The Flying Pornographers, episode 4.

Being a sequel to parts 1, 2, and 3

Deep in the heart of Australia, men brave hardship, the elements and loneliness to help in the growth of the nation. In mines and sheep stations and isolated farms, they labour selflessly to build a great Australia. But these hardy souls are at times struck with maladies and problems which only specialised services can help, and then the isolated communities turn to the organisation formed to bring succour in their hour of need: The Flying Pornographers!

Titles

The scene: The Flying Pornography headquarters in Cairns, Australia. A sleek, modern building with a sign outside reading “Royal Australian Flying Pornography corps. Patron: HRH Kate Middleton."

Interior: The flying pornographers await the call to duty. As they wait, Bruce, a young, surfer pornographer, is talking to Bruce, a grizzled old pornographer who has seen it all. The Cheif Pornographer, Bruce, watches with an indulgent air.

Bruce ...so when you’ve got your board all waxed, you get to the sea and try to catch the best wave you can...
SFX: The radio starts beeping
Chief Bruce: The radio! (He seizes it up) Hallo! Flying Pornography corps?
Voice (from radio): Hallo? Hallo? Is that Bruce?
Bruce: This is Bruce speaking. Who’s this? Is there a gentleman’s emergency?
Voice: Oh, thank God, Flying Pornographers. This is Bruce, up at Dingo Ridge Sheep station?
Bruce: Go ahead, Bruce.
Voice: It’s serious up here, Bruce. We’ve got a severe case of clinical depression.
Bruce: Now don't start. We found a cure to clinical depression in episode three. The transmission vector was clearly identified as the whinging pom, and regular infusions of Fosters were found to provide a sovereign remedy. (Pause) You’re not out of lager, are you Bruce? That’d class as a medical emergency.
Voice: Nah, Bruce, nah! This hasn’t been brought on by a whinging Pom. This is something worse. Much worse.
Bruce: Worse? What could be worse than a whinging Pom?

(Cut to: interior, Dingo Ridge Sheep station. Men in singlets and broad-brimmed hats lined with corks sit listlessly around, as if they no longer have anything to live for. Bruce stands at the radio).

Bruce (into radio): Well you see, Bruce, it all started with our bloke Bruce up here. He was reading an article in a copy of Playboy magazine...

(Cut to: Interior, RAFPC HQ)

Bruce (into radio): Now hold up there, Bruce, you’re going a mile a minute. You’re telling me there are articles in Playboy Magazine?
Voice: That there are!
Bruce (awestruck) Well, I’ll be. Twenty years in the job and you can still learn something.
Voice: He was reading an article about science, Bruce.
Bruce: Uh-oh
Voice: It was a piece of research that had collected data from around the world about blokes wangers, and..
Bruce: Yes?
Voice (breaking up with emotion) and...and... it said that on average the Poms have got bigger tallywhackers than the Australians.
Bruce: It can’t be.
Voice: But it is, Bruce! Things are in a right state here. The blokes won’t look at their food or their sheep or their pornography. Some of them have stopped drinking lager. Bruce! What are we going to do?!
Bruce (on the edge of panic himself): No! Stay calm, Bruce, stay calm! You have my word...The Royal Australian Flying Pornography Corps will think of something!

(CUT)

(Scene: Interior, the board room of the RAFPC HQ. A meeting being chaired by chief Bruce, with the entire staff sitting and standing around the room. The mood is grave.)
Bruce: This is, without a doubt, the gravest crisis ever to strike the RAFPC. The great Razzle drought of ’93. The time our servers overloaded and crashed for three days in ’07. They all pale in the light of this terrifying new development.
Old Bruce: We’ve got to keep this quiet. If it leaks out it could cause panic on the streets.
Surfer Bruce: Ever since I heard the news, I’ve not been able to wear my budgie smugglers on the beach, in case any holidaying Poms see my shame.
Bruce: That’s just it, Bruce. The very principles of this nation are at stake. Australia was built upon one simple idea; that no matter how far a bloke might fall, how low he might get, he’d always have a bigger tadger than any Pom. This...this could undermine the very constitution of Australia. Does anyone, anyone at all, have any ideas.
(A young pornographer at the back raises a hand)
Bruce: Yes, Bruce?
Bruce: We could...we could make better pornography?
Bruce: I appreciate the thought, Bruce, but the Australian explicit literature industry is an international market-leader. Producing indecent material on an industrial scale to supply the reddest-blooded market in the world. Any improvements at this stage would merely be gilding the lily, as it were. Does anyone else have anything? Anyone?
(There is only silence)
Bruce: Is this it then? Is this...the end?

Is this the end for the Flying Pornographers? Has tragedy struck? Is Australia doomed? Find out after these messages!

(Advert break)

(Scene: The RAFPC HQ. The meeting continues. The room is silent, despondent. Heads hang.
Men contemplate a life of shamed solitude, in which Sheilas shun them in favour of Poms.)

Surfer Bruce: That's it then. The end of a once-proud nation.
Old Bruce: We may as well close up now. The RAFPC can serve...no further purpose. (he stands and walks for the door. The others follow.
Chief Bruce: No. (They all pause).
Surfer Bruce: What's that, Bruce?
Chief Bruce: I said no. This will not stand. Or rather it will, if you catch my drift.
Old Bruce: What do you mean, Bruce?
Bruce: When I joined the Flying Pornography Corps, I joined an organisation dedicated to the preservation of all this is good about our proud land. (The Australian national anthem starts playing, softy) What would our Royal patron think if we abandoned our duty now? (He gestures to the end of the room where there hangs a framed topless photo of Kate Middleton). I've often stood proudly to my duty, a tear in my eye, and I will not desert my post now! (The music swells) Not for nothing do I wear the Insignia of a pornographer, and a flying pornographer at that! And you, Bruce (points) what about you? And you, Bruce? (points again). Are you a pornographer, or are you a mouse?
Old Bruce (Straightening and lifting his chin) You're right. I'm with you!
Surfer Bruce: And me!
(The men of the RAFPC clamour, their spirits rekindled.)
Bruce: So that's it! We think! Think, damn you - like you've never thought before!
Surfer Bruce: It's a bit warm in here. Can we have the aircon on?
Bruce: Aircon. Aircon...aircon. Wait! That's it! Bruce, you're a genius!

(Scene: Six months later, at the Nobel prize giving ceremony in Sweden. Bruce is on stage with John Reinfeldt)

Reinfeldt: I hereby award yøu the Nøbel prizes for Climatøløgy and Biøløgy. Bønzer jøb, Bruce. Tell me, høw did yøu dø it?
Bruce (brushing his hat corks out of his eyes): It was something young Bruce said, the Aircon. I realised then about temperature, and climate change. And the effect that might have on Pommie wedding tackle. You see, the colder it gets...
Reinfeldt: The smaller...
Bruce: Exactly. As I speak, blokes all over Australia are switching on their aircon, or leaving the fridge door open, or leaving their car engine running. Filling the atmosphere with carbon dioxide. And the result of that is that the Gulf Stream has shifted away from Britain and the temperature there has dropped sharply.
Reinfeldt: Meaning that...
Bruce: The cold has shrivelled pommie John Thomases to proportions more acceptable to the Australian psyche.
Reinfeldt: It's a victøry for science!
Bruce: And Australia!
Reinfeldt: Bønzer! Are yøu cøming back tø my pad? I'll sling søme meatballs and ligønberry jam on the barbie!
Bruce: Ripper!

THE END