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Screen mixes from white to slightly blurry 1970s film stock footage of British housing estate. A group of four chirpy young men are walking down the street, close together. Two are carrying buckets and sponges, the other two are handling a ladder between them. All are wearing white coats, perhaps overalls, and mottled jeans. Images are accompanied by a fast disco-funk piece of music. Image zooms in, onto the face of the first man. Caption: TERRY Terry looks directly at the camera, and grins, running a hand through his longish hair. Caption: JEZ The camera pans across to the face of Jez; a thinner, short-haired man who wears a scarf, which he flicks over his shoulder. Caption: DAVE Again the camera pans across, revealing the face of Dave; a rather chubby character, with a somewhat spotty complexion. He walks with a slight limp, and visibly stumbles a little before the camera pans across to the final man of the group. Caption: LORD ROTHERSYTH "WHISKERS" CHASE VII The fourth man has a monocle. His hair is greased and neatly styled. He is smoking a cigar, and his expression reveals nothing of his emotions. The camera pulls back, and we see all four men walking purposefully towards the camera; at this point, Dave stumbles, knocking into Jez, who spills the contents of his bucked onto the floor. The camera zooms toward the mess on the pavement; it is not chamois leathers and cleaning agents, but prescription pads and stethoscopes. Freezing on the image of medical paraphernalia, a new caption flies onto the screen in chunky white lettering, with a slight black shadow. Title: THE RUNG DOCTORS The music reaches a crescendo, with a synthesised drum ending, before the image fades away with the music. Scene: Front room of a semi-detached house on a pleasant housing estate. There is a sofa, two chairs, a coffee table and a television set atop a handsome cabinet. Terry and Dave are playing on a games console, sat on the sofa, while Dave watches with a plate of sausage and chips on his lap. Whiskers is sat in one of the chairs, smoking a cigar. Whiskers: Come on, chaps; we cannot continue like this. Money is tight, yet we’re sat around vegetating. Dave: Mm. Whiskers: Verbose as ever, Dave. Terry? Jez? Any ideas? Jez: Well, what do you expect us to do? We trained as doctors, we got told we’d passed, now we find out it was a clerical error? Terry: And thirty seven people died. Jez: Because Dave was eating chips again. Dave: Chips and gravy, lads. Chips and gravy. Whiskers: Yes, yes; but we need money now – we’re not doctors anymore! Terry: We could set up an internet business? Sell our stuff on eBay. Whiskers: Too short term, Terry. This is the long game. Jez: Well, my dad left his ladder here when he fixed the gutters last week; we could see if the neighbours need their windows cleaning or something? Whiskers: Hmm. Doctors cleaning windows? And so on in the same style for about 27 minutes. Anyway, this is all a long-winded way of saying that I really will get around to doing something with this site, and hopefully rather soon. In the meantime, carry on reading my Twitter feed; there are at least two good posts for every seventeen hundred. |
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