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The Flying Pornographers [3]
Nov. 29th, 2011 10:40 amBeing episode 3 of an occasional series (Read Part 1 and Part 2.)
Titles: A montage of shots of burly men loading crates marked "Pornography" into light aircraft, flying them over the bleak deserts of Western Australia, and throwing them out to drift safely to earth via parachute to the obvious relief* of isolated communities. The title reads "The Flying Pornographers" in a classy cursive script.
Scene Interior, Dingo Ridge sheep station, Qeensland Australia. A large shack with a corrugated iron roof. A number of burly men in singlets and sun hats sit round listlessly, apparently lacking even the energy to wave away flies or drink lager. Enter Bruce, chief of the station and Bruce, his assistant.
Bruce: This is getting serious. All the blokes are struck down with a dose of chronic clinical depression.
Bruce: I know, Bruce. We'll never get the shearing done at this rate. If we can't get the fellers' Serotonin levels raised then Dingo Ridge may well be finished! But what can we do?
Bruce: There's only one thing we can do - I'm calling the Flying Pornographers! (Seizes radio)
Cut to: Exterior, the Royal Australian Flying Pornography Corps HQ in Cairns. A large, gleaming white modern building. The sign outside reads "Royal Australian Flying Pornography Corps. Patron: HRH Pippa Middleton's arse".
Cut to: Interior. Bruce, a surfing Pornographer, is talking to Bruce the grizzled, wise old chief Pornographer.
Bruce: …so you see, Bruce, what you do is you wax up your board and get out onto the rip curl. Strewth, it really makes a man feel alive to…
Bleeping
Bruce: Strewth! The radio! It's an emergency call! (He seizes up the radio) Hallo? Hallo? Flying Pornography here!
Bruce: (Over the radio). Flying Pornography! Thank God. You're our only hope. We've got a serious outbreak of clinical depression up here at Dingo Ridge and we need your help!
Bruce: Clinical depression, eh? Sounds nasty but I reckon we can help. There's nothing perks up Australian menfolk like some high-quality one-handed literature. We'll load up the plane and drop some off for you. It'll soon bring a twinkle to your eye. As it were.
Bruce(Over the radio) Don't get too close! It seems to be catching!
Bruce Catching, eh? Nasty. Wait up. (Turns to Surfing Bruce). Bruce. I know this might be painful for you to discuss, but I know you have struggled with depression in the past. Can you give me any idea of what might have caused it?
Bruce: I can't, Bruce. It's too raw for me.
Bruce (taking surfing Bruce by the arm). Bruce, I understand that it is hard for you to talk about this, but you must help. Those blokes up at Dingo Ridge are suffering (The Australian National Anthem starts playing, softly). It might be that (he knuckles away a tear)... it might be that not even expertly-crafted pictures of a lady's nethers can break their funk. Now, Bruce. Australia was built on the backs of men like those up at Dingo Ridge. Rearing sheep come hell or high water. Without men like them, this country is...nothing.
Bruce (Straightening) You're right, Bruce. It was when I was seeing this Sheila. I thought it was going so well, but over time, it got worse and eventually the relationship collapsed and I...I...
Bruce A Sheila! Of course! (He grabs the radio). Bruce! Are there any Sheilas up at Dingo Ridge?
Bruce: (Over the radio). Not any human ones, if that's what you're referring to, Bruce?
Bruce: Dammit! I thought I had it. (Thinks) So who have you got up there this season?
Bruce (Over the radio), Well, we've got Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Big Bruce, Little Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Tarquin Cholmedy-Smythe, Bruce, Bruce, and Bruce.
Bruce: Hold up there, Bruce! You're going a mile a minute! Can you just run that by me again?
Bruce (Over the radio) We've got Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Big Bruce, Little Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Tarquin Cholmedy-Smythe, Bruce, Bruce, and Bruce.
Cut to: Interior, Dingo Ridge
Tarquin Cholmedy-Smythe: I say, you fellows! Anyone for tea and tiffin? Isn't it dashed hot, what?
Cut to: Interior RAFP Corps HQ.
Bruce: Of course! That's it!
Cut to: Oslo, Norway, six months later. The ceremony for awarding the Nobel Prize for medicine.
Jens Stoltenberg: Strewth, Bruce. Well done on winning the Nobel prize for medicine again. It's a bonzer achievement.
Bruce: It's nothing, Jens, mate. Making medical breakthroughs is a small part of my responsibilities in the Flying Pornography Corps.
Jens: But what gave you your breakthrough?
Bruce: It was something Bruce at Dingo Ridge said. A name...it didn't ring true. And then when I asked bruce in the office about his ex-girlfriend...
Jens: And found out she was a Pom too?
Bruce: Exactly. It was then I realised that the transmission vector for depression isn't the Sheila as had always been thought. It's the whinging Pom.
Jens: So what did you do with the Pom?
Bruce: The blokes up at Dingo Ridge dragged him down to the chapel, filled the font with Fosters and baptised him a proper Australian.
(Camera pan to Tarquin Cholmedy-Smthye in the Audience)
Tarquin:(Opening a can of Fosters) Strewth!
Jens: Ripper! Everyone back to my place - we've got some fresh Hakarl on the barbie!
Titles
*Hem hem.
Titles: A montage of shots of burly men loading crates marked "Pornography" into light aircraft, flying them over the bleak deserts of Western Australia, and throwing them out to drift safely to earth via parachute to the obvious relief* of isolated communities. The title reads "The Flying Pornographers" in a classy cursive script.
Scene Interior, Dingo Ridge sheep station, Qeensland Australia. A large shack with a corrugated iron roof. A number of burly men in singlets and sun hats sit round listlessly, apparently lacking even the energy to wave away flies or drink lager. Enter Bruce, chief of the station and Bruce, his assistant.
Bruce: This is getting serious. All the blokes are struck down with a dose of chronic clinical depression.
Bruce: I know, Bruce. We'll never get the shearing done at this rate. If we can't get the fellers' Serotonin levels raised then Dingo Ridge may well be finished! But what can we do?
Bruce: There's only one thing we can do - I'm calling the Flying Pornographers! (Seizes radio)
Cut to: Exterior, the Royal Australian Flying Pornography Corps HQ in Cairns. A large, gleaming white modern building. The sign outside reads "Royal Australian Flying Pornography Corps. Patron: HRH Pippa Middleton's arse".
Cut to: Interior. Bruce, a surfing Pornographer, is talking to Bruce the grizzled, wise old chief Pornographer.
Bruce: …so you see, Bruce, what you do is you wax up your board and get out onto the rip curl. Strewth, it really makes a man feel alive to…
Bleeping
Bruce: Strewth! The radio! It's an emergency call! (He seizes up the radio) Hallo? Hallo? Flying Pornography here!
Bruce: (Over the radio). Flying Pornography! Thank God. You're our only hope. We've got a serious outbreak of clinical depression up here at Dingo Ridge and we need your help!
Bruce: Clinical depression, eh? Sounds nasty but I reckon we can help. There's nothing perks up Australian menfolk like some high-quality one-handed literature. We'll load up the plane and drop some off for you. It'll soon bring a twinkle to your eye. As it were.
Bruce(Over the radio) Don't get too close! It seems to be catching!
Bruce Catching, eh? Nasty. Wait up. (Turns to Surfing Bruce). Bruce. I know this might be painful for you to discuss, but I know you have struggled with depression in the past. Can you give me any idea of what might have caused it?
Bruce: I can't, Bruce. It's too raw for me.
Bruce (taking surfing Bruce by the arm). Bruce, I understand that it is hard for you to talk about this, but you must help. Those blokes up at Dingo Ridge are suffering (The Australian National Anthem starts playing, softly). It might be that (he knuckles away a tear)... it might be that not even expertly-crafted pictures of a lady's nethers can break their funk. Now, Bruce. Australia was built on the backs of men like those up at Dingo Ridge. Rearing sheep come hell or high water. Without men like them, this country is...nothing.
Bruce (Straightening) You're right, Bruce. It was when I was seeing this Sheila. I thought it was going so well, but over time, it got worse and eventually the relationship collapsed and I...I...
Bruce A Sheila! Of course! (He grabs the radio). Bruce! Are there any Sheilas up at Dingo Ridge?
Bruce: (Over the radio). Not any human ones, if that's what you're referring to, Bruce?
Bruce: Dammit! I thought I had it. (Thinks) So who have you got up there this season?
Bruce (Over the radio), Well, we've got Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Big Bruce, Little Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Tarquin Cholmedy-Smythe, Bruce, Bruce, and Bruce.
Bruce: Hold up there, Bruce! You're going a mile a minute! Can you just run that by me again?
Bruce (Over the radio) We've got Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Big Bruce, Little Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, Tarquin Cholmedy-Smythe, Bruce, Bruce, and Bruce.
Cut to: Interior, Dingo Ridge
Tarquin Cholmedy-Smythe: I say, you fellows! Anyone for tea and tiffin? Isn't it dashed hot, what?
Cut to: Interior RAFP Corps HQ.
Bruce: Of course! That's it!
Cut to: Oslo, Norway, six months later. The ceremony for awarding the Nobel Prize for medicine.
Jens Stoltenberg: Strewth, Bruce. Well done on winning the Nobel prize for medicine again. It's a bonzer achievement.
Bruce: It's nothing, Jens, mate. Making medical breakthroughs is a small part of my responsibilities in the Flying Pornography Corps.
Jens: But what gave you your breakthrough?
Bruce: It was something Bruce at Dingo Ridge said. A name...it didn't ring true. And then when I asked bruce in the office about his ex-girlfriend...
Jens: And found out she was a Pom too?
Bruce: Exactly. It was then I realised that the transmission vector for depression isn't the Sheila as had always been thought. It's the whinging Pom.
Jens: So what did you do with the Pom?
Bruce: The blokes up at Dingo Ridge dragged him down to the chapel, filled the font with Fosters and baptised him a proper Australian.
(Camera pan to Tarquin Cholmedy-Smthye in the Audience)
Tarquin:(Opening a can of Fosters) Strewth!
Jens: Ripper! Everyone back to my place - we've got some fresh Hakarl on the barbie!
Titles
*Hem hem.
