Introducing Mortimer & Mears…(that’s Dick and Sarah)

Mortimer: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the mag.

(Turns to Sarah)

I like saying that you know.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the mag.” I could say it all night.

Mears: Well don’t, we have a show to do.

Mortimer: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the mag.”

He‘ used to say that, you know.

Mears: Who?

Mortimer: Little Ernie Wise.

Mears: ‘Short, fat, hairy legs.’

Mortimer: What?! Has your mother come on? Where is she? Is she hiding behind that cartoon of a bearded circus lady?

Mears: Bearded circus lady? (Realises) That’s a picture of my mother!

Mortimer: Oh.

Mears: And she doesn’t have short, fat, hairy legs.

Mortimer: She does too! Bent over once, to pick up some small change, and got mistook for a daschund.

Took us hours to get that alsatian off.

Mears: Moving-right-along-now, I think, seeing as the author can’t draw for toffee, we’d better start by describing ourselves so that the reader can form some picture in their mind as to what we look like.

Mortimer: Fellow round our way got arrested for that.

Mears: What?

Mortimer: Describing himself. Local flasher he was.

Mears: Cold day?

Mortimer: No, just shy.

Mears: Gibberish, sheer gibberish.

Mortimer: Just to sidetrack a moment, that was a strange saying you said just then.

Mears: What was?

Mortimer: “Can’t draw for toffee.” What does it mean? Do artists get paid in toffee?

Mears: You mean, is that why the Bent’ artist has false teeth?

Mortimer: (Unamused) Yes.

(Mutters to Mears): You’ve ruined my routine now, you have. I had a good one all worked out too. All about The Beano it was, now it’s ruined.)

Mears: Sorry. (He sulks) Come on! Let’s describe ourselves, shall we. The show must go on, you know.

Mortimer: Oh, all right then. Do you think there’s anyone still reading though?

Mears: There’s your fan. What’s her name? The one on Gallows Road?

Mortimer: Ah! Good old Gladys!! In that case, I’ll start, shall I? I am the tall, dark and handsome one, with the unmistakeable air of intelligence.

Mears: “Tall, dark and handsome, with an unmistakeable air of intelligence”!?

Mortimer: I didn’t know you’d noticed that.

Mears: You’ll get us arrested under the Trades Description Act. You’re five-foot-five, if an inch, your hair has more white lines than a motorway, and as for the other two…

Mortimer: Shut your face you! You ruined my routine, an’ now you’ve ruined the illusion I was trying to create. We could have had hundreds of screaming, female fans follwoing us then, shouting, at the top of their voices, “We want Dick! We want Dick!” They’ll be shouting that cause my name’s Dick, you see.

Mears: It’s just that I think we should be honest we our readers. Take me, I’ll admit to being a petite five-foot-eight, fair-haired, green-eyed, and not exceptionally good looking.

Mortimer: You’re a deformed hunchback, admit it!

Mears: I’m not an hunchback!

Mortimer: Oh, sorry, you’ve turned round, you’re an hunchfront!

Mears: I’m not! You’re making it up.

Mortimer: And your teeth are false! Try saying “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers” and you’d eat your tongue.

Sorry, lads, you’ve rambled on so long you’ve run out
of space. See you next issue, perhaps.

Mears: “Lads”? The man’s blind. And what does he mean, “See you next issue, perhaps“?

And you notice he’s in Bold for added emphasis, don’t you?

Editor’s perks.

Mortimer: Don’t worry, he wouldn’t dare not bring us back next issue.

Mears: Why?

Mortimer: Well, you have still got that photo of him and that….erm…you know?

Mears: From Berryhill High?

Mortimer: That’s the one!

Mears: Oh yes.

Mortimer: Good, don’t lose it. That’s our contract for life that is.

Mears: Don’t worry, I have it in a safe place.

(She shows him, Dick looks impressed.)

Mortimer: Oooooooooo! That is a safe place.

__________________________________________________________________________

Copyright John Steele, 1990, 1999, 2011
This was written to ensure that I had something humourous in the first edition of a community magazine I self-published, titled “The Bentilean” (pronounced Ben-tee-lee-ann), as I presumed most contributors would submit poems, stories, and local history articles. I continued to write them because I liked them (and, yes, I do enjoy reading my own work *blushes*).
The author wishes to acknowledge the assistance of Daryl John Farrington in the writing of various bits of this script.

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