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
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).
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)
(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)
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.
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.
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!