oo ab welcome

[Intro: cupboard/retched/absurd]
CHRIS: When you monged so soft and blacked in cupboard, but other hands knocky, try to get in. "All right?" "Hello?" While you lie still, biting Hoover bag's sweet dust in ee gob.
And better than the outside, really.
Possibly.
No.
Then blink emerge at last, and all people gone, when now you needy, so needy, like a mimmy mim.
And when ee be retched out so long ee dry to fossilised munch, bending like a mad, angry with the ground. Absurd man. Shoot him!
Then ee welcome.
Oo ab welcome, in Blue Jam. (echoes)

[Doctor: Bad Joke I]
DOCTOR: Come in. Right then, have a seat. Now, what can I do for you?
MAN: Well... um...
DOCTOR: Yes?
MAN: Uh... well...
DOCTOR: Take your time.
MAN: I, um...
DOCTOR: Okay...
MAN: ...
DOCTOR: Okay?
MAN: W... sorry.
DOCTOR: Is it what you came about last time?
MAN: Um, no, um... it's...
DOCTOR: Would it help you if you wrote it down?
MAN: I... uh... I feel... um...
DOCTOR: Mm..?
MAN: ...like... a dog... on a motorway.
DOCTOR: Hmm.
MAN: ...
DOCTOR: I think... you're in danger of getting run down.
MAN: ...
DOCTOR: Best take it easy. Pop back if things don't improve.
MAN: Yeah...
DOCTOR: Right.
MAN: Okay... Thanks.
DOCTOR: Bye-bye then.

[The Cardigans - Celia Inside]

[Transplants I]
MICHAEL: Um, my name is Michael Palmer. I'm 42 years old, and I'm an optician. And I've always felt that I am a baby trapped in the body of a man. And, er, about six months ago I had a transplant operation to give me the penis and testicles of a baby. Um... I can probably show you, there... that's just the very tiny little white penis, and underneath, see there, the small pink sac with the as yet undescended testes. I'm very happy with it.

[Transplants II]
SUKIE: My name's Sukie Previn. I'm an architect. I've always felt that I look like I've got the body of a woman, but inside, there's the body of a woman with the genitals of a duck.

[Giant Simon Mayo Sting]
SYNTHESISED: Radio One / And in the distance / I could see a giant Si / mon Mayo / crashing round / the funfair and pissing on the fleeing women's heads.

[Monologue: Art I]
HIM: My eyes are watering. There's a lot of dust in the air. I can't see too well anyway, because I pawned my corneas two days ago to buy a pair of shoes. The replacements are cheap and ill-fitting, and the anaesthetic wears off quickly, so fifteen minutes later I'd spent all the money on a week's supply of codeine. I ate it outside. I had to lie down on the pavement while the painkillers got round to my eyes. I hung my head over the kerb to make them arrive faster. Before she ran away my wife said this would happen. She even got the date right. I tried to remember the expression when she said it. I had just got as far as a large roaring mouth, when a pair of shoes appeared next to my head. I thought they looked familiar. They were familiar, because I'd lost them in a bet to the art dealer Japhet Corncrake. "That's rather good," he said. "Is this a new performance piece, or just a work in progress?" "I sold my eyes," I said. "I can't see." He clapped his hands and jumped up and down, thoroughly impressed. "That's very good. I like it. We must talk about this. Are you very busy this evening, because I've got a new show on at the gallery, if you'd like to come along." I couldn't say no. I couldn't say anything, because I didn't want to, and words don't form in my mouth when that happens. So he hailed a taxi and pushed me into it. As we drove through London, he talked fluidly about art. Coincidentally, I felt very sick. When I asked him whether perhaps he could return my shoes, he said "You really will make an excellent installation. Who writes your scripts?" Corncrake's private gallery was full of people. It was also full of water, as it was really a swimming pool with pictures hung around the walls. The guests were swimming round and round and chattering. Corncrake introduced me to a hugely fitted woman called Hymenoptera, who helped me into the pool and gave me a drink. A man called Howards Knack touched me on the nipple, and asked me what I thought about the Sarajevo school. I was about to say "Please help me," when Helen Collop swam up, popped a cherry in my mouth, kissed my forehead and asked me how my mother was, and then swam away again without waiting for an answer. Hymenoptera surfaced with a tray of crudités and shot me a greasy wink. It was at this point that the level of codeine in my blood became critical, and the contents of my stomach flew out of my mouth in a surprising yellow jet, which, as my head sank below the surface, acted much like a turbine, propelling me ten feet backwards through the water. The last thing I heard was Hymenoptera asking timidly, "Was that supposed to happen?"

I'd like to hear some music now. Preferably the Bucharest Symphony Orchestra in chorus, performing Legatti's Requiem, which should be played on a cassette machine with flat batteries. Start the tape now, please.

Thanks. Legatti's incorporation of polyrhythms contrives to produce one of the most crystalline and difficult pieces of music ever written. No piece of music ever summed up death better. No human being ever experienced anything so close to death whilst still being alive. Edward Heath attended the British premier, and aked the conductor if he had the right music in front of him. That was before inflation. And the three day week. And candles.

[Coco & the Bean - Versus the 90s]

[Acupuncture]
ACUPUNCTURIST: How do I say your name again?
MARTIN: Martin.
ACUPUNCTURIST: Right, Martin... I think the headaches have a lot to do with your posture at the computer. Can I just look at your tongue?
MARTIN: ...
ACUPUNCTURIST: Yeah... Do you get cold fingertips?
MARTIN: Um... yes, yeah. Sometimes.
ACUPUNCTURIST: I'll just take your pulse.
MARTIN: Ow...
ACUPUNCTURIST: Your spleen is damp.
MARTIN: Um...
ACUPUNCTURIST: Have you had acupuncture before?
MARTIN: Um, no.
ACUPUNCTURIST (VO): It's important for the patients to relax fully before I start the treatment.
ACUPUNCTURIST: Okay...
ACUPUNCTURIST (VO): Otherwise it can be a bit distressing.
ACUPUNCTURIST: Now, just put your wrist down by your side. You may feel a little tingle when I put this one in...
(hammering)
MARTIN: Ungh...
ACUPUNCTURIST (VO): The nails I use are between nine and fourteen inches log, and half an inch thick.
ACUPUNCTURIST: Okay, and now two in your stomach...
ACUPUNCTURIST (VO): They must go through the body part and at least two inches into the table, otherwise the patient will slide off when I prop them against the wall.
ACUPUNCTURIST: Can you move your head at all..?
MARTIN: ...don't want to...
ACUPUNCTURIST: Okay. Now what I'm going to do, Martin, is prop you up on your board.
MARTIN: Uh... unfh...
ACUPUNCTURIST: You might feel a little uncomfortable because your taking the weight of your obody on those nails through your arms.
MARTIN: ...yeah...
ACUPUNCTURIST: So you might want to try and just push down a bit.
ACUPUNCTURIST (VO): Often I'll leave several patients together along the walls.
ACUPUNCTURIST: ...half an hour...
ACUPUNCTURIST (VO): They're usually too busy concentrating on themselves to notice anything else.
ACUPUNCTURIST: Now, Martin, I'm just going to give your stomach nails a little tweak.
MARTIN: Eek!
ACUPUNCTURIST: Can you feel that? This one?
MARTIN: Unh!
ACUPUNCTURIST: Good.
MARTIN: ...ssff...
ACUPUNCTURIST: Sorry?
MARTIN: ...ss... ffntd...
ACUPUNCTURIST: Ah, Sarah's fainted. All right, yeah. That's quite normal. All right, Sarah? Just waking you up. All right? There we are, right, that's it... Wakey wakey.
ACUPUNCTURIST (VO): I think the treatment is very successful.
ACUPUNCTURIST: Deep breaths, everybody...
ACUPUNCTURIST (VO): I've never had a patient come back. We have difficulty getting some of them to leave, under their own steam. We just have to leave them out the back. They've normally gone in the morning... yeah...

[Bernie Taupin premonition]
TRANSLATION FROM JAPANESE: It was in 1987 that I had this dream. But it's only now that I realise what it meant. The lyricist Bernie Taupin was on the phone in Los Angeles. At the end of the call, he put the phone down and wrote for an hour, laughing hysterically.

I have listened to the new version of Candle In The Wind, and have discovered that if you play it backwards, you can hear a profane message. It says 'Jesus and your bush; that's no titchy marrow.' This is a bawdy thought about the English Rose, and who she is with now. This is why Bernie Taupin was laughing in my dream.

[Sly & Family Stone - Babies Makin' Babies]

[Mary Anne Hobbs Sting: Bag of Lymph]
VOICE: Mary Anne Hobbs / Now little more than a bag of lymph / Is rolled from the studio / And drained into a sink.

[Fussy Newsreader]
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Yeah? Did he?
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Hmm. Forty three?
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: ..counting the cat. Mm.
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Um... a bit of reflection on the autocue on camera two.
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Nah, doesn't bother me.
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Ah, Sarah. What have you got for me today?
SARAH: Right... That's for the peace talks VT. That's 97 seconds, so you should get the pizza in no problem. Those Jerusalem artichokes are for you if you've got a few seconds at the end.
NEWSREADER: Are they tinned?
SARAH: Yeah.
NEWSREADER: Well I've said before, tinned are no good, haven't I?
SARAH: Um... yes.
NEWSREADER: Typical... the Nine get fresh truffles and I get a bloody tinned artichoke.
SARAH: ...
NEWSREADER: Well, I'll just have to spin the pizza out a bit...
SARAH: Okay. Then Angola - that's 72 seconds, so there's a sandwich and a couple of grapes.
NEWSREADER: What sort of sandwich?
SARAH: Hen.
NEWSREADER: Good.
SARAH: Er, we've got the Clinton. That's two and a half minutes from Washington, so you can take a bit of time over the scallops, and you could probably fit in two miniature pints of beer.
NEWSREADER: Oh, good, I like those. Put them here. They're great, aren't they?
SARAH: Mm.
NEWSREADER: Anything with the sports results?
SARAH: Some ram's cheese.
NEWSREADER: Ah yes, good.
SARAH: Um, and at 6:28 I'll make sure all the doors between here and the canteen are open, so you should get a clear run.
NEWSREADER: Lovely. Thanks. Sarah what happened to the berries?
SARAH: They're with the full length Angola VT, so they've gone to the Nine.
NEWSREADER: Gone to the Nine?
SARAH: Yeah.
NEWSREADER: Well, Sissons doesn't need them. I need the berries. Why... why is he going to get the berries?
SARAH: Well, they go with that story.
NEWSREADER: I know, I ordered them for that story because it was going to be in the Six, and I need... yeah?
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Well I know it's been changed, but how do you expect me to do my job when my nutrition's all abused?
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Well, I won't get the C vitamins or the fructose from that, will I? Sarah, just get me the fucking berries, will you?
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Well if I can't have the berries then I'm not doing it.
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Yeah?
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: All right. Well, then I'll... I'll just have to do the short Angola story twice, and then I'll get two lots of grapes.
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Well it's either that or nothing! And I'll have to lead with the football results. I'll need that ram's cheese at the top to try and deal with the vitamin risk.
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: No, lead with the sports results!
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Well, then I won't do it!
SARAH: What about this orange?
NEWSREADER: I can't have a bloody orange!
SARAH: It's got vitamin C, it's got fructose...
NEWSREADER: I've got to have the berries!
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Well then I'm not doing it! I'm just not going to do it, alright?
SARAH: ...
NEWSREADER: You know I've got to have my berries, don't you?
SARAH: Yeah...
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Yeah? ...So they'll swap back. Well, why didn't you do that straight away? You could have saved a lot of unpleasantness, couldn't you?
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Yeah, sure, I'll move it. No, you're right, you can't have my bucket in shot. There, is that better?
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: No, it's empty.
PRODUCER: ...
NEWSREADER: Yeah, okay... Oh, Sarah, could you get me some gum? The stomach acids are really starting to get to my teeth.
SARAH: Sure.
NEWSREADER: Okay, thanks, love.
SARAH: ...
NEWSREADER: Jesus...

[Bad Sex I]
HER: Mm... piss on my hinge... oh...
HIM: Fart up my arse... Fart up my fucking arse...
HER: Oh, yeah...
HIM: Oh...
HER: Mm, oh... oh... Lick my puddle... oh... Prick cheeks. Prick cheeks in my fussy. Fuss my Polly... fuss my fucking Polly...
HIM: Swallow my face. Swallow my fgglumph..!
HER: Mmph... mmph. Roar up my twat.
HIM: AAAEEEERRRGGHHH!!
HER: Ooh... rudder... rudder... rudder... rudder... rudder... rudder... oh... your balls are so fat! Oh!
HIM: Shove your tits up my arse! Oh, cold chicken!
HER: Fart them out!
HIM: AH HAH! Aargh...
HER: Oh... (sobs)

[Monologue: Art II]
HIM: Any minute now, the blowflies will hatch. They've been breeding in a scrap of kidney next to my foot. I cannot bend down or move from side to side in here, and must remain standing with my face pressed to the thick glass. Still, I am lucky. When Susie found me, I had been stranded on a traffic island for four hours. And when she suggested that she take me home and have me walled up as an art installation, I agreed straight away. So here I am, in an alcove in her living room, being exhibited behind glass next to a plaque bearing the name "Berence Oslo." Berence Oslo is the artist that did me. There is a copper tube to help me breathe, and I am naked except for a string vest. Some of my lower parts have been painted yellow. I think the cleaning lady pushed the kidney in through the tube, but it missed my mouth and fell to my feet. Susie is having a sort of dinner to open me officially. It seems to be a great success. Her face is all blotchy with anticipation as she waits for guests to react to me. I am a great hit when one of them taps on the glass and says "Susie, you are a genius. This is what art should be like - moving, an a relevant way." I have instructions to reply to these comments by saying "I am very sorry. This art is crap." Of course the guest is flabberghasted, because they have no idea I can hear them. Only very recent Berence Oslos come fitted with a ticket office intercom. They start raving about the magnificence of a piece of art that is capable of criticising itself. "That's amazing," they say. "This art is capable of criticising itself." As I continue to slag myself off, there is a buzz of expectation as Will Self arrives with his special pillow and a miniature chicken. He spots me, and immediately delivers himself of the opinion that he has never seen a more klepto-masturbatory entropoid. He kneels, and says that now he has glimpsed all our hypocrisies in a neuro-plastic ellipse. There follows a period of silent eating, with occasional sobs, and the passing and gradual filling of a tear thimble.

I've been here for a couple of hours now. Susie summons the guests into an adjoining room. She is an excellent hostess. One girl stays behind, because she is trying to chase the dragon, and it keeps getting away. In the adjoining room there is a hatch, which allows access to my back parts. Susie opens it up, and the guests take it in turns to put their hands through. I gather from their language that they are attempting to read my arse. There's a kind of binary Braille encoded in the relative temperatures of my buttocks. Extra verbs are in the roughness, and adjectives in the formation of folds around my daisy. Presently I can hear squabbling. Apparently my arse has declared that one of them is the slavemaster, but hasn't revealed which one it is. I am beginning to feel ill. There is no-one to notice me except the girl with the foil. She sees that I am in distress, and walks slowly up to me with a very unintelligent look on her face. She empties a lungful of dragon into my tube. My next action is caused by the combination of poppy smoke and the new development taking place next door which some of the guests are calling "Feed the arse." A high-pressure jet of old stomach emerges from my tube, just as Will Self is passing on his way home. "We are all Huxley's babkins," he says, and vaults through a closed window.

The truth is that events continued in pretty much the same way for about a week. I think the girl who had shown herself clumsy with the horse may have died. The blowflies certainly did hatch, and blocked my view completely, so that my abiding memory is of sounds heard through buzzing - mainly the rhythmical slamming of bare skin on alabaster, as Susie succumbed with grunts to the meaty pleasure of each new slavemaster. I was eventually extracted by six men in contamination suits. They were extremely distressed. This happened two days after Susie went on holiday.

[Alessi Brothers - Oh Lori]

[Steve Lamacq Sting]
VOICE: Radio One.
SYNTHESISED: I can see Steve Lamacq
HIGH VOICE: Lamacq.
SYNTHESISED: As a frail old man in a wheelchair
VOICE: Huh!
SYNTHESISED: Trying to shake hands with an elephant.
(simian laughter)

[Doctor: Bad Joke II]
DOCTOR: Come in. Right, then. Have a seat. Now, what can I do for you?
MAN: Well... er, it's...
DOCTOR: Yes?
MAN: Uh...
DOCTOR: Take your time.
MAN: I, uh... sorry.
DOCTOR: Okay...
MAN: ...
DOCTOR: Is it what you came about last time?
MAN: Uh, no... no. I, uh... I feel... um... like... a pair... of curtains.
DOCTOR: A pair of curtains?
MAN: Yeah.
DOCTOR: Hmm. Okay... I think the best thing you can do is... pull yourself together. See how that goes.
MAN: Right.
DOCTOR: Okay.
MAN: Yeah. Right, thanks.
DOCTOR: Bye, then.
MAN: Bye.

[Outro: cupboard/retched/absurd]
CHRIS: When you monged so soft and blacked in cupboard, but other hands knocky, try to get in. "All right?" "Hello?" While you lie still, biting Hoover bag's sweet dust in ee gob.
And better than the outside, really.
Possibly.
No.
Then blink emerge at last, and all people gone, when now you needy, so needy, like a mimmy mim...
And when ee be retched out so long ee dry to fossilised munch, bending like a mad, angry with the ground. Absurd man. Shoot him!
Then ee welcome.
Oo ab welcome, in Blue Jam. (echoes)