, let Boris take over. Contenders, ready! Gladiators, ready! Let the plum see the jam. You see? Everything is going fine. Someone take the wheel. I need to pop below decks to see a friend off to the coast.

(All are convulsed with laughter. The breeze freshens.)

Richard Branson: Siphon off a few jobs, we’ve just lost the West Coast contract!
Pere Ubu: This is all under control. If Mandy pursues us I’ll block his passage. And if all else fails I’ll go to the side of the boat and toss myself off. (Several die laughing. A wave is shipped.) Oh, this is like that film The Perfect Storm where George Clooney played Captain Birdseye!
Shearer and Mere Ubu: O Alan, not now, you’re supposed to be working the right flank!
(Second wave shipped)
Shearer: (drenched) I renounce Hansen and his shiny black shirts.
Pere Ubu: You, Les Dennis, bring me a drink, a campari on ice!
(All sit and drink)
Mere Ubu: How delightful it will be to get back to Grantham. Do you know they named it after Leslie Grantham? There’s a 60 foot statue in the town centre of him having phone sex with an undercover reporter whilst dressed as Captain Hook. His left leg is hollow and there’s a restaurant inside serving jellied eels.
Pere Ubu: We’ll soon be there Margaret, then we can begin in earnest to put this frayed Nation back on the straight and narrow. We’re just sailing past Hartlepool now, I can tell because the locals are putting a voodoo spell on a laptop.
Shearer:You can drop me off at Newcastle. I’ll give Kevin Whatley a bell and we can go on a pussy tour of Wallsend.
Sting: Can we also pop in to that Irish pub, Fatty O Finger Me’s, I wrote at least three Police songs there.
Pere Ubu: Count me in. Anyway, the future is sorted. I got an email today from Prof. Maitama B. Atiku, the personal assistant to the honourable President of The Federal Republic of Nigeria. They owe me US$10,500,000.
Mere Ubu: I got that too, along with the Swimming Pool party invite from Barrymore.
Sting: My agent has arranged for me to do a reality beekeeping show. And I’m in with a shout of joining Eggheads.
Shearer: Brings to mind my all-time favourite song, Gazza’s “The Fog on the Tyne is All Mine, All Mine….”
Pere Ubu: Let’s pool our resources and open a Ray Mears bushcraft centre. I’ve whiled away many an hour whittling. My mother always said it would make me go blind.

Mere Ubu: You’re not just the face of an out-of-season marrow Boris: the future’s bright, the future’s blue!

Pere Ubu: My body’s too bootalicious for you, baby. Fancy a sausage?