oo thub welcome

[Intro: coins/chomped/bomb]
CHRIS: When ee scrimp for coins, and fingers trackle gash in pocket, money slish on floor, and all in queue observe ee at a work.
When ee chew so fret, as if to form solid thought from frown. Then pause, and shocked, behold ee thumb, chomped off.
And when oo tiptoe down to hug oo bomb in cellar, and rock it, willing boom disinti. Then sudden light, and people, laughing, "Look, she humping bomb. We shootim diddy, send in to freak show. Ha ha."
Then welcome.
Ah, oo thub welcome, in Blue Jam

[Oral Hygiene]
[Sade - Your Love Is King]
(brushing)
PATRICIA (VO): My name's Patricia Matwell. I think that brushing your teeth correctly is extremely important.
PATRICIA: Uh...
PATRICIA (VO): I brush my teeth three times a day. I always use a firm brush...
PATRICIA: Mm...
PATRICIA (VO): And brush very hard in all directions.
PATRICIA: Ah...
PATRICIA (VO): After a while my gums start to bleed...
PATRICIA: Mm..!
PATRICIA (VO): And I basically keep on brushing as long as I can, until eventually I faint.
PATRICIA: Ahh...
PATRICIA (VO): It takes about twenty five minutes at night time...
PATRICIA: Haah...
PATRICIA (VO): But in the morning it can take as much as two hours.
PATRICIA: Ohhh...ooohhh... aaaahhhhhh!!!!
(clatter)

[Funki Porcini - Going Down]

[Mayo Sting]
VOICE: Radio One...
SYNTHESISED: ...presents the peculiar sound of Simon Mayo lying in a ditch... lying in a ditch...
MICHAEL ALEXANDER ST JOHN: And pissing across the feathery folds of his belly. Belly. Belly. Belly. Belly.

[Doctor: Wanger]
(knocking)
DR PERLIN: Come in. Ah, good morning.
MAN: Morning.
DR PERLIN: Sit down; have a seat and sit down.
MAN: Thanks.
DR PERLIN: Right, now, what seems to be the problem?
MAN: I've had a headache for about two weeks now, and, er, seems to be pretty constant.
DR PERLIN: Mm...
MAN: And I've got blocked sinuses, it also goes round the back as well.
DR PERLIN: Right...
MAN: And I feel dizzy, quite a lot...
DR PERLIN: How are your ears?
MAN: Well, they're okay.
DR PERLIN: Right. And how big is your wanger?
MAN: ...Sorry?
DR PERLIN: I'll need to have a look at your old chap.
MAN: Oh, really?
DR PERLIN: Yes.
MAN: Might it be something to do with it?
DR PERLIN: Yes, get it out and let's have a look.
(unzips)
DR PERLIN: Wow... Yes... That's not bad. Can I just? Good weight.
MAN: Um... Is this...?
DR PERLIN: Yes, good density. Can you swing it about a bit? Swing your hips; make it slap against your thighs.
MAN: ...
DR PERLIN: Hmm. Good, solid mass. Double the speed. Good.
MAN: Er, Doctor, I'm not sure...
DR PERLIN: Keep going. Now, mine, look...
MAN: Um...
DR PERLIN: Well, it's nice, but not the same. Keep going. Kind of more slinky.
MAN: Er, can I stop now?
DR PERLIN: This is quite important. Do you understand what I'm doing?
MAN: Um, no.
DR PERLIN: I'm piecing together a holistic puzzle. Now, could you just keep that going?
(dials)
DR PERLIN: Hello, Sarah? Could you ask Doctor Basingstoke to pop through?
MAN: Can I stop now?
DR PERLIN: No, keep swinging. Or, oh... jump up and down.
MAN: ...
DR PERLIN: Ah, yes, that's powerful. Do that too much, it'll swing right up your arse.
MAN: Look...
DR PERLIN: I can get mine to come up my arse as well!
MAN: ...
DR PERLIN: Ah, Alison, look at this! Keep going. Look at that, Alison!
DR BASINGSTOKE: Michael...
DR PERLIN: Sychronised cocks!
DR BASINGSTOKE: Michael, stop this...
DR PERLIN: They've almost got the same lob rate!
DR BASINGSTOKE: Michael...
DR PERLIN: A harmony of knobs!
DR BASINGSTOKE: Michael!
DR PERLIN: Ow!
DR BASINGSTOKE: Stop it!
DR PERLIN: Really?
DR BASINGSTOKE: Yes! You too.
MAN: Oh, thanks.
DR PERLIN: But it's great!
DR BASINGSTOKE: I know, but it's not... I'm sorry about this. Just put your things back on.
MAN: Right... Was that not necessary, then?
DR BASINGSTOKE: Not particularly.
MAN: Oh.
DR BASINGSTOKE: You too, please, Michael. Pants first.
DR PERLIN: Oh, bloody hell...
DR BASINGSTOKE: Is it, er, Nick?
MAN: Nick Foster.
DR BASINGSTOKE: Just pop through to the waiting room, Nick, and we'll fix you up another appointment, OK?
DR PERLIN: ...
DR BASINGSTOKE: Michael, this has got to stop.
DR PERLIN: Has it?
DR BASINGSTOKE: Yes!
DR PERLIN: But he didn't mind.
DR BASINGSTOKE: He was furious!
DR PERLIN: Was he?
DR BASINGSTOKE: You're going to get into trouble!
DR PERLIN: Yeah... I suppose you're right.
DR BASINGSTOKE: If you want to talk about it, I've always got time.
DR PERLIN: Yeah. Thanks, Alison.
DR BASINGSTOKE: It's okay. See you later.
DR PERLIN: Alison...
DR BASINGSTOKE: Yeah?
DR PERLIN: I've probably got about three more goes at this before I get reported, haven't I?
DR BASINGSTOKE: Michael...
DR PERLIN: Please?
DR BASINGSTOKE: No!
DR PERLIN: Please?
DR BASINGSTOKE: Two more.
DR PERLIN: Oh, thanks...!

[Morcheeba - Blindfold]

[Monologue: Suicide Journalist]
HIM: Susie and a thin man found me in the park. I was walking slowly round the pond, making the bones in my nose tickle by hooting. Susie said my mother had tipped her off, after hearing my voice while throwing stones at the ducks. I had been there a day and a half.
"It's because of my job," I explained, "batch testing New Age CD's."
"But Hal said he didn't hire you in the end," she said.
"That would explain why he hasn't paid me." The thin man with Susie coughed up a small laugh, and spat it onto the ground.
"You'd better come to dinner on Saturday," Susie said. "Clive will be there too." She squeezed the man's arm. "Clive is the suicide journalist."
He was ghostly pale, with black hair and a sad wit in his eyes. I'd say he looked like John Cusack, if I could remember who the hell John Cusack was. As he gazed moodily at the pond, Susie explained that Clive had announced in his weekly column that he had six months to live. On April the fifteenth, he would be committing suicide, and until then he would write about how it felt to be staring death in the face. Clive took aout a notebook and muttered something about the blackness of a moorhen.
"Do you know what month it is now?" she asked. I thought it might be Martober. Susie dabbed a damp eye, and said that the suicide column was the saddest, funniest, most tragic and uplifting thing she'd ever read. "He has just twelve weeks to go."
I looked across the pond and started honking again. Susie turned to collect Clive, who was puffing on three cigarettes and smirking at his notes.
"Eight or late with a good excuse," she crooned, and popped a sweet in my mouth.

I arrived well after dark. A smart woman opened the door.
"I couldn't afford a bottle of wine," I said, "so I've drawn one on a piece of cardboard." I had prepared for the party by eating half a jar of instant coffee I'd found in the bins at Sainsbury's.
She took my cardboard and said, "That's brilliant. Could I use you in a programme?" When I asked her what sort of programme, she said "I could make a whole series about the things people bring to parties."
"What do you do?" I said, thinking of the window at Dixon's.
"My name's Hosanna Bell. I work in the warm arts."
We stepped past Susie's yachting gear and into the dining room. Seven people sat noisily round a large bowl of oysters, but Susie wasn't a single one of them. I thought I was at the wrong party, until they explained that the whole point was to be late, but with a good excuse.
"Why are YOU late?" they asked.
I said I'd had no money for a bottle of wine, and the homeless bloke at the tube station who normally subs me a couple of quid because he says I look worse off than his dog was being mugged when I asked him this time and hadn't given me a penny, and then I'd got lost because I'd forgotten whether Susie's house was directly opposite some trees, or directly opposite no trees at all. Several conversations had started by the time I got to that bit.
Susie arrived to great squeals and kisses. She announced that she had spent the last three hours in bestial congress with a junior cabinet minister. Gobs hung open, because everyone had thought he was gay, and several of them also knew that he was her half-brother. She wore a grin as big as a harbour.
"Do you think Clive is still coming?" said a sincere man in glasses, and the talk turned at once to his column.
Hosanna Bell said she had seen more truth in Clive's writing than the entire works of any writer she could think of.
A woman called Emma agreed. "I'm still reeling. I don't know whether to weep, laugh, throw up or hug everybody."
"That's just your protein rush," observed a man called Paddy, pointing to the seventeen shells on her plate. Emma touched his leg. Paddy was Clive's editor, and was busy milking the table by mildly deprecating the praise for Clive's column, so that people doubled it in protest. He was just declaring that the columns would have to be polished up for the book, when swearing in the hall announced the arrival of Clive.

He looked a bit drunk, and seemed small with his coat off. He said he was sorry he was late, but actually he didn't give a fuck. Everyone laughed, except Paddy.
Susie said "This brilliant man has asked me if you would all take it easy on the suicide questions tonight," and helped him liberally to bivalves.
We nodded, of course, and I asked him if he thought oysters could commit suicide. Susie glared at me. I said I was just wondering if an oyster could make a decision like that, and if so, how it would die, because it couldn't really hang itself.
"Are you being weird, or sarcastic?" said Emma. I didn't know, because I get the two feelings mixed up. She called me a plankton, and started telling Clive about the time she had cut her wrists. "Look at my scars," she said. "They are beautiful, but not as beautiful as your columns."
For some reason, Clive looked at me as he said, "Only the very ugly is truly beautiful. And if the printed word has any meaning, then it must come from the very edge of fuckybumbooboo." There were titters.
Paddy muttered something about Clive alienating his fans, but was cut off by Emma. "No, Clive has every right to be drunk. You are in masses of pain, Clive, and you are doing it for us."
"Yes," agreed Hosanna.
Clive asked her what the hell she knew.
"In the warm arts, we're strong on people power," she said, "and what you have done in volunteering to take your own life, Clive, is illuminate with poignant resonance the self-destructor in all of us." There was a ripple of applause.
Clive, who had been sousing his oysters in vodka and setting them alight before hurling them down his throat, now added a cigarette to the turmoil, and belched the word, "Bollocks."
Paddy banged the table, and started telling Clive that if all he could do was get pissed and shove drugs up his bum for the last twelve columns, he would lose all his priceless empathy. "This is the finest copy I've ever commisioned," he said, "and I'm not having it ruined by some jumped-up little floozy going all diddums."
A man called Stitt said that Paddy was threatening the purity of Clive's columns. "If he uses the bottle, then that should come through in his work."
"But he'll end up writing about you lot!" said Paddy.
Suddenly all the guests were telling Clive about the time they'd nearly topped themselves. Hosanna Bell described how she'd been suicidal for six months after giving birth, until she'd decided to sue her baby for what it had done to her figure.
Clive was insulting everyone and writing notes on his cuffs. "Losers! Crap attempt!" he shouted. "I want something that actually works."
Someone said hosepipes work. Clive knew a bloke in a garden centre in Maidstone who actually cuts them to length for your particular car. He said the people carrier length hose was the most popular.
"Wow," said Hosanna Bell, now also scribbling feverishly.
"What about you?" Susie had hunched me in the back. My head was below the table trying to lick an oyster off my courduroys. "Have you ever tried to kill yourself?"
A great pustule of dread burst silently between my ears. I looked at Susie, and I knew that she wanted me to tell the story of how my prescription had been stolen last month, and I had, in fact, tried to kill myself. She had that look in her eye that said, "If you don't, I will."
I stared back trying to say, "No," but she was off about how I had tried to gas myself, but I couldn't find a tube long enough to get the exhaust into the car. She said she'd found me sitting on the curb next to a Vauxhall Nova with a yard of hose running from its exhaust pipe to my mouth, waiting for the owner to come back and start the engine. Everyone 'round the table was roaring with laughter.
"I wish you hadn't told that story, Susie," I mumbled. She looked puzzled.
"I only asked you a question," she said.
"No, you didn't. You just told them about me trying to gas myself with a Vauxhall Nova."
Everybody laughed again.
"Tell us," they said. "Do tell us what happened."
Clive looked at me now as if he had knew that the black ink in my brain had started to boil. I dived back to my oyster.
"So then, Mr. Superstar," Paddy was saying, "what is the best way to kill yourself?"
Clive said that in fact the best way he knew was to buy two-hundred foot of nylon rope, tie one end round your neck, the other round a lamppost, and get into your car and floor the accelerator. He said that's how his great-uncle had done it. He'd made Clive help him. He was just nine years old. And he'd had to ride in the car and stop it crashing when his uncle's head came off. The blood had made the pedals very slippery. Clive blinked, smarting eyes.
The table fell silent.
"Really?" said Paddy, genuinely shocked.
"Of course not, you moron!" brayed Clive, and went on to explain that we were all idiots; he could say anything and we'd lap it up, just because we thought his pain meant something, how we wouldn't give him a second thought if he wasn't going to kill himself, except that actually he wasn't anyway, because the whole thing was a hoax, and he was going to say so in his column next week.
Paddy erupted, and decked Clive with the oyster bowl. Then he stood over him, roaring that this was his fucking idea, Clive had agreed to do it, and he wasn't going to wriggle out of killing himself now, not now there was a book.
Clive crawled from the room. The general opinion was that Clive had just treated us to his most savage and moving cry for help yet. We had all understimated his pain.
"I feel choked up now," said Emma, "but if I read about next week, I'll be crying for the rest of the year."
"Someone bring me a fucking fag." Clive's voice sounded glutinous.
Susie gestured to me, as everyone else was still debating the meaning of his actions.
He lay on the floor, two regurgitated oysters a tongue's length from his leaking mouth, one of them still slightly alive. His nose seemed a better place for the cigarette. The caustic fumes revived him sharply, and he stumbled to his feet.
"I'm going out," he said "I'm going to break into a car, and drive around drunk until I crash." As he lunged past me into the hall, his foot snagged on a rope among Susie's boat bags, and he fell on the sea grass. We both looked at the large coil of blue nylon. "Are you good at knots?" he said. Susie's car keys were hanging by the front door.
"You might as well use the Discovery," I said. "She'll be so thrilled to have a new story."

About an hour later, I revealed that Clive hadn't just gone for a walk. He'd gone to divorce his head, and how I'd helped him with the keys and the knots. I needed to go to sleep, and had correctly anticipated that Paddy would punch my lights out.

[Pizzicato Five - The World's Spinning at 45 R.P.M.]

[Ball Sting]
Zoë Ball, still alive
Hanging from the ceiling by a flex around her neck
No-one cuts her down
They just stand, and stare, and smile
Then go back to their desks, and giggle for a while...

[Michael Alexander St. John: Club News]
[Unidentified Music]
Clubs, this weekend... all right.
Clubs, take two. Clubs, take two. Clubs, take two.
Okay, beachflies, some truly hexagonal dope on this weekend at the pop sheds and flash tunnels. Right? Oh, no, that's ridiculous. Right.
Loads of noise breaking out over Yorkshire, mainly due to DJ Anil Rightmate, featuring some nice trad garage at the Salty Glob in Leeds. He uses guns, by the way, and there's no floor in the club at all.
Bit of a clash in Hull, with the Fabattoir and the Bauble right next door to each other. At the Fab, it's the Comical Beggars with two nervous guitarists doing strum and base, while the Baub have DJ Guts featuring the classic sounds of the seventh of January, 1998. I'll always remember going absolutely bald to that brilliant Sister Wendy remix of "My Fly Had Puppies" by Balbarigmus.
But back to now. It's seven-four tour night at the Fussy Brenda in Cardiff. So, that'll just be those three geezers again, and that one lady if she turns up, each paying two hundred pounds on the door, and each, I'd have to say, ignoring the other three, and acting like they owned the place, and it was their home, and they were watching television on a Wednesday.
Ooh! Ooh, agh. Ooh, sorry, I'm still getting flashbacks from New Year, when I saw Keith Flint being rushed to hospital after claiming he could eat sodium. What a classic flourish!
Saturday at the Vag in Glasgow, an all-nighter with DJ Boiled Mouse. Ahh... yes. Making that creepy whistle of a noise, and expecting people to dance? Come on! By half-ten he's always in a tizz, claiming no-one understands him, and by midnight, he's usually being fished out of a nearby canal, after another failed attempt to snuff his very naff little candle. So if you do go to that, leave the bollock to drown.
Hey, Portishead. When you play live, how about some strip-hop? Boozy girl naked. Very pleasant.
At the Tube of Toothpaste in Reading, it's another fat lip all-nighter. Huge discounts if you let the bouncers lamp you on the way in. With DJ Lemsip and Catatonia's Cerys ironing beans in the background. Nicely understated, that. Like a bomb made out of jazz and feathers. Last time I was there, I spent quite a lot of time in the knob out room.
And finally, at the Loaded Knife in Brixton, entrance is free if you turn up with a haircut. DJ Microclimate churns out tons of little beat. They've got a couple of ill sea lions there, to test your drugs on, but make sure you know what an off-colour sea lion looks like. And I'm told at six a.m. there's a break in the music that lasts until June the fifteenth, when the show will reconvene for a further five minutes.
Right? Oh, no, that's ridiculous. Right. I'm off to the Jumping Up and Down in Camden, where it's Dead Certain night to the beat of some steaming blazen midriff. Ooh, oily, oh, boily! Will I be some fresh jazz kill by three?

[Air - Sexy Boy]

MICHAEL ALEXANDER ST. JOHN: Night night, Jarvis!
MICHAEL ALEXANDER ST. JOHN: Night night, Jarvis!
MICHAEL ALEXANDER ST. JOHN: Night night, Jarvis!

[Fix-It Girl I]
(phone rings)
MAN: Hello?
MARIA: Your car's ready.
MAN: Already?
MARIA: Yes.
MAN: And what about the blood?
MARIA: All gone.
MAN: What happened to the woman?
MARIA: ...Dead.
MAN: Oh, shit!
MARIA: Broke her neck.
MAN: ...Where is she?
MARIA: She's buried in some concrete stuff.
MAN: God... I... I should go away...
MARIA: Like fuck you should.
MAN: But... But there's a-
MARIA: Anything suspicious now and you're fucked.
MAN: Mm...
MARIA: And you'll have wasted your money.
MAN: Right, um... How much was it?
MARIA: Twenty thousand pounds.
MAN: Twenty thousand!? But how could I pay that?
MARIA: We've done it already.
MAN: What!?
MARIA: Through your credit card.
MAN: My credit card?
MARIA: We have an arrangement.
MAN: ...You won't take any more?
MARIA: I have to go now.
MAN: But is it just the twenty thousand?
MARIA: Bye bye.
MAN: No more?
MARIA: (hangs up)
MAN: Hello? Hello? Oh...
(phone rings)
MAN: Hello?
MARIA: One fucking word to anyone...
MAN: Yes, could I just...
MARIA: ...and I'll hack off your balls...
MAN: Just a minute...
MARIA: ...and ram barbed wire into your ears...
MAN: Uh...
MARIA: ...and pull your face into your stomach from the inside.
MAN: ...
MARIA: Okay?
MAN: ...Yeah...
MARIA: Bye bye, mister man.
MAN: Bye bye...
MARIA: (hangs up)

[Jim White - Still Waters]

[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)

[Mister Lizard]
(doorbell)
REPAIRMAN: Mr Reilly?
MAN: Yeah?
REPAIRMAN: I've come about the television.
MAN: Oh, right, yeah, come in.
REPAIRMAN: Brand new one?
MAN: Yeah.
REPAIRMAN: But not working?
MAN: Well, it's working; but it's full of lizards.
REPAIRMAN: Lizards?
MAN: Come and have a look. It's through here. Man's come to fix the telly, love.
WOMAN: About time, it's a bloody mess.
MAN: Well? Probably need a replacement, won't it?
REPAIRMAN: Mm... No...
MAN: No?
REPAIRMAN: It seems to be set up properly.
MAN: Well, yeah, but I mean, it's full of lizards.
REPAIRMAN: It's a good picture.
WOMAN: I'm not having a TV pouring lizards into my house.
REPAIRMAN: Well, you see, they're not really anything to do with me, strictly.
WOMAN: Yes, they are! It's a brand new television, it's not supposed to have lizards in it.
REPAIRMAN: You see, it doesn't say anything at all about lizards here.
MAN: Well of course it bloody doesn't! They're not meant to be there, are they?
REPAIRMAN: Have you checked with the cable company, sir?
WOMAN: Well, it's nothing to do with them!
REPAIRMAN: Have you checked with the cable company?
MAN: No, we haven't!
WOMAN: No!
REPAIRMAN: Well, all I can say is that I do suggest you do try them, and maybe they'll be able to help you.
WOMAN: What, are you saying that the cable company's sending us lizards?
REPAIRMAN: Yes...
WOMAN: What?
REPAIRMAN: By mistake... the lizards...
MAN: Hang on, look, mate. It's quite simple, right? You sold us the telly. You delivered it, you set it up, and it starts pouring lizards! So we want you to come up with a solution, right? It's quite simple!
REPAIRMAN: Sweep them up.
WOMAN: Sweep them up?
REPAIRMAN: Yes.
WOMAN: Well, you sweep them up, then.
REPAIRMAN: No, no, you sweep them up.
WOMAN: What!?
REPAIRMAN: As I keep saying, madam, they're not really anything to do with me.
MAN: Is that all you can say!? Is it... "It's nothing to do with me." Is that it!?
REPAIRMAN: Wipers.
WOMAN: What?
REPAIRMAN: Use windscreen wipers to wipe them off the screen.
MAN: Look here, this is fucking ridiculous!
REPAIRMAN: There's no need to swear, sir.
MAN: Look, I'll fucking swear in my own house if I want to!
REPAIRMAN: There's no need.
WOMAN: Right, what will your head office say when I tell them all about your... uselessness at customer relations, eh?
MAN: Yeah!
REPAIRMAN: You did it.
MAN: What was that!?
REPAIRMAN: You did it... they'd say you did it.
WOMAN: You what!?
REPAIRMAN: Why, why did you... why did you fill your telly up with lizards?
MAN: I've told you, the lizards started coming out of that telly as soon as you'd set it up, right!?
REPAIRMAN: You filled it with lizards.
MAN: Right, I'm going to fucking get you sacked, mate! And that isn't a threat, it's a promise, right! What's your name!?
REPAIRMAN: It's Mr. Lizard.
MAN: W... Stop fucking me about!
WOMAN: Fucking nincompoop.
MAN: Come on, what is it!?
REPAIRMAN: Mr. Lizard.
WOMAN: Right, what's your boss' name?
REPAIRMAN: Another Mr. Lizard.
MAN: Stop it! Fucking stop it!
REPAIRMAN: Mr. Lizard. Heh, heh, heh, heh!
MAN: Stop it! Come back in here! Where do you think you're going!?
REPAIRMAN: Ha, ha! Lizard, lizard!
MAN: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!? GET BACK AND...!
WOMAN: Come on...
MAN: (sobs)
WOMAN: Stop it, now. Stop it.
MAN: (sobs)
WOMAN: Stop it!
MAN: Ow! (sobs hysterically)
WOMAN: STOP IT!
MAN: (wails)

[Pulp - Dishes]

[Hi]
[Madonna - Drowned World / Substitute for Love]
ANDREW NEIL: Hi. Hi. Hi, this is Andrew Neil. I like all the ladies.

[Outro: coins/chomped/bomb]
CHRIS: When ee scrimp for coins, and fingers trackle gash in pocket, money slish on floor, and all in queue observe ee at a work.
When ee chew so fret, as if to form solid thought from frown. Then pause, and shocked, behold ee thumb, chomped off.
And when oo tiptoe down to hug oo bomb in cellar, and rock it, willing boom disinti. Then sudden light, and people, laughing, "Look, she humping bomb. We shoot in viddy, send in to freak show. Ha ha."
Then welcome. Ah, oo thub welcome, in Blue Jam