Thursday 31 March 2011

***News Flash****



Dear Micks,

I am pleased to announce that The British Forces Foundation is officially endorsing the Mick Taking blog. The plan is to redevelop it for all servicemen & women to access - with blogs, short stories and short videos. I have done as much as I can on my own but I hope with their help I shall be able to encourage famous authors to submit stories and also have a much more interactive platform so service people can upload stories and comments too. With more minds on the project we should be able to create something rather good!

Any feedback will be gratefully received. I CAN'T WAIT for your safe return!!!

Lots of love,
Charlie xxxx

Terrible News

Dear Micks,

I would like to extend my sincere condolences for the loss of Major Matthew Collins and
Lance Sergeant Mark Burgan. It is a total shock and all our thoughts are with the families.

I attended Royal Wootton Bassett yesterday with my fiance who was Matt's best friend. The towns folk and the Royal Legion bikers were terrific in how they handled with consummate professionalism this terribly sad affair. I must say that when we do things properly in this country we do them admirably well.

I hope all of you can keep your spirits up until home-time. Please stay safe and well.

Lots of love,
Charlie xxxx

Wednesday 16 March 2011

Henrietta Arden-Bibby: Down & Out In London

Dear Micks,

Sorry about the lack of formatting but it won't paste with it all in tact. Just so you know, this is a 15mins radio pilot based on my uber-posh comic character, Henrietta Arden-Bibby. FX stands for 'Sound Effects'. Ext - is exterior. Int - is interior. Think the rest is clear. Hasn't been commissioned but I'm thinking of turning it into a loo book. See what you think. Just a bit of fun.

xxxxx


Henrietta Arden-Bibby: Down & Out in London
A 15' Radio Script
by
Charlotte Reather



INT. TRAIN - DAY
FX Train in motion
FX Clatter of rails and carriages
FX Internal electric doors snap open.
FX Loud knocking on the door.
Silence
Insistent loud banging on the door.
TRAIN MANAGER:
All tickets please!
HENRIETTA:
(from inside the WC)
I’m not well.
TRAIN MANAGER:
I don’t care. You’ve been in that toilet since Devizes.

FX Click of the lock. Door Bangs open.
HENRIETTA:
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
TRAIN MANAGER:
Eugh!
HENRIETTA:
I told you I wasn’t well.
FX Flush
HENRIETTA V/O:
It’s amazing what you can do with a little melted chocolate and a lot of imagination.
TRAIN MANAGER:
(holding his nose)
Your ticket.
HENRIETTA:
Stand back, I’m bubbling again.
FX Loo door banging & locking.
TRAIN MANAGER:
I’m calling the transport police.
HENRIETTA:
(Sobbing) Is it a crime to have di-arrhea?
TRAIN MANAGER:
No, but you’re meant to have a ticket. Oh forget it. I can’t face the paperwork.
HENRIETTA:
I could do with some paperwork in here actually.
TRAIN MANAGER:
(Angrily) Use your ticket!
FX Stomps off.
TRAIN MANGER
(walking away) All tickets please.
HENRIETTA VO
I was on my way to London to make my fortune. Daddy had run out of money. If I didn’t become rich and fast, the estate would have to be sold. And I don’t just mean the Volvo. (BEAT) I was stick and ball-ing on my favourite polo pony when Daddy told me the news.

EXT. POLO FIELD. BIBBY HALL – DAY
FX BIRDS SINGING. BREEZE THROUGH GRASS. A HORSE CANTERING WITH THE TAP, TAP, TAP OF A POLO BALL.
HENRIETTA:
Good boy, Duncan.
FX of Henrietta patting the pony.
HENRIETTA:
Oh I love you so much.
FX of Henrietta kissing her pony.
HENRIETTA:
Daddy! Come and watch. My nearside backhand’s really improving.
FX of pony cantering off and the loud crack of her polo stick hitting the ball.
FX Of William walking through the grass towards Henrietta. Voice getting nearer.
WILLIAM:
Very good, darling. But remember both sets of eyes need to watch the ball. Head eyes, chest eyes and thwack.
FX of pony cantering and Henrietta thwacking of the ball.
WILLIAM:
Brilliant!
HENRIETTA:
Thanks Daddy. You’re the best.
WILLIAM:
Yes. Er, Henry, there’s something I need to talk to you about. Something very important.

EXT. STABLES. BIBBY HALL – DAY
HENRIETTA V/O:
As I untacked Duncan, Daddy looked nervously at me.
WILLIAM:
We’re in trouble, Henry. I’ve spent all the money. Drastic action has to be taken, I need to…
HENRIETTA:
Sell the estate?
WILLIAM:
No.
HENRIETTA:
Get a job?
WILLIAM:
This is no time for sarcasm.
HENRIETTA:
Well, then what?
WILLIAM:
(Clearing his throat) You remember that Turkmenistani fellow? Bo-ris...ah-ah-ah.
HENRIETTA:
Kerplunsky. The tycoon with natural gas? Well, he said it was natural.
WILLIAM:
That’s the fellow. And 10 billion Euros. Well, I need you to make yourself available to him.
HENRIETTA:
You’re asking me to prostitute my-self?
WILLIAM:
Of course not, darling! You’ll re-ceive no payment.
HENRIETTA:
I won’t do it!
WILLIAM:
There’s no choice. He’s already put down a deposit....
HENRIETTA:
Gross.
WILLIAM:
Which I’ve spent on a hip replace-ment for Posh Spice. There’s a good bitch.
FX Noises of a dog being petted and licking.
HENRIETTA:
You’ve sold me, Daddy? (Fighting back the emotion) This is exactly like when Carla Bruni was sold to Nicholas Sarkozy, only worse. No-one marries a short man without incentives.
WILLIAM:
Come on don’t be like that. Take one for the team, darling, there’s a good girl. 14 generations of Arden-Bibbys salute you. Your mother would have been proud too.
HENRIETTA:
No she wouldn’t! Well, do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to go to London and get a job, yes, how about that, and save us all. (Omi-nously) And father, I’m going to find out what really happened to Mummy. No-one gets hit by a bus, however bendy, and lands that high up.
FX Door knocker.
WILLIAM:
That’s Boris now. Accept your fate. Besides no member of the Arden-Bibbys is going to ‘get a job’.

INT. BIBBY HALL – DAY
FX Doors flinging open, frantic running on oak floors.
HENRIETTA V/O:
I ran with all my might stopping only to grab a few clothes, teddy and the Jacobean tea service - which is worth a bomb. As soon as I’d got to London I headed to Crotherbys to have it valued.
CUT TO:
INT. CROTHERBY’S - DAY
FX Ticking clock in echoey room.
CROTHERBYS EXPERT:
Oh dear, oh dear. It’s pewter. Not worth more than £30 the lot.
HENRIETTA:
Are you sure?
CROTHERBYS EXPERT:
Listen Henrietta, I’ve been in this game 40 years - I’ve got two hit shows on the telly - 10 million viewers. Do I look like a man who’d rip you off?
HENRIETTA:
No, well maybe, I don’t know. You do dye your hair, use fake tan and wear gold jewellery.
CROTHERBYS EXPERT:
What if I put £40 in crisp notes into your hands right now. There’s 10, there’s another 10 and another that’s 30 and because I like you, there £40.
HENRIETTA:
That’s only 30!
CROTHERBYS EXPERT:
Take it! It’s all you’re getting.
HENRIETTA:
I want my silver back!
CROTHERBY’S EXPERT:
We did a deal. It’s my silv-pewter now. Nice doing business with you.

INT. CAFE. LONDON - DAY
FX London cafe - noise of coffee machine, chatter, stirring of coffee cups.
HENRIETTA V/O:
So I had no job, nowhere to stay and £30 to my name...
WAITRESS:
That’ll be £4.25 please.
HENRIETTA:
For a cup of coffee!
WAITRESS:
You opt for ‘eat in’. It’s only 3.75 to take away.
HENRIETTA:
Only £3.75. It’s an outrage - what do you do grind the beans with your buttocks?! Here...
FX - Handbag unzip, crisp note changing hands.
HENRIETTA:
I’d like all the change please.
HENRIETTA V/O:
So no job, nowhere to stay and £25.75 to my name. (BEAT) Luckily, I have lots of cousins...
FX of dialing a number on a mobile. Ringing tone.
BINKIE VOICEMAIL:
(Female sloane) Hi this is Binkie Scampi-Frye. I’m in the arms of a hot stud muffin at the moment so leave a message.
HENRIETTA:
Binks it’s me, Henry. I need to stay at yours this evening - I’m home-less. Call me back. Lots of love.
FX of dialing a number on a mobile. Ringing tone to voicemail. FX hard banging techno in the background of the message.
RUPERT SCAMPI-FRYE:
Hello, this is Rupert Scampi-Frye, I’m in drunken stupor. Leave a mes-sage.
HENRIETTA:
Rupes can you give me a bell ur-gently? I’m in London and need a shag. Thanks. Byee.
HENRIETTA V/O:
My last chance was cousin Annabel who was married to my cousin Joss.
FX of dialing a number on a mobile. Ringing tone to voicemail.
ANNABEL SCAMPI-FRYE SCAMPI-FRYE:
Hi this is Annabel Scampi-Frye-Scampi-Frye…
JOSS SCAMPI-FRYE SCAMPI-FRYE
..and Joss Scampi-Frye-Scampi-Frye
ANNABEL SCAMPI-FRYE SCAMPI-FRYE
we’re on honeymoon right now eating strawberries off each others torsos.
FX Henrietta hangs up.
HENRIETTA:
OMG! TMI!
HENRIETTA V/O:
For those of you not in the know… that’s Oh my God! Too much informa-tion!
FX Henrietta’s phone rings immediately - David Guetta’s Sexy Bitch as ringtone.
HENRIETTA:
Rupes, Hi! Thanks for ringing back, I’m desperate.
RUPERT:
And I’m horny. Perfect!
HENRIETTA:
For a place to crash. I was joking - we’re first cousins. Family aren’t supposed to ‘do it’.
RUPERT:
Really? Don’t you dare tell my sis-ter.
HENRIETTA:
Look I’m in serious trouble. Daddy’s gone mad and sold me to a Russian oligarch with the body of Gordon Brown and the face of, well, Gordon Brown actually - I’m not going down without a fight.
RUPERT:
Not what I’ve heard. Can’t Binks put you up? I’ve got a bird over and there’s no room to swing a cat in my flat.
HENRIETTA:
Still into weird stuff I see. I can’t get hold of her.
RUPERT:
Well, keep trying. If you’re desper-ate, crash at mine...But I’ll want favours.
HENRIETTA:
Fine. Whatever. Does this ‘bird’ cover her Adam’s apple with a pearl choker?
RUPERT:
Do one Bibby!
HENRIETTA:
I’m coming over, Gaylord.
FX Beep him hanging up.
HENRIETTA V/O:
He is such a legend.
EXT. STREET. LONDON – DAY
FX Of Henrietta walking down the street with her wheelie suit-case.
HENRIETTA:
Excuse me. Is this the way to Put-ney?
PASSERBY:
Putney’s miles away. You want a 14.
HENRIETTA:
I’m a 12!
PASSERBY:
A 14 bus.
HENRIETTA:
I couldn’t possibly.
PASSERBY:
What you too posh for public trans-port. Snob.
HENRIETTA:
One killed my mother.
PASSERBY:
Oh, sorry.
HENRIETTA:
You weren’t to know.
FX Henrietta carries on walking with her wheelie suitcase.
FX a car pulling along side her.
FX Henrietta speeds up her walking. The car revs it’s engine and speeds ahead and screeches to a halt. Sound effects of horns from drivers behind. The car door flies open.
HENCHMAN:
(Polish) Get in.
Henrietta shrieks and struggles.
HENRIETTA:
No. Get off!
She is bundled the car.
Car doors shut. Car screams off.

BORIS:
(Deep Russian) I’ve been looking for you all over London. Your father is very worried about you.
HENRIETTA:
About the money you mean. How did you find me?
BORIS:
I have friends who own satellites –your cell phone is a tracking de-vice. You’re not happy to see me, baby?
HENRIETTA:
No.
BORIS:
As your father says ‘take one for the team, darlink’.
FX Sound of champagne cork popping and it being poured.
BORIS:
Champagne?
HENRIETTA:
It’s a bit hard to drink with my hands tied.
BORIS:
Well, that’s what happens to people who try to throw themselves out of cars. Here, drink.
FX Henrietta takes a couple of gulps.
HENRIETTA:
Ooh delicious. Krug 85?
BORIS:
’88. Very good. You see you’re a special.
HENRIETTA:
Listen Boris, you’re a good looking guy in a political kind of way, why don’t you find someone who wants to marry you? What you need is some clotted cream – girls who are rich n very thick.
BORIS:
You have something they don’t, that they will never have.
HENRIETTA:
What?
BORIS:
Class. Let’s just say British aristocrats have been doing favours for gangsters and Russians for dec-ades: stashing drugs & weapons, telling tales on the British govern-ment. You are a favour Henrietta, but one I am doing for your father.
HENRIETTA:
Thanks a bunch!
BORIS:
I know who killed your mother. I have the proof.
HENRIETTA:
(Gasp) Killed? Who?!
BORIS:
(Clapping his hands) Enough talking. Let’s get a little more comfortable.
CUT TO:
INT. BORIS’S MANSION, LONDON – EVENING
HENRIETTA V/O:
He led me into his to his monochrome porno lair. I’d gained his trust by using my wits, OK my tongue. I snog-ged his hairy Gordon face off. I did it for Mummy.
BORIS:
Tease me baby. Dance around the pole.
FX Henrietta dancing around pole.
POLISH MAN:
Please stop dancing. I’m getting giddy.
HENRIETTA:
(To Polish man) Sorry. (To Boris) Tell me who killed my mother.
BORIS:
On the bed. Come.
HENRIETTA:
I can’t on command!
BORIS:
Look what I have for you, baby.
Henrietta shrieks.
HENRIETTA V/O:
He had a winkie like a little earth worm. I quickly tied it into a bow like a children’s entertainer. While a screaming Boris was rendered dis-abled I grabbed a coat, my suitcase and flung myself out of the bathroom window.
FX of Henrietta flinging herself out of the bathroom window. And landing with a bump.

EXT. STREET. LONDON - NIGHT
FX Henrietta running as fast as she can down the street suit-case behind her. Heavy breathing.
FX She stops.
KZ:
(South London accent) Where you run-ning to darlin’?
FX Henrietta runs the other way. FX She bumps into two other youths.
UNCLE P:
Yeah, don’t run away.
HENRIETTA:
Oh hello. Hello. And hello. (BEAT) Oh thank God I found you all! There’s this Russian trying to kill me. My father sold me to him and I’ve just escaped from his porno lair!
DONNA:
We ain’t stupid. You’s a copper.
HENRIETTA:
Oh, the coat. It’s a Russian mili-tary actually. (Thinking on her feet) Look, OK, you got me, I’m a stripper.
DONNA:
Ain’t you got no shame, bitch?
HENRIETTA:
(Sings) Just because I dance a go-go, it don’t make me a ho, no?
KZ:
Where you from?
HENRIETTA:
Duntisbourne Abbots.
KZ:
Where?
HENRIETTA:
Near Swindon. You?
KZ:
Riverside. Egham, originally.
HENRIETTA:
Are you part of a gang?
SILENCE.
HENRIETTA (CONT):
I’m part of a gang, the Birdlip Polo Crew. We have field battles called chukkas, and we take on gangs from other postcodes. It’s exactly like you. Plus all our gang leaders drive Range Rovers.
SILENCE.
HENRIETTA:
Do you have a gun?
KS:
Yeah.
HENRIETTA:
Oh my God me too.
FX of revolver being cocked.
HENRIETTA:
I have six.
KZ & UNCLE P:
Six!
HENRIETTA:
I’ve got a Beretta 20 bore silver pigeon, a pair of 12 bore Purdeys all side by side, though personally I prefer it over and under.
DONNA:
Slag.
KZ:
Shut it Donna.
HENRIETTA:
Three rifles: a .30-06 calibre ri-fle...
DONNA:
She’s BSing you!
HENRIETTA:
May I?
FX She takes the gun, cocks it and shoots out a lamp post.
HENRIETTA:
Now I have the gun. Silly, boy!
KZ:
You’d better go.
HENRIETTA:
I’m not going anywhere empty handed!
DONNA:
No way. We got nothink.
KZ:
Trust me this bitch means business. Gotta bit of weed.
HENRIETTA:
I’ll take it.
DONNA:
Dat’s an eighth of da best skunk! I was looking forward to dat.
KZ:
Shut up Donna.
HENRIETTA:
Thank you. Mwah. Mwah. Whatever bitch. Byee!
FX - Sound of Henrietta walking off into the night, wheeling her suitcase behind her. In the distance the youths squabble.
DONNA:
You are a crap gang leader. I ain’t have no baby with a pussy.
KZ:
But da baby’s 7.
DONNA:
Den I is givin’ him away!
EXT. RUPERT’S HOUSE. PUTNEY - NIGHT
FX Manic door buzzing. Repeated
HENRIETTA:
Wake up Rupert!!
RUPERT:
(From inside) Alright, alright I’m coming!
FX Door unlocks and opens.
RUPERT:
Hah! Have you come to arrest me of-ficer? I’ve been a very bad boy. Oh, it’s you Hen.
FX Door closes.
FX Walk up the stairs to the flat. Close door behind them
RUPERT:
I’ve only just got back myself. Been DJing progressive German techno at the Brompton Oratory - these confir-mation parties are wild! Drink?
HENRIETTA:
I want the strongest G & T known to man.
RUPERT:
Coming up. So William sold you to a Russki billionaire! He’ll do any-thing to avoid working! Legend. (BEAT) Obviously, it’s awful.
FX Pouring drinks.
HENRIETTA:
Listen, I need to stay here for a few days - I won’t interfere with your bird life.
RUPERT:
It’ll cost you.
HENRIETTA:
Here’s an eighth of skunk.
RUPERT:
And a little kiss for my friend.
FX of weird heavy breathing
RUPERT:
Come on. How about a handshake? You can’t just ignore him when he’s so pleased to see you.
FX Breathing louder and more erratic.
HENRIETTA:
OK. Hello. There, happy? (BEAT) You know I hate Pug dogs.
RUPERT:
Cheers. (Clink glasses) Now what are you going to do for me to earn your keep for a few days?
Henrietta sighs.
FX of zip. Trousers dropping to the floor. Henrietta gasps.
HENRIETTA:
Those are mother’s French knickers! How did you get them?
END.

Update

Dear Micks,

I hope you are all in good spirits. I am lurgied up and feel as emotionally low and physically crap as an Italian starlet post Berlusconi 'bunga bunga' party. I should bottle it. It could be used as a substitute for water-boarding (by Pakistan and other countries who allegedly support controversial interegation techniques.)

Now I've got off on the wrong politically correct foot you may want to know what else has been happening here in Blighty. Midsomer Murders is too pale. The creator defended his right to keep the show all white and said it was the last bastion of Englishness. He said black and asians had no place in the show. Amusingly the Daily Mail, of all papers, found he had a Polish gardener and several black families, Chinese and Indians all lived in his village and his landlord was called Gianfranco. No-one had noticed about the lack of ethnic diversity in the show until he brought it up in an interview in the Radio Times. Whoops! Of course, everyone's reacted hysterically, demanding his racist head on a spike and for the show to transfer to Slough where the immigrant population is significant in size..or something like that. There are probably lot of real murders in Slough so it might improve the show's story lines.

I have asked several well-known authors to pen you stories but i am, as yet, waiting to receive any. I shall chase them up. I had been meaning to convert a 15 mins radio pilot I wrote into prose but I'm afraid it hasn't happened. I will post it as is and allow your imaginations to fill in the gaps.

With lots of love,
Charlie, Your pin-up who's on a serious diet and phys regime. 'Bout bloody time! xx

Sunday 6 March 2011

What My Father Taught Me

Dear Micks,

It is so nearly time for your return. Hooray! I send hugs, kisses and much, much more as usual. BTW There's been a dreadful rumour that you are leaving the calendars with rude messages for the next chaps - Royal Marines, I gather. You'll have to say I was part of the Starlight Foundation or they'll wonder why you chose such a minger! No comments about High Tower please - well, only if they're incredibly witty!

Here is a piece of prose by a fellow Everyman Theatre writer, Kassel 'Kate' Ibbotson. It was recently broadcast on BBC Radio Gloucestershire.


What My Father Taught Me

By Kassel Ibbotson

I spent most of my teenage years making sure my father never taught me anything. Let's face it, parents are always too old, too out of date. He never had the puff to play any running about games. He was overweight too and he said it was from playing the saxophone in his dance band but we had our suspicions. Then he died and that's when I realised he had taught me a few things. I'll start with the most important.

My father taught me the value of chips. My mother spent most of her time, enjoying being ill. This meant Big Sis and I spent lots of school holidays with Grandma, in Portsmouth, in the rain. School term meant father's cooking, which was chips. Yes, bless him, chips. In return, Big Sis tried mince in many ways - spaghetti bolognese, shepherds pie, stuffed peppers but always cheered up by a side order of his excellent chips.

He taught me the value of achievement through perseverance. This can come in many forms. For example, DIY, better known as JKG – just keep going. If you're going to point the house, then accept that it's going to take eighteen months. Fit the sheer slog into your life. Set yourself goals. Today, I will clear out and re-point one square yard. Then do it. Don't stand there clutching at your arse, saying, no quarter past two is far too late to begin. My father came from a generation that came home at six, had tea, put down in front of him by appointment by mother, and then out on the ladder for that square yard of work. Result – the achievement of a repaired house.

But DIY isn't all there is to life. My father also taught me that never one door slams in your face but another opens. My father's father died when he was ten. Frank, that's my father, ah, we'd better go for a touch of background here. In Norfolk, at that time in history, everyone was either Frank or William. My father had the double problem of being both Frank and William. So, if Frank, to show which person you were talking about, Frank became Francis. Francis became Frano. Therefore Frano must have become William, or maybe even Frank. So, my father Frank, was called Francis to show he wasn't Francis and Uncle Francis, here's the turn in the Norfolk logic, remained Uncle Francis. Uncle tops a change in name. You had to leave the county for more exotic names like John or Henry.

Anyway, as we were learning, my father's father died when my father was ten. My father persevered, tried his best. He helped his mum look after his two younger sisters and then his mother married again. This taught him that sometimes you have to cut your losses. His mother married a Londoner called Sam, though they had met in Great Yarmouth. What was Londoner doing in Great Yarmouth? Probably avoiding the First World War, good for him but, downside, Sam was bone-idle. My father could not take to him but instead of the complete Eastenders shouting match, father left home. You could back then, even if you were only twelve years old. He took himself to Uncle George's in Hull and Uncle George gave him a job. This taught him the randomness of luck. Uncle George recognised my father's musical talent and paid for violin lessons. If father had stayed in Great Yarmouth, he'd have become a farm labourer, not a musician who travelled the world. However, Uncle George was also a cautious man and made father take an apprenticeship as an electrician, “in case the music thing didn't work out.” My father wired up spitfires during the war and so met my mother who was in the Aircraft Inspection Department. I have their wedding photo. Her glamourous movie-star hat dwarfs them all. My father is wearing a suit with stripes so broad, it could once have been a deckchair.

He taught me that authority is inconsistent. It reacts mostly when its own dignity or power base is threatened. Now, my big sister could not climb trees. She never hesitated to play the sneer card. “No, I'm going out to play with my friends. You can't come. You're too small.” I realise now that I was and at many years her junior, it matters as it' s her street cred at stake. But the sheer unfairness of it all caused a red mist to come before my eyes. So what you do is, you climb a tree with her copy of some nauseous celeb mag in hand and out onto the garage roof. Hold the stuff dangerously over next door's garden. Taunt her, it so makes your soul feel good because hers isn't.

“Dad, Dad, it's my stuff and I haven't finished with it yet.”

Her subtext: Even if I have, you can't have it.

My subtext: Don't tell me what I can and can't do.

He didn't do a thing because he couldn't climb trees either and it meant fetching the ladder. It was, apparently, all a fuss about nothing. We were to sort ourselves out. Of course, your father has to clip you round the ear when you come down, in the style of the casual violence of the 1950s, for form's sake. But Big Sis had failed through the inertia of authority. Result.

So that's it. My father taught me other people's motives aren't always to your benefit, so recognise your enemy; the randomness of luck; the ability to annoy is an excellent life skill; just keep going; don't give up. And over and above all else, always eat chips. They are truly a comfort food sent to make this world bearable.