Saturday, July 28, 2012

The Olympic Opening Ceremony (3 Months Ago)


“Hi there.  Is that David?”

“Who’s calling?”

“It’s Danny.  Danny Boyle.”

“Hang on a sec, Danny.  I’m in the shower...”

“How are things going?”

“I dropped the soap a couple of times but, hey — I’m not complaining.  What can I do for you, Danny?”

“How do you fancy resurrecting Ziggy Stardust for the Olympic opening ceremony?”

“I get to wear the loony clothes again?  And paint a zesty space crumpet on my forehead?”

“Indeed.  You’ll be frozen in a block of ice and rescued by thirty foot mammoths against an ever-changing tableaux of disabled kids on tricycles recreating the Wars of the Roses with inflatable bottles of Newcastle Brown and twirly swords cast from the lyrics of Emerson, Lake & Palmer’s Tarkus.  As the mammoths morph into Highland cattle, quintessentially British cheeses will roll out from a funnel in the shape of Geri Halliwell’s lips and pound against  the assembled Martian Spiders, beating out a rhythm perfect for underscoring—”

“Wait a sec, Danny.  Can I stop you there?”

“You won’t do it?”

“I’m fine.  It’s just the other guys in the band...Ronno in particular...they’re all allergic to Highland cattle.”

“All of them?”

“Yeah.  Made it a nightmare touring Scotland.”

“They won’t be real Highland cattle, just fibreglass replicas.  I see them somersaulting from the split carcasses of the mammoths and leaping onto pogo sticks as the band join you on your luminous Jackanory carousel.”

“No good.  It’s the horns, mate.  The sight of them drives the guys crazy.  Ronno gets all itchy, Woody can’t stay away from the loo, and Trev starts hallucinating — thinks he’s called ‘Bob Glover’, and can’t play.”

“Who the hell is Bob Glover?”

“He was Trev’s dentist in the late 60s, dead now.  Famously unmusical, though if you check out Trev’s wisdom teeth you’ll see what a great dentist he was.  Maybe you could go with sheep?”

“No — we need the sheep for when Freddie Mercury’s ghost is knitted from the wool of 10,000 Arran sweaters.”

“What if I go solo?  Would that help?”

“The Spiders are integral to the whole melting ice cum Tolkien flotilla teapot party section.  It’s set to Holst’s Planets, with you lot supporting the synchronised dalek Morris Men during the Martian cycle between the Earth-themed gladiatorial JVC tractors and the Venusian drop dead Essex girl stunna pageant in the conjoined Melton Mowbray pork pie dirigibles.”

“Maybe we could use actors.  I know for a fact that Dennis Waterman’s free at the moment.  He could play Ronno to a T.”

“Hang on — I’ve got it!  What if we blindfold the band?  If they can’t see the horns, they can’t  scratch, get the runs, or mistakenly believe themselves to be dentists from forty years ago!  Blindfolds it is — designed to complement the Ronnie Barker spectacles doing a Mordor over the whole stadium.”

“That it?”

“In the bag, yes.”

“So when’s the ceremony?  When do you need me?”

“July 27th, for an all-singing, all-dancing bonkers British spectacular guaranteed to enrage certain sections of the right-wing press.”

“The 27th?  No...no, that’s no good.  I’m taking Iman out for a curry.”

“What?”

“We do it every year.  It’s a romance thing.”

“Think of the kudos.”

“Think of the bruises the size of frying pans to back, legs, chest, face, feet.”

“Hmmm.  Okay...okay...but I still need the band, blindfolded.  We can keep them, and substitute you.  I see horses, now, and Hansom cabs, and the girls of St Winnifred’s School Choir forming a human Billy Bunter pyramid, tossing Walker’s Crisp frisbees as they battle with jigsaw puzzle pieces assembling a mile-high image of Michael Caine weaving Brian May’s hair into beehive with miniature cricket bats.  You still there, Dave?”

“Just drying my cock.”

“Don’t suppose you have Dennis Waterman’s number...?”

3 comments:

Jinksy said...

That was almost as good as the real thing! Hehehe!

Old Kitty said...

Hope you wash your hands after drying your cock. LOL!!!!!!

:-)

Take care
x

Whirlochre said...

Glad to have dragged you away from your screens...