Talking The Talk

I write radio scripts because they are fun to write. I might get people more skilled behind a microphone than me to perform them. Here's the first one.

SCENE BRIEFING
SETTING: A soundproofed recording studio booth. A single ribbon microphone hangs between three men.

CHARACTERS:
• ANDY: Middle-aged man who thinks writing scripts is a great idea.
• STAN: Fast-talking, cynical Londoner. Sharp and completely unimpressed.
• HARRY: A jovial old bloke who hasn't got a clue what’s going on, but is having a whale of a time anyway.

---

FX: Studio room-tone. Three men shuffle around a single hanging microphone.

ANDY:
Right, fellas. Let’s do this thing.

STAN:
(WRY)
Oh yeah, let’s.

HARRY:
Righto! This will be great!

STAN:
Do ya even know what this is? Yer daft old sod.

ANDY:
Ah, now, Stan. Take it easy there. We need to record this first one. It’ll be fine after that.

FX: Loud, hollow tapping directly on a microphone grille.

HARRY:
(BOOMING)
Is this thing on?

ANDY:
It is mate, and we are recording.

FX: Stan blows a loud, wet, aggressive raspberry.

ANDY:
Oi! There’s no need for that!

STAN:
Lettin’ the sound bloke check his levels, ain’t I?

HARRY:
(CHUCKLING)
This is brilliant! What a happy time we are having!

STAN:
(LOW GROWL)
This is stupid.

ANDY:
Can we start reading from the script, please? That’s why I wrote it.

STAN:
Eh? Wha’? I’m confused. I thought yer said you were writin’ this shit down?

ANDY:
I am. But we are recording the actual show as well.

HARRY:
(DELIGHTED)
Excellent! Am I going to be on the telly?

ANDY:
Radio, Harry. Well, a podcast, more accurately.

STAN:
What the fuck is a plodcast? Somethin’ for the local Old Bill?

ANDY:
Stan, please. Try not to swear, we are recording. And a podcast is, to provide an almost dictionary definition: an audio recording, typically featuring speech, that may be downloaded or streamed on a computer or mobile device, generally available as a series to which people can subscribe.

STAN:
Wha’? That sounds like yer got it straight from the dictionary. And what the fuck is he doin’?

HARRY:
(SINGING CHEERFULLY OFF-KEY)
Tra-la-la! DANCING IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL, TRA-LA-LA—

ANDY:
(SHOUTING)
Harry? OI! HARRY!

HARRY:
Sorry? Yes? I was doing my act!

ANDY:
Look fellas. Can we please read from the script. The pages you have in your hands?

FX: Loud, frantic rustling of production script paper.

STAN:
Nah.

ANDY:
What now?

STAN:
I ain’t reading this.

ANDY:
Why?

STAN:
Er, it’s shit. Not funny at all.

HARRY:
(BELTING)
TOODLE OOH! TOODLE OOH! LA-DE-LA-DE-LA!

ANDY:
For fuck’s sake. Whose idea was this?

STAN:
Yours. You wrote this shit script.

ANDY:
(DEEP SIGH)
Right. I’ll write a new one. For anyone still listening, this has been the Unhinged Radio Show. We didn’t make it to the script. But it was unhinged.

HARRY:
(CHUCKLING WARM-HEARTEDLY)
So much fun. I do LIKE a good sing-song!

ANDY:
(HEAVY SIGH)
Cut.

STAN:
Thank fuck. I need a mug of tea, innit?

FX: Sudden hollow thump of an open mic, high-pitched feedback whining briefly through monitor speakers, then a sharp cut to total silence.